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Quinoa Salad :iconkilkegard:kilkegard 3 0
Literature
Things My Father Taught Me
The smooth and white kind of birch bark
is good for making campfires
on cold and rainy autumn days.
It makes an excellent kindling
and will take flame even when wet.
Bacon and mustard sandwiches
toasted over that campfire
are the most delicious things you can cook
when you're hunting or fishing out in the woods.
And when you make campfire coffee,
put the instant coffee, sugar, and powdered 
creamer in the cup first,
then pour the boiling water over;
this is especially good when you don't
have a spoon to stir the coffee.
That was an old trick he learned
from eating c-rations during the war.
All these years later I still do the coffee trick.
Always cream and sugar in the cup first,
then pour over the coffee.
I remember him every time I do that.
:iconkilkegard:kilkegard
:iconkilkegard:kilkegard 3 2
Literature
Blanket Fort
In the early days of the war
blanket forts dotted the battle field.
Built in the southern portions of the sofa
or in the rocky corners of the recliner
they offered protection against mom when she
made broccoli or Lima beans with dinner.
They offered cover when the hordes of aunts
and uncles swept thru the halls
pillaging forth of July parties.
Filled with hot cocoa and books read by flashlight,
they were a refuge from cold rainy days.
But after a long war of attrition
only a single blanket fort remains.
And in the early morning hours
a sole survivor, a single hushed grey figure
can be seen huddled in front of the flat screen.
Two feral dogs are held at bay,
one named echo and the other silence.
:iconkilkegard:kilkegard
:iconkilkegard:kilkegard 8 10
Literature
granny's garden
In these parts
just outside of the city
not too far from the interstate
in the suburban expanse
of vinyl siding
and plastic townhouses
along look alike streets
named after trees and flowers
and civil war heros
they used to tell the story
of granny's garden.  
No one could remember
just who's granny
she was supposed to be.
No one knew if she was a mother;
the tales only told of her
raising plants, not children.
But since she was old and grey
and bent under the weight of years
they called her granny.
And if you found yourself
wandering off the main road
and thru those side streets
named after trees and flowers
and civil war heros
and if you found yourself
getting turned around
and confused by the houses
lined up in neat
and tidy identical rows
along avenues that seemed
to twist and turn
with no rhyme or reason
and if you found yourself
wondering if maybe
you should have turned left
at the last stop sign
instead of right  
then maybe
you would find
granny's house
and granny's ga
:iconkilkegard:kilkegard
:iconkilkegard:kilkegard 4 7
Literature
morning coffee
yesterday morning
there were coffee
and cigarette dreams
in that small space
between sleep
and the real world
a moment of stillness
before the day
takes its due
but cigarette smoke
leaves black tar smudges
on dreams as well as lungs
and this morning's tea
turned cold
is bitter
:iconkilkegard:kilkegard
:iconkilkegard:kilkegard 13 4
Literature
styrofoam plate
in a room dressed in their sunday best
i was glad for the styrofoam plate
it kept the soggy casserole
served by neighbors bustling in our kitchen
from soaking thru onto fingers and thighs
as we mingled in the front parlour
it didn't collapse under the piles
of aunt paula's tuna surprise
or aunt betty's ambrosia fruit salad
that's the one with the little marshmallows
the styrofoam plate remained unbent
as small talk and murmurs
swirled around the room
and face after face passed in front of me
the styrofoam plate let me shake hands 
and offer one armed hugs
i didnt mind their tear stained cheeks 
but if one more person says to me
"let me know if there is anything i can do"
...i'm glad that at least the plate was strong
:iconkilkegard:kilkegard
:iconkilkegard:kilkegard 65 40
Literature
a computer wakes from a long sleep
an old cathode ray tube flickers with a soft hum
then the breath of a fan whirls
as the machine exhales dust and data
and shouts "you've got mail"
and a dozen old AOL disks
that now long to be coasters
on old particle board desks
jammed in the corners of a stuffy attic
they cry out "see, we're still useful"
as old fingers find a clackety keyboard
and search for online friends
meanwhile the keyboard wonders
wouldn't those old fingers
prefer the touch of a warm hand
instead of a warm semi-conductor
:iconkilkegard:kilkegard
:iconkilkegard:kilkegard 7 4
Literature
making memories
an antique doll all pink bows and pastel floral patterns
her porcelain face tear washed worn and cracked
was it too much attention from a child's love clumsy hands
or too much time waiting, forgotten in a corner of the cupboard
it's so hard to remember anymore
tired seams split and spill old rags and horse hair stuffing
the regrets and fears from a dark dollmaker's heart
or the echo of the teddy bear secrets whispered late at night
when the dolls lips were ruby red and her skin a flawless porcelain
it's so hard to remember anymore
plucked from a sunny summer window
the doll now sits in a delicate glass cradle
a child coos over the doll waiting for the delicate porcelain face to fade
and asks, "is this how we make memories?"
it's so hard to remember anymore
:iconkilkegard:kilkegard
:iconkilkegard:kilkegard 8 1
Literature
character
char·ac·ter
/ˈkerəktər/
noun
1. How we spend our lives practicing to be the person who we are today.
:iconkilkegard:kilkegard
:iconkilkegard:kilkegard 6 2
Literature
wrong side of the bed
he only sleeps on the right side of the bed
on rainy nights when slumber drifts just out of reach
he imagines a weight settling on the left
a strange attractor that steals more than blankets
he remembers how she would talk in her sleep
and he would pretend that it was poetry
the soft pitter-patter of her words falling like a gentle rain
forming puddles in the small depressions of his heart
:iconkilkegard:kilkegard
:iconkilkegard:kilkegard 14 4
Literature
cyanosis
as easy as breathing he thought
like a lover's whispers
falling in honey scented breath
from red full lips
to caress a cheek, an ear
like a poets words
tumbling from fingers to pen
to blow across the page
sometimes like a gentle breeze across
a field of grass, other times
like a mighty wind
shaking through the trees
"as easy as breathing" he thought
"and my fingers and lips are blue"
:iconkilkegard:kilkegard
:iconkilkegard:kilkegard 6 2
Literature
let's pretend
the day is a liar
she peeks out from behind gaudy painted-on faces
with pleasant smiles and firm handshakes
a murmur of "hellos" and "thank-yous"
and "how-are-you-doings" that, too soon, grows
into a long low beehive buzz of monotony
but as the day slowly rolls around
long thin shadows of late afternoon
swallow the painted-on faces and pleasant smiles
the bee hive buzz is muffled until the only sound
is the clock-work ticking of the days heart
twilight greys welcome the night
as she wanders through empty suburban streets
warm yellow houselights trying to capture the lies of the day
warding off the night's truth
a truth captured in tawdry motel rooms
with paint pealed walls and squeeky matresses
wrestling in the back seat of a car
illicit love twists and writhes, young and inexhaustable
in the city, a dimly lit side street bar
shines neon light on a pool of vomit
left by the last-call boys before
they set off with whoops and hollars
wolf-like predators looking for blood
nearby a homeles
:iconkilkegard:kilkegard
:iconkilkegard:kilkegard 3 0
Literature
dewey decimal 611.12
she imagined a grand tall building
a modern tower of glass and steel
with bright flags and banners
instead she found a grey, squat building
indistinguishable from a strip mall
the parking lot battling with the weeds
from the adjacent empty lot, and losing
inside the ancient carpets swallowed
the sounds of her footsteps
but the dust remembered better days
with children running towards the reading room laughing
while the librarians chased with quick smiles and 
a "shush" on their lips
but now the librarian, grim and grey,
commanded silence with nothing but a stern look
empty rooms are easy to silence
no computers, just a battered old card catalog guided her to the tome
a slender volume with a broken spine
inside the well thumbed pages a pressed wild flower
odd, but it gave an exotic perfume as she flipped thru the pages
she clutched the battered book to her chest along with her library card
and ran, laughing, to the front desk to check out her new
:iconkilkegard:kilkegard
:iconkilkegard:kilkegard 3 0
Literature
kitchen tables turned
caffeine steam wisps float above the cup and into the silence
as black and grey shadows slowly give way to sepia, then gold
yesterday's battlefields are just an ordinary kitchen table this morning
after searching the dishwater wreckage of the sink it begins
pans and lids are assembled with earthenware ramparts
bread, a froth of milk and egg, vanilla, a dusting of cinnamon
a fragrant incense creeps across the room
and across the debris a brown mop top head is lifted
a smile is coaxed from day after christmas eyes
:iconkilkegard:kilkegard
:iconkilkegard:kilkegard 15 8
Literature
reflections on a man from the town of la mancha
once did ride a hero bold
to fortunes as in tales are told
with flowing robes and armour bright
for truth, for honour, to fight for right
but in his travels he never did find
dragons, demons, or the evil kind
who are often told in tales of old
who would do battle with a hero bold
so ever forward he rode alone
his days growing grey and dark and cold
and he stopped in the last of the twilight
where he found one last comforting sight
a single perfect rose standing tall and fair
a ward against the night and the hero's despair
and the hero raised his sword to claim this quiet gentle prize
one last token to ease his tired and weary mind
yet the blood of the rose his sword never found
only his tears fell, hallowing the ground
once did ride a hero bold
to fortunes as in tales are told
with flowing robes and armour bright
for truth, for honour, to fight for right
:iconkilkegard:kilkegard
:iconkilkegard:kilkegard 8 2
Literature
faded denim
she was summer in those old faded blue jeans
you know the kind with the button fly that
when they were new you had put them on wet
so the denim would shrink to fit
but now they were a soft and pale cornsilk blue
with a tear at the knee that gave a tantalizing glimpse of skin
and if you looked closely, you might find the remnants of an old hand drawn heart
scribbled ages and ages ago with a blue ball point pen
we spent our days chasing dandelions till, breathless
we would fall back on the grass laughing
and then we'd poke fun at the clouds walking by
as they tried on new shapes... (that one looks like a rabbit)
at night we would hide fireflies in empty mayonnaise jars
with a few holes poked in the lid for air
and a few blades of grass for furniture
poor fireflies... always forgotten by dawn
and one day she took summer and put it in the front pocket of those old faded blue jeans
along with a handful of love poems I wrote her last spring
and she walked away leaving me with nothing but col
:iconkilkegard:kilkegard
:iconkilkegard:kilkegard 14 14

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:iconbleedingprophecies:
BleedingProphecies Featured By Owner Dec 24, 2016  Student Writer
Thanks for the favorites! :) 
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:iconwordeea:
wordeea Featured By Owner Nov 14, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
thank you for the fav !
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:iconsecretsofaphrodite:
SecretsOfAphrodite Featured By Owner Oct 5, 2016  Hobbyist General Artist
Bonjour ! Dango-cat

- I am pleasantly surprised seeing that you seem to like  some of my photos, by adding them to your favorites ,   i really appreciate that ! I speak badly  English sorry ,  I am French  .
 T a k e  C a r e  Hug 
Dango-cat-face
Aphrodite .
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(1 Reply)
:iconblackbowfin:
BlackBowfin Featured By Owner Aug 27, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
Hey bud, thanks for reading.  How are you and whatchu up to these days?
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:iconoviedomedina:
oviedomedina Featured By Owner Jun 21, 2016
Thank you for the favorite!
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