The Uncool Kitchen

The Uncool Kitchen

©2017 Susan Noyes Anderson

My kitchen is a clone of me,

and at its very heart

hums one cold, stainless giant,

covered in graffiti art.

Refrigerator magnets. {wince}

They do not make me proud.

Unhip, uncool, oft-parodied,

mocked freely and aloud.

My critics can be merciless,

yet I am undeterred.

Some twisted slave inside me

clings to every magnet word.

HOME RULES: The list is lengthy,

unoriginal, and lame.

But everyone who sees my fridge

must read them all the same.

If Grandma Makes Life Beautiful,

and Love Is Spoken Here,

then Life Is but a Song to Sing.

Blech! {gagging on good cheer}

No worries. Home Is Where the Hugs Are.

Family Warms Our Hearts.

There's No Friend Like a Sister.

Home Is Where Your Story Starts.

Time Flies. (It does; I'm almost done.)

Snap Out of It, you say?

I'll try, but When It Rains, It Pours,

and magnets Seize the Day!

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Election Reflection

Election Reflection

©2016 Susan Noyes Anderson

Donald J. Trump,

too often a chump.

Both his hair and his skin

are a trifle too thin.

Hillary Clinton,

determined to win one.

Her perception of truth

is a little uncouth.

John or Jane Doe,

nominees we don't know. 

We wish they were running,

and that ain't just funning.

Assignment: Write a clerihew, a comic verse on biographical topics consisting of two couplets and a specific rhyming scheme. (I have combined three clerihews to form one poem.)

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Oy vey

 

Oy Vey
c2014 Susan Noyes Anderson

Oh no. Dear me. I'm out of sorts,

sick of the smoldering temp reports.

Each visit to my mom is sweet,

but still I cannot bear the heat.

 

111 in the shade,

the stuff of which Hades is made.

No soft wind ruffling my hair.

No desert breezes in the air.

 

In fact, no air to breathe at all.

It's gone till further notice, y'all.

Evaporated, so they say,

till further notice. Oy vey.

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Call Me

photo credit: Terri Windling

Call Me
©2014 Susan Noyes Anderson

I'm waiting for my master,

but the rascal doesn't care.

I wish he'd get here faster, 

but I haven't got a prayer.

He takes me quite for granted,

though I'm at his beck and call.

So call me disenchanted.

Mine's a dog's life after all.

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Arise and Umbrellize

Finland, photo by George F. Mobley

©2014 Susan Noyes Anderson

 

Umbrellas offer solid proof

that weather's not in vain.

Surely a drop of rain deserves

a bit of notice.

What shoddy arrogance denies

the weeping skies in

heads left bare and
hats left home?

Don't float the notion soggy hair

is any less than an affront.

A front deserves respect.

This rain works hard for you.

Don't dis the dew.

Arise and umbrellize!

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Classic Walking

CLASSIC WALKING

©Susan Noyes Anderson

My body is electric when

I'm walking to Vivaldi;

I shed years and pounds in minutes

moving to Rossini's beat.

Every step inspires new feeling;

I am on my way to healing,

floating on a starry ceiling

when Ludwig directs my feet.

I go marching with Franz Schubert;

Haydn is my soul's delight.

With Tchaikovsky I'm in heaven;

I could stroll with him all night.

When I trip the light fantastic

with Wolfgang, it's orgiastic.

Walks with Bach are more scholastic,

for the subtle appetite.

I'm a mover and a shaker,

overcome with joie de vivre.

Gliding up the steps with Brahms

is sheer, symphonic ecstasy.

What an unexpected treasure!

I could not begin to measure

the unmitigated pleasure

classic walking brings to me.

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Alphabet Rebellion

                             

Alphabet Rebellion

 ©1991 Susan Noyes Anderson

I'm dotting every I, and

I am crossing every T.

I'm putting letters down, and

I erase them frequently.

I'm holding whole words hostage

at the point of my pen.

If I don't like the way they look,

I scratch them out again.

G – R – U thinking like I am?

Could our ABCs rebel?

If they went out on a strike,

whatever would we use to spell?

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In the Soup

Minestra - Italian Wedding Soup

In the Soup

©2013 Susan Noyes Anderson

"Italian wedding soup," she said.

It sounded such a treat.

