NaPoWriMo #25 – Weekend Lunch

Steam wooshes out from ovens
while chipped bowls glisten in hot mist.
Chopped bird’s eye chilli partake
in sweet, burbling romance
with a mixture of legalized
incendiary, one-minute highs.
The inscrutable gaze of honeyed pitch
seems to survey my half-faint face –

First. Rice bowls laid on oily tables,
collect the change of $2 notes.
Next, clean all utensils including
grubby, sweaty hands and
lastly: a salutation is uttered
to belatedly consoled hungers,
before we begin our meals.

A single sip, tentative pause.
Roll it round the tongue:
Do the “I’m 3/4 thinking,
1/4 dreaming” furrowed brow,
then big it up further still
with quasi-intellectual frowns –

The first exclamation detonates
from an overly busy mouth.
Bowls overfill, throats choke.
Eyes water, wolfberries are swallowed.
The cursory bite of an unknown herb
soon brings forth an illumination
from a cheerful, seasoned cook.

Then an unrelated interjection
is offered; one part one-liner,
question and tantalizingly
unanswered revelation:

“Will the soup still remain faithful
even with the increasing numbers?”

No one bothers to concur, since
gradual sinkholes are never worth
the tread. The first taste, of course,
always decides the eventual course taken.

Chopsticks jab, scoop and please;
digging into golden broths spiced with wine
as rice grains fall; white, fluffy, forgotten –
collateral victims of greed, abandoned sheep.

Will they be wiped off by unwashed cloths
or feasted upon by greedy, one-legged mynahs?
Tis’ a battle between the two, I suppose –
but one fact remains a beautiful constant
(or, for some, an aesthetically gruesome truth):

The hygiene levels of coffee-shops here
are always represented by muted certificates
in these millenia block fonts…

© Zelda Reville

Day 25 for NaPoWriMo. A hard-disk corruption hijacked my attempts for two poems tonight, plus I really, really wanted to use the taste prompt from Day 27…but I ended up going way off-course with a poem about double boiled ginseng soup. Well done me! 😄 Plus jabbering about food in the night makes me so hungry. I wish I could have attached a photo of what I was talking about but free stock photos of Ginseng Chicken Soup are curiously evasive at the moment, so here’s an article about how to make this (complete with picture of mentioned soup). As always, I’m not responsible for razed kitchens or horrible soup.

NaPoWriMo #24 – Obituary

Lost to the morning, not to breakfast
I was set free to pink mist, kick-beats
and monophonic bird calls.

It was there that I found your name.

My fingers pulled up a Wikipedia tab,
greed filling their hold on speedy fingers.
The insatiability promised by imminent
exploration, new sensations. The glory
of the Internet.

Then the eyes started
on their virtual excursion,
waving goodbye to an exultant crowd

but soon sped to a screeching halt
upon encountering the third word
of the first sentence –

© Zelda Reville

Day 24 for NaPoWriMo. Why must it be ‘was’?? I’m attaching Susumu Yokota’s wiki page for your reference.

NaPoWriMo #23 – Aurora

Pouring out
to a chassis, nakedly derisive
I refill my jar, slower than before.

Beads of moss cling to the insides
as if they never wanted
to let go, in the first place.

Tiny hands, tiny feet –
star spangled woven
in their hem of beams:

why do you cling,
who do you cling for
and how do you do so

even after you’ve lost
to the complacency
of moonbeams?

© Zelda Reville

Day 23. Contemplation as I gaze into the abyss of a white computer screen.

NaPoWriMo #22 – Porcelain Butt

I wish they’d put stuff like this in my textbooks as a kid

Dear Overly Bored Student,

I am a much better
employer of script and ink
than your weak, trembling hand.

Watch my prowess as I weave
Delphic ribbons, tadpoles
and delicate rusty trumpet horns,
excess flatulence and last night’s blueberry dinner

with baroque flair.

My superb peristaltic skill
and bowel movements
will put your teacher’s Latin handwriting
to shame.

P.S. I’m always available for a perk-up in the afternoons (if I’m needed).

Yours sincerely,
Mr. Porcelain Butt

© Zelda Reville

Day 22. Using the ekphrasis prompt – a poetry piece inspired by a piece of art; in this case this involves the specific subject of questionable marginalia artwork in medieval manuscripts.

