ON THE WAY TO OZ
This is the way it must have been,
when Dorothy met the lion,
the scarecrow, and the man of tin.
I'm over the rainbow,
tossed in a tornado,
a whirlwind of words and ideas,
propelled by aspiration, hindered by fears.
The lion is braver than he thinks.
A squirt of oil will eliminate tin man's clinks,
and the scarecrow only needs confidence.
I know that makes a lot of sense.
We've everything in common,
though your eyes may belie this fact.
The four of us together make one amazing act.
Advised by some little people, who
seem to know their way around,
we're skipping down a yellow, brick road
to Oz, where wisdom can be found.
Arm in arm, in arm, in arm, together we will squelch
any wicked witch who dares to pitch
an obstacle in our path. She'll know the lion's wrath.
The tin man's sure to crush her
with his strong metallic arms,
and the scarecrow will give her a fright.
That's one of his charms.
Together we're unstoppable,
and we will always be.
We've joined forces now.
The lion, the tin man, and the scarecrow
are all a part of me.
SCRAMBLED EGGS
Swirled
slowly around
in a pan,
a blend of golden yolks
and fluid whites in
melted butter
lightly sizzle on the stove on a low flame
slip smoothly through the tines of a fork as they
are whipped
into soft, puffy, pale yellow
pillows,
a rich, delicate goodness.
Take care to keep them moist
with constant movement of the pan.
Breathe in the savory scent
released by heat.
Slide them onto your
plate and
sprinkle a bit of salt over them.
Break off just enough
to place in your mouth.
The texture varies
from almost li
qui
d
soft to firmly spongy
throughout the luscious mixture, as it touches your tongue,
and the roof and sides of your eager
mouth.
IN PRAISE OF CHEESE
Emitting smoky essence, sultry, and intoxicating,
looking innocent in golden yellow shades,
blue veiny lines, crags, or holes,
the scent, the feel, of that Provolone wheel,
entices me, and the Swiss is a kiss I can never resist.
Give me Cheddar or Colby, Gouda or Gruyere.
I acclaim each one boldly. An Edam so fine,
or tasty Muenster with its rough orange rind.
I can melt, mix or blend them, watch them coat, seep, or
incredibly wend their way into pasta, potatoes or eggs, and
the one made of cream, makes a wonderfully smooth spread.
A sprinkle of Parmesan, grated, is exactly what pizza has awaited.
Oh cheese, its taste is exquisitely nice
to eat all by itself, served by the slice.
BACKSEAT DRIVER
She still sits quietly in my car's back seat.
I see her watching from my rear view mirror.
She checks my speed and any little error.
Every stop or turn I make she will complete.
In life, my mother never drove a car.
It took a year before she'd ride with me.
I'd say, "Come on." Her answer was, "We'll see."
When, at last, she did, she wouldn't go far.
Once in the left lane, on a busy road,
a bad driver cut in front of me, ahead.
Mother slammed down on her "back brake". We slowed.
If not for my mother's ghost, I might be dead.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Being a good writing is 3% talent, 97% not being distracted by the Internet.
—Anonymous
_____________________
—Medusa, thanking Linda Klein for today’s colorful poetry. There are times when we all need a back seat driver ~
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
any wicked witch who dares to pitch
an obstacle in our path.”