I'd married her one year ago;

my bliss was quite complete.

I craved her meatballs bolognese.

Her pesto penne thrilled.

The first taste of her crocche,

my undying love instilled.

I left the menu up to her.

How could I not believe?

I knew our guests would take one bite

and never wanna leave.

Who better than my little chef

to please the corporate client?

Soon they'd be eating from my hand,

financially compliant.

I hadn't reckoned on the texture

of that floating green.

She called it spinach; I called it

the death of my grand scheme.

They left with leaves between their teeth

and toothpicks all a-flutter.

Italian wedding soup has placed

my prospects in the gutter.

Submitted by Susan Anderson to dVerse Poets Pub, where the prompt was all things Italian.

Fly Me to the Moon

©2013 Susan Noyes Anderson

When I said, Fly me to the moon,

I did not mean by car.

If hot air's all you have to offer,

we won't get too far.

Balloons in every color never

won this woman's heart.

The man who keeps my engine running

has his own kickstart.

Oh sure, the props are pretty, and

the sky is bright and blue.

But if your kiss can't take me there,

I'm not the girl for you!

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Insomnia: Once Upon A Snore

 

Insomnia: Once Upon a Snore
©2013 Susan Noyes Anderson

I love you like the ocean's roar.

In fact, I love you even more.

Yes, every stupifying snore.

I love the wind between your lips.

Your exhale doesn't sigh; it rips.

(The breeze it blows could sink warships.)

And yet, your wild wind fills my sail.

Each night you wrap me in a gale,

a storm set off with each inhale.

Your foghorn warns me through the night.

My eyes fly open, wide and bright.

(I wake up safe but look a fright.)

I love your spittle when you spray me,

but do I need a respite? Maybe.

Without you, I sleep like a baby.

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Light Me Up

I haven't participated in Jenny's Saturday Centus for a while, so I thought I'd get back on track by responding to her picture prompt this week. I'm a little late because of a baby shower at my house that ended up lasting well into the afternoon (so much fun!), but now I'm ready and rarin' to go. Here's my take on lightning today...

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Light Me Up

©2013 Susan Noyes Anderson

When lightning strikes, it calls to mind

the scintillation that I find

in all those buzz sparks you ignite

the moment you burst into sight.

Your voltage hits me like a brick,

lights me up like a candlestick,

leaves me glowing like the moon,

fries me like the sun in June.

What is this sizzle that you bring?

My head goes POP; my heart goes ZING.

My lips burn red; my blue eyes blaze,

and all the world's a fiery haze.

You're smokin' hot, and that's no lie,

a rocket booster to the sky.

A first-class hazard; that's for sure.

But I ain't lookin' for a cure.

;)

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Escape Clause

The Promenade, 1918, Marc Chagall

Escape Clause

©2013 Susan Noyes Anderson

Hold me down when I feel flighty.

Lift me up when I'm earthbound.

When in doubt, just take a chance and

swing this partner round and round.

Try your best to make me happy.

Do your worst to make me sad.

Either way, don't bore me silly.

Make me feel things, good and bad.

Stir the pot or smooth things over.

Be the charmer and the chump.

Careful, though, don't lose your balance,

or you'll find out I can jump.

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When I'm Sixty-One

I'm three days late with this birthday poem to me, but who's counting?

When I'm Sixty-One
©2013 Susan Noyes Anderson


A happy birthday to myself!

I just turned sixty-one.

I'd like to say that things are great

and getting old is fun.

Instead, I'm going to vent a bit

and set the record straight.

Let's hope my aging brain kicks in

enough to concentrate!

I'm sad to say my memory

(which used to be top notch)

meanders now, like someone who

just drained a fifth of scotch.

It's up and down; it's in and out;

it's neither here nor there.

My brain is leaking grey matter

directly to my hair!

(That would account, I do believe,

for certain color changes.)

No doubt whatever youth dispenses,

old age rearranges.

Or maybe I should say exchanges:

satin-smooth for rough,

firm for saggy, round for wrinkled,

dewy/dry, soft/rough.

Enough! The years take liberties

with me, without consent.

No potion, pill, or lotion seems

to lessen the extent.

So here's my new position, just

because I like to win:

Bring it on, Age! Make me crusty.

Who needs silky skin?

