I love you onion
I'll tell you why
in part because
you make me sigh,
you are everything to me
the song my Mother sang...
a whimsical, sad
and poignant little tale
I hear you crooning
& the radio tuning
my Mother knew me better
than I'd like to think,
singing ...
Lonely 'Lil petunia in an onion patch
a bittersweet memory
of all the saddest words
that I have ever heard
the saddest is the story
told me by a bird
tears fall from a pungent smell
when I cannot forgive,
say you'll never tell
and in tears of laughter  
when I'm tickled
seeing the inchworm
in the shape of a finger
a moment comes,
  I stay
and linger
climbing like a spider
singing me a verse
Spent about an hour
chatting with a flower
and here's the tale he told
as you're peeling layers,
& hearing prayers
revealing honesty
and depth of flavor
intoxicating waifs
I sniff and savor
kept safe
by a sturdy skin
cooking you
I start, begin
chopped fresh
and finely diced
or maybe
even thinly sliced
for summertime
franks, not the
Ballpark kind
these I doubt
you'll ever find
homemade baked beans
that you adorn and grace
a smiling sweet,
lil' onion face
everything made
from scratch
gleaning my
lil' onion patch
in toasted rolls,
whole grain mustard
potato salad...
best I can recall
my Mother
took the time to make
in everything
she cooked and baked
you're in all my memories
though you're in so much more
I've never shared with you
this love I have before
Onions are adaptation at its finest
fresh, sauteed with butter
translucent sweetness
Elevating anything you touch
they cry, and laugh
and give so much
dried, grated..slightly dated...
even hated, chopped up..
or roasted, grilled...
so very skilled
any way you slice it
even if you dice it
differently delightful
and delicious
smart for recipes,
even onion haters
appreciate the graters
sometimes your in  disguise
a lovely found
& welcome surprise
must be
I have something
in my eyes
as the flower
continues to sing
a joyful gift
my onion brings
familiar sounds
songs I sing
petunia continues
who put me in this bed
I'll bet his face is red
I call him down
with every teardrop that I shed
  then she said
if only I had him here
I would take him by his ear
and make him share my misery
I'm cooking homemade
onion chips,
rewound on old-time family clips
recall the fresh-squeezed lemonade
while we're sittin' in
the cooling shade
a memory of you replayed
so very glad you came & stayed
  sippin' slow brewed iced tea
my lil' onion friend and me.

Cherie Nolan© 2016

I love you onion
I'll tell you why
in part because
you make me sigh,
you are everything to me
the song my Mother sang...
a whimsical, sad
and poignant little tale
I hear you crooning
& the radio tuning
my Mother knew me better
than I'd like to think,
singing ...
Lonely 'Lil petunia in an onion patch
a bittersweet memory
of all the saddest words
that I have ever heard
the saddest is the story
told me by a bird
tears fall from a pungent smell
when I cannot forgive,
say you'll never tell
and in tears of laughter  
when I'm tickled
seeing the inchworm
in the shape of a finger
a moment comes,
  I stay
and linger
climbing like a spider
singing me a verse
Spent about an hour
chatting with a flower
and here's the tale he told
as you're peeling layers,
& hearing prayers
revealing honesty
and depth of flavor
intoxicating waifs
I sniff and savor
kept safe
by a sturdy skin
cooking you
I start, begin
chopped fresh
and finely diced
or maybe
even thinly sliced
for summertime
franks, not the
Ballpark kind
these I doubt
you'll ever find
homemade baked beans
that you adorn and grace
a smiling sweet,
lil' onion face
everything made
from scratch
gleaning my
lil' onion patch
in toasted rolls,
whole grain mustard
potato salad...
best I can recall
my Mother
took the time to make
in everything
she cooked and baked
you're in all my memories
though you're in so much more
I've never shared with you
this love I have before
Onions are adaptation at its finest
fresh, sauteed with butter
translucent sweetness
Elevating anything you touch
they cry, and laugh
and give so much
dried, grated..slightly dated...
even hated, chopped up..
or roasted, grilled...
so very skilled
any way you slice it
even if you dice it
differently delightful
and delicious
smart for recipes,
even onion haters
appreciate the graters
sometimes your in  disguise
a lovely found
& welcome surprise
must be
I have something
in my eyes
as the flower
continues to sing
a joyful gift
my onion brings
familiar sounds
songs I sing
petunia continues
who put me in this bed
I'll bet his face is red
I call him down
with every teardrop that I shed
  then she said
if only I had him here
I would take him by his ear
and make him share my misery
I'm cooking homemade
onion chips,
rewound on old-time family clips
recall the fresh-squeezed lemonade
while we're sittin' in
the cooling shade
a memory of you replayed
so very glad you came & stayed
  sippin' slow brewed iced tea
my lil' onion friend and me.

Cherie Nolan© 2016

awakened
in the silence of the night
unable to return to sleep
i sat listening
as the stars taught me
unheard messages
delivered on a shimmering moonbeam
tho' i did not intellectually understand
i intuitively knew
what the starlight was saying
then sleep returned
and upon awakening
my intellect seems to have forgotten
the message
my heart now knows

©2016janetaylor

Cats are cool,
They regally rule.
You think you own them,
But they own you.

Born as kittens they are so cute.
Before you know it, off they scoot.
Baby faces and big blue eyes,
Dopamine surges, what a surprise.

Pouncing on you as you walk through the door,
Kitty is lightning over that floor.
How we love to watch them play,
Brightening up an otherwise dull day.

The older cats look on with disdain:
They’d much rather use their brain.
More to the point cats love to sleep,
Waking only to take the odd peep.

So independent yet love a stroke:
Lots of purring you’ll invoke.
I’m not too sure of their table manners
But they’ve just got to be fans of canners.

I’m not too keen on them bringing a present,
Even though they might think that it’s a pheasant.
They can be cruel when they hunt,
But that’s their job, let’s be blunt.

Most popular pets, that’s for sure.
Feeling stressed? A cat is your cure.

Paul Butters

Cats are cool,
They regally rule.
You think you own them,
But they own you.

Born as kittens they are so cute.
Before you know it, off they scoot.
Baby faces and big blue eyes,
Dopamine surges, what a surprise.

Pouncing on you as you walk through the door,
Kitty is lightning over that floor.
How we love to watch them play,
Brightening up an otherwise dull day.

The older cats look on with disdain:
They’d much rather use their brain.
More to the point cats love to sleep,
Waking only to take the odd peep.

So independent yet love a stroke:
Lots of purring you’ll invoke.
I’m not too sure of their table manners
But they’ve just got to be fans of canners.

I’m not too keen on them bringing a present,
Even though they might think that it’s a pheasant.
They can be cruel when they hunt,
But that’s their job, let’s be blunt.

Most popular pets, that’s for sure.
Feeling stressed? A cat is your cure.

Paul Butters

Love becomes the ******* child of collusion , empty rooms scream , episodic trips to the window of the normal world
Arms that contain heightened emotion
Enter every bad day , hurt -
dilated wave of ****** naked admission
in the cold , laughter at the ugly middle child
going nowhere , useless musical jobless freak
A pillow to put our heads upon , rusted steel to scrape
the dog **** off , a servant to perform the will of family
when their 'laborious' day is done
The über Christian brother , the spiteful mother
The hateful sister , the self shot dead father
Thinking continues
Panic ensues , the pills go down , the lights go out
The accepting bed understands
Sleep , the fair weather friend of absolution* ..