Come Lounge With Me

“I always have this imagination, something I want to use. I don’t understand the idea of leisure time.” ~ Cher Wang

“Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney” by Robert Henri (1916).
PAJAMA DAYS
by Joanna Zarkadas

Here's to pajama days,
And the people who celebrate them.
Here's to comfort over style,
Uncombed hair and faces without makeup.
Hats off to reading all day
Or binge watching the latest Netflix series.
Kudos to cold pizza for breakfast,
Or hot buttered popcorn for dinner.
Blue ribbons for long phone conversations with friends,
And lazy couch lounging by the fire.
Gold medals for forgetting about "to do" lists,
Bathrooms that need cleaning,
Or bills that need paying.
Cheers to taking a day off every now and again
Without remorse, without guilt, without judgment.
High fives to sometimes doing whatever you want,
When you want, and
Eating whatever suits your fancy,
No matter the carb count or sugar content.
Here's to pajama days,
And a round of applause for those who know they deserve them!

~ as posted at Your Daily Poem (September 7, 2023).

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“The Green Pajamas” by Leopold Gould Seyffert (1932).

Ah, I can just see it now — me in my jade green silk pajamas reclining on a chaise lounge, sipping a nice cup of darjeeling, dipping in and out of the latest Jenny Colgan novel, bossa nova music softly playing in the background. Secret husband Colin Firth (dressed in his Mr Darcy finest) drifts in at regular intervals with a tray of freshly baked French pastries. Not a care in the world, I feel thoroughly pampered.

If only.

I’m certainly in favor of “reading all day,” and know I’m adequately skilled at “lounging by the fire,” i.e., hanging around in general (years of practice). 😀 As for the pajamas, it’s kind of my daily uniform anyway. Skip cleaning the bathroom and paying bills? Count me in!

About those “long phone conversations with friends.” Um, no thank you (read about my love-hate relationship with phones here).

But it would be nice nibbling on chocolates and sipping tea while binge watching The Great British Baking Show or All Creatures Great and Small.

“Mademoiselle Mink Breakfasts in Bed” by Janet Hill.

Yet . . . could I really enjoy doing these things sans guilt and remorse? Or would I be thinking of the extra calories I can’t afford, how not fun it will be to play catch-up the following day? Will my never-