And with thesaurus close at hand,

what use is word recall?

Hey, old is the new young, you know.

Why stand, when you can crawl?

;)

"Age is an issue of mind over matter.

If you don't mind, it doesn't matter."

Mark Twain

Weed Protection Agency

Lighthouse Dandelions - Jamie Wyeth

Weed Protection Agency (WPA)

©2013 Susan Noyes Anderson

We'd like to say a word for weeds,

brave victims of mad plowers.

Why must their sturdy lives give way

to frail, elitist flowers?

We're financing a lighthouse scheme
to offer them safe harbors:
a solar sanctuary from
the dandelion barbers. 

DONATIONS GLADLY ACCEPTED

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beDEVILED by EGGS

 I've missed participating in Saturday Centus for two weeks and am mighty glad to be back for this fun picture prompt by my good friend Jenny. (For more poems inspired by this photo, just click on the link provided above. )

 

beDEVILED by EGGS

©2013 Susan Noyes Anderson

Whenever I'm in search of feed,

a deviled egg is all I need.

This worries me, because I fear

it's angeled eggs I should revere. 

Would it be blaphemy to say

that deviled yolks, far and away,

are more divine than angeled types?

Hey, truth is truth, but holy cripes!

Might I be smitten with a curse

if I reveal, chapter and verse,

that deviled eggs are my delight?

The notion fills my soul with fright.

 (And yet, I'll risk another bite.)

Don't judge me. I won't sell my soul.

I shall eggs-act exact some self-control.

;)

Quirky Is as Quirky Does

It's as clear as the hats on my head: I'm getting quirky in my old age. (Do you think 60 is old enough to qualify?) I sure hope so; otherwise, I have no excuse at all. And I NEED an excuse for all of this:

You see, I have taken to wearing chapeaux...funky ones...curious cloches of varying colors and fabrics. (And yes, the box beneath these bounteous bonnets holds a new one I haven't quite been able to bring myself to put in the last remaining space.)

I am also, perish the thought, dosing myself daily with essential oils (shades of my grandma) for every ailment known to man or woman and have actually convinced myself that they are helping.

Last but frighteningly far from least, I am officially wearing purple––purple dresses, purple hats, and even purple earrings––on a regular basis. In fact, it has become one of my favorite colors. (And I'm sorry to say there are more where these came from.) Considerably more.

I could go on, but let's not belabor it.

 We'll just leave it at quirky.

;)

 for more Q posts, click below

Stone Cold Venus

Venus de Milo with Drawers, 1936, Salvador Dali

Stone Cold Venus

©Susan Noyes Anderson

Greet the One all creation adores,

crowned the goad-ess of weddings and wars.

She is immortalized

as a feast for men's eyes,

but she'll not let them get in her drawers!

(Pardon me, friends. I was taught that a limerick 
should be either humorous or slightly risque.
I did do my best to keep this one in good taste!)

;)

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The Go-To Girl Got Up and Went

Couldn't let the day go by without trying my hand at Jenny's latest Saturday Centus prompt. Regrettably, I exceeded the 100 words allotted, but I'm hoping she'll forgive me if I promise to be a very good girl next week! The prompt, as always, is in red.

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My favorite teacher told me in my youth:

"You'll always be a leader; that's your truth."

This left me feeling special, even proud.

I'd often thought the same, though not out loud.

I liked to bite off things most wouldn't chew

and chew them, just to see what I could do.

I was the go-to girl, and I still am.

Ya got a problem? Cool, let's fix it. BAM.

But lately I've been running low on juice.

If life's a battle, should I call a truce?

Although surrender chaps my DNA,

a little R&R might be okay.

At home I am a queen, but where's my throne?

My loving family can't leave me alone.

Each mother in our PTA adores me.

Now I'm the president, which nearly floors me.

My part-time work has grown; they think I'm GREAT.

The boss pays double...begs me to stay late.

But I'm already driving in fifth gear.

I signed on for a job, not a career!

Am I a hamster running on a wheel?

I wish I could pretend it's no big deal.

What's that?...Will I direct the school play? Gasp.

(Now I've officially reached critical mass.)

I'm done. Kaput. Don't ask. No mas. I'll pass.

 ©2013 Susan Noyes Anderson
The Go-To-Girl Got Up and Went

 

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