NaPoWriMo #21 – Assorted Biscuit Tin

Chocolate wafers snap
at the shortbread’s body odour
that takes up precious space

and sugar biscuits mete out
a punishment of diabetic dandruff
for the cookies’ gooey insouciance.

Raspberry tarts tittle and tattle
with fellow butter Maries
on the scandals of common digestives,

while iced gems wear their
colourful caps proudly. Don’t lose
your hats now, little boys.

We belong to nowhere,
but the littlest fingers.

We belong to nowhere,
but the most comfortable
black hole –

© Zelda Reville

Day 21. No prompt, only biscuits and a nice, full stomach…

Prose – Terry Tempest Williams, “When Women Were Birds: Fifty Four Variations On Voice”

Photo by Biel Morro

“Why this relationship to Mother and water?

Breaking waters. We are born from what is fluid, not fixed. Water is essential. A mother is essential. The ocean as a mother is mesmerizing in her power, a creative force that can both comfort and destroy. My mother and I came to trust each other on the beach where we sat. Between the silences, we played together. We entertained ourselves. On the edge of the continent, looking west, we came to an understanding of the peace and violence around us. Power is the sea’s thundering voice, the curling and crashing of waves. Water is not nothing if not ingemination, an encore to the tenacity of life. And life held in the sea is surface and depth, what we see and what we imagine.
We cast a line, we throw out a net, what emerges is religion in the form of fish.

My mother’s trangression was hunger. She passed her hunger on to me without ever speaking a word. Solitude is a memory of water. I live in the desert. And everyday I am thirsty.

When I opened my mother’s journals and read emptiness, it translated to longing, that same hunger and thirst Mother translated to me. I will rewrite this story, create my own story on the pages of my mother’s journals.”

– Terry Tempest Williams

NaPoWriMo #19 – How To Make A Perfect B33f Patty

the validity in mutual opinion
the winning recognition of exclusivity
the blinding blatancy of ignorance
the pursed silence of resentment
the disbelief in dissonance
the spark ricocheting from the realization
pepper and salt from trolls hungry for their fill of blood
the cry of “Aaaah, it hurts, it hurts!”
as the eyes of the innocent (and amused) fill with tears
and the eventual uproar as the beef patty sizzles
slowly on the relentless grill, all nicely done –

Would you please put some Tabasco sauce
on my slice, hun?

© Zelda Reville

Day 19 takes its original idea from Day 2’s prompt for a recipe, but presented in another form. Can someone please pass the burgers?

NaPoWriMo #18 – Ghazal of Threes

Clouds; glassy-eyed, graze horizons: silently munching, ennui building.
We count out sheep with eager fingers – one, two and three.

Street lamps warp and shimmer: a mystery permitted by a master.
Necks, thankfully free from sunburn – courtesy of makers Mister Three.

Millepedes! Submission. Plumpness. Their charming virtues?
A one-handed weakness handed to birds, who fly past poplar trees.

Trees – wan curve here; rough-shod skin there. Parrots voice raucous displeasure.
The tender inspection of his wrist reveals a gothic inscription of number “3”.

© Zelda Reville

Day 18 and the ghazal form seems a good way to end a lovely Friday evening.

NaPoWriMo #17 – Granny Smith

Curdled and tempestuous the empty bowl sits –
a convex balance of laughing air
and impermeable wood chips

Getting up from your table
and picking out a Granny Smith
is surely the easiest to do
of all mundane things – !

But somehow she decided there and then
that the trailblazer’s trajectory was her best friend;
so she hatched her own elliptic path
by first bouncing off the greasy floor –
(and,’s where you do the math)

Rolling to a chipped table leg,
it now stops a’ wobbled on its side,
trying to nurse its wounded pride

and I am thoroughly disturbed by the sight
of how Granny Smith’s green visage
has now turned into Granny Meg’s seasicked face,

with an imperceptibly light nudge
that seems to wink and giggle –
an illusory gift that never stops the fickleness
as much as the fading bright is wont to give –

© Zelda Reville

Day 17 – no prompt for today again, but I’m trying my hand at a sonnet that’s turned out rather strangely…