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half a pound of pulled pork or other protein

one each yellow, red and green bell pepper

32 oz bone broth or vegetable broth

five stalks rhubarb

ten small red potatoes

ten small gold potatoes

one can alphabet soup

**

pour the broth into a crockpot on low-heat setting. add protein. remove the seed- and stem-laden tops from the peppers and cut longitudinally into strips, then cut the strips in half widthwise; add to broth. cut rhubarb stalks into one-inch lengths;add to broth mm halve the potatoes after scrubbing them squeaky-clean (do not peel); add to broth. prepare the alphabet soup separately, following the instructions on the can.

let the broth-based soup cook on low for 90 minutes. write a poem using the alphabet soup letters while you wait. (three stanzas is ideal.) when the poem is finished, take a photo, then recite the poem, then eat the poem letters and dump the remaining letters and broth into the crock pot.

stir vigorously and season to taste before serving. buttered rolls or crackers may be used to enhance the soup.

We swore we would love each other forever. (Nope.)

It took forever to get the mess straightened out. (About a year and a half.)

We gave our rescue pooch a forever home. (1998 to 2009.)

And there were so many other forevers…

But, vast and expansive as the Universe is,

Even black holes evaporate

Far shy of Forever.

*

But Forever does exist

In what we have already done.

I made a tuna sandwich (for breakfast! I was hungry!) about six this morning.

And that space/time/appetite event

Will always have happened. It is on the forever record.

I had oatmeal but no milk. I’ll get some milk today

And that event, too, will be eternal.

**

A few more forevers is all I ask,

A few more moments seeing someone I might love,

A satisfying session at the potter’s wheel,

A dalliance or five with infinite possibility

Revealed in some sweetly dreamful nights.

***

Diamonds are less forever to me

Than cups of coffee

Or uncontrollable laughter bubbling up.

****

You,

Yes, you,

Do not know how much

The connection you are making by reading or hearing what I say now

Is enriching my life;

Hey, neither do I,

Because I do not know which you is You

But all of you help,

And I am glad

We are forging our forevers

Together!

Darling

said the King

the enemy is breaking through

and I am vulnerable

.

Sweetie

said the Queen

it is time for me to do what I must

give us a kiss

.

a kiss and she was off

and quickly felled after taking the Bishop
on the enemy’s Queen side

and her capture exposed the enemy’s flank

and the Queen’s Rook quickly moved to the seventh rank

and thanks to the brave Queen’s sacrifice

the enemy was defeated

but her King

was more vulnerable than ever

and devastated.

how this came to be

author

born gary wright bowers in the los angeles megalopolis in 1954/second child of harold price bowers sr. and the former jane paula householder/third child brian clemens followed in 1957/family moved to arizona in 1958

drew a portrait of his mother before he was three/first poems at age 7/first claywork also at 7/first sonnet in early 20s/first acrostic poem in 1987/100th sonnet in 2007/first sestina in 2008/second sestina in 2008

married 1988/one daughter born 1990/divorced 2011/estranged 2021

stockboy/assistant registrar/security guard and custodian/receiving clerk/warehouseman/office guy/office manager/administrative vice president/office administrator/graphics designer/data encoder/insurance administrator/analyst/newsletter editor/coordinator/substitute teacher/bookkeeper/front desk clerk/data entry operator/restaurant host & cashier/retiree/prep cook (list incomplete)

.

hair

yesterday the author took a boar’s-hair brush to his head and then took photos

.

poem

changed working title from “how this poem came to be” to the more comprehensive “how this came to be” and then thought and typed

My hilarious poet friend Bill Campana, whom I mentioned a couple of posts ago, likes to experiment with photo editing. Unsolicited, he took a picture of me clownishly brandishing my deliberately-crazy hair, and did three takes wildly different from the already-wild original, and this one above is my favorite.

Bill has several books on Amazon. They are reasonably priced and fantastically cost-effective, mixing belly laughs, serious insights, and a zany perspective fine-tuned by brilliant wordsmithing. Please help alleviate the tragic underappreciativeness of Campaniana, and check him out pronto!!

Bill Campana, the Funniest Man on Earth

Mug Squared

My talented poet friend Bill

Holds a mug that I made for him. Will

He use it? You bet!

Mug on mug, no regret,

Caffeination’s his everyday thrill.

.

Long ago Bill Campana, pictured above, commissioned a coffee mug from me, and I made him one, and he used it for years. It accidentally broke, and though Bill has other mugs, the thought of him without a working mug of my design disquieted me. I gave him a new mug last Sunday, and he graciously posed for this pic, mugging for the camera. 🙂

Father, with a Touch of Hood

One: Yesterday

I am at the 5 & Diner on Colter and 16th Street/Finishing a scoop of ice cream/Which followed an omelette made with shaved steak, peppers, onions/And two kinds of cheese.

It is my slightly naughty (being diabetic) Father’s Day gift to myself.

The two women who made me a father thirty-five years, two months, and one week ago/Live together with a floating population of cats/In the house I once shared with them.

They want to have nothing to do with me, indefinitely/And I have been respecting their wishes.

It has been this way for more than four years.

It hurts less and less as time goes on/But Father’s Day amps up the gaping ache.

Life goes on.

.

Two: Today

It’s my day off. I think, as I have many times/Of writing a letter to Kate/And reminding her/That we have had hundreds of good times together/And that we both love the movies, and Hawaiian and Mongolian barbecue,

And asserting that the explosive argument that started our estrangement/Began with a misunderstanding,

And asking her forgiveness for my crimes against the family,/Including me never ever attending a PTO meeting/When she was a student,/And gambling away a chunk of what should have been family money,

And I would ask consideration for the hours I spent teaching her to read and to count and to write her name (that one took two weeks)/So that she could apply for and obtain a library card at age 3…

But the fire sparked by my real need/To be a father to my daughter again/Flickers and dies with the realization/That after four years the voltage is still sky-high/And what I want is not the issue at stake,

And her specific request at last writing was “please let me go” even though “I know this makes you very sad.”

Even bringing this out in the open/Makes me feel like a hoodlum,

A Father, with a touch of Hood.

when senator alex padilla was thrown to the ground

for “failing to identify himself” (he had just said his name)

and “elevating his voice” (it was crowded and noisy)

upon the “remove him!” command

of a dog- and goat-shooting favor-curryer

and handcuffed and thug-handled away

from the field of play,

the senator’s attempt to ask a question

was thwarted with extreme prejudice.

the administration was protesting

the senator’s existence.

the incidents of undue process

upticked by one.