My first selfie- all dolled up in my Red Hat get-up
I’ve been writing all my life. Please check out
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Email: dorishray@gmail.com
Box 367, Fraser Lake, BC V0J 1S0
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ICE CREAM FLAVOURS
Brownies on the Moon
Caramel Typhoon
so much to love
and so little room.
Banana Tiger
Monster Pop
gourmet choices
do not stop.
Rocky Road
Island Fantasy
excursions t’where
I cannot be.
Heavenly Hash
Super-mix
my brain’s already
playing tricks.
Oreo Cookies
Cookie Dough
d’you bake your own
before you go?
Bubblegum
Cotton Candy
kids may find
those flavours dandy.
I prefer Pralines and Cream
and Chocolate Revel’s
in my dreams.
Strawberry Cheesecake
Chocolate Fudge
all laced with antifreeze
and sludge,
or so I’ve read in
magazines
‘bout the perils
of ice-cream.
And so today as I choose a killer
I think I’ll have just plain vanilla.
‘TWAS A WEEK BEFORE CHRISTMAS
‘Twas a week before Christmas, not a present was boughten,
Not a goody was baked, the house looked forgotten.
And me in my housecoat, and Dad in his shoes,
Had just settled down to watch the Late News.
When from out of the night came a horrible sound,
We sprang from our chairs with a leap and a bound.
We flew to the window, tore open the drapes
The window was frosted, it needed a scrape.
With faces pressed up to our hastily scraped hole,
We peered through the glass to the objects below.
Then what did our wondering eyes then reveal,
But a miniature man on a large snowmobile.
With a roar and a rumble and an ear-splitting crash,
He came to a halt – he had run out of gas.
“Oh, Dasher, oh Dancer, oh Prancer and Vixen,
Where are you now? Where’s Donner and Blitzen?”
The little guy hollered and whistled and screamed,
His voice was much bigger than he was it seemed.
“Oh, please won’t you hear me! Where’s Comet and Cupid?
Old Santa needs help, he knows he is stupid!”
The poor little man looked so sad and forlorn,
As he kicked at his motor and blew on his horn.
When all of a sudden way up in the sky,
Came a jingle of sleigh-bells from way up on high.
Then as they came closer, with our eyes we did find,
Eight tiny reindeer with a bob-sleigh behind.
It landed and Santa climbed quickly aboard,
The reindeer were smiling, he spoke not a word.
But as they arose he made his apology,
We heard him yell, “Phooey on modern technology!!”
THE INCHWORM (1970s)
An inchworm looking very wise
Proudly inched before my eyes
His measured movements were athletic
But I thought him quite pathetic
Although his progress was so slick
Our country now has gone “metric”
Another Limerick
I studied my face in the mirror
And nary a wrinkle appeared
My complexion was blurry
Until it occurred t’me
No eyeglasses ‘tween my two ears!
Prompt: on being a grape slowly turning into a raisin
So warm and cosy
so sweet and rosy
nestling next to
my brothers and
sisters
on the family vine
of our divine
Mother
Wind loosening
me from my
perch
I fall, tumbling and
bouncing
onto the
Earth
The sun beating
down
my shape is less
round
I know not what’s
happening
my juices
evaporating
my body is
shrinking
my skin is
wrinkling
I am cold
prematurely
Old
“Today’s prompt is to write a poem in which you very specifically describe something in terms of at least three of the five senses.”
Conjoined twin
crescents
yellow with
brown freckles
and dark brown
splotches
marring their
phallic splendor.
Spongy squishy
bodies with
age-stiffened
stems
clasped tightly
together.
Acerbic odor
of mature skin
masks the mushy
smell of
overripe bananas
SEX?? (1950s)
A logger with his wife and brood
Drove out from camp to buy some food
They parked out by the general store,
Then they all filed in through the door.
The family split in all directions
The children for the candy section,
His wife said as she checked the mail,
“The hunting licences are on sale.”
“That’s right, I’ll buy one right away,”
Our hero then was heard to say,
He went upstairs to where they sold them,
“I’ll want a tag or two,” he told them.
The clerk then asked his questions plain,
His birth-date, address and his name,
His wife’s name and his children’s all,
The logger answered with a drawl.
Then came the question that was next,
The one that queried as to sex,
He blushed, then cleared his throat and coughed and,
Answered, “Not so very often…”
In 1949
my mother found a quarter
a twenty-five cent piece
made from real silver
in those days
It glinted
in the dust-draped foliage
bordering the dirt road
where she trekked
weekly
to pick up mail
purchase groceries
and makings
for the hand-rolled cigarettes
she and Dad both smoked
in those days
She secured the precious coin
inside her coat pocket
separate from the money
for essentials
Nothing much left for extras
in those days
On the way home, with a shopping bag
in each hand
she paused
to pull out the packet
of what she’d purchased
with her windfall
Dad would have his
roll-your-owns
but my mother indulged
in a genuine tailor-made
cigarette!
ON SMOKING (Before I quit)
An ounce of dried out leaves it lies
Wrapped in paper, ‘fore my eyes,
So small, so plain, so insignificant,
Most everything is more magnificent.
Would you spend good money daily
For a rose if it bloomed gaily?
Or would you dry it up like hay
And smoke it madly every day?
I’ve never seen tobacco growing,
But in my cigarette that’s glowing,
It’s part of life, like food and clothes,
But not so healthful, I suppose.
They say your lungs will rue the day
You started puffing in that way,
And then inhaling way down deep,
Until you crave them in your sleep
Begone from me – I need you not!
My heart you’ll ruin, my lungs you’ll rot!
This afternoon I’ll gladly quit,
But first I’ll sit and puff a bit.
JELLIED LIVER PATE (Tune of Jingle Bells)
Liver Pate! Liver Pate!
Jellied in a mold,
Add some onion,
Add some garlic, eat it while it’s cold!
Jellied liver pate,
With bay leaf and with broth,
Simmer for ten minutes,
Then strain it through a cloth!
Put it in a blender,
Add butter — don’t renege,
What fun it is to puree smooth
Your liver with an egg!
Dissolve some gelatin,
In half a cup of sherry,
The other half a cup,
Will make your Xmas merry (?)
Add hot broth to the rest,
Be sure to chill enough,
Pretty soon you’ll have to find
Some guests who’ll eat that stuff!
You’re Dreaming Of A Roast Turkey (tune of White Christmas)
You’re dreaming of a roast turkey
With oyster dressing on the side,
When tear drops glimmer as onions simmer,
You smell the oysters that are fried,
You’re dreaming of a roast turkey,
With every bread crumb that you break,
Add green pepper and some parsley flakes,
And may all your turkeys be baked!
Oh, your batter’s alright (Tune of Santa Claus is Coming to Town)
If batter is light,
Better not cheat, I’m telling you — beat,
Mrs. Claus is going to bake!
She’s checking her list,
And doubling it twice,
Gonna bake cakes with raisins and spice,
Mrs. Claus is going to bake!
She sifts flour, salt with soda,
Pours brandy from a vat,
Over candied fruit and walnuts,
Tastes so good — that’s why she’s fat!
Mrs. Claus is going to bake!
SENSE AND NONSENSE 