Silly Chilly

Write hot?
I think not.
I should be composing in the cool air.
I should be writing in the frigidaire.
I just can't figure out how to fit quite yet-
but I bet
my ideas would last longer
my prose may sound stronger
it would increase my freshness-
although, no one has tested this.

But I have been told
when you work in the cold
it increases the racing speed
of the firing synapses I need.

The icebox stocks
are actually quite empty-
some left-over spaghetti,
some moldy cheese and condiments
some things growing antioxidants...
(ahh, the minimal groceries
of writers salaries)
While it is conceivable,
working in there still doesn't seem feasible.
Does anyone writing from an igloo
know if this is true?



Image By jean-lucien guillaume (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Stuffed Turkeys

Our tradition, silly, yummy and lame-

we perform annually just the same.

Our ears and bellies full,

our cups all overflowing,

spilling out as it were,

endless, lest we forget-

we will eat again.

Forgive us for our acceptance 

of more, when we need less.

We will answer the temptations

with cranberry jubilee, 

high on sparkly, 

giddy in our gluttony.

For ours is a land of adopted fables

and on this one we fill our dining tables. 

With dopey peopled sated smiles,

a quiet table with mouths stuffed,

 corked and gorging, all thankfully mute

knowing nothing more need be said

except perhaps, Please pass the bread.

Image By Steffano Francis Webb [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, circa 1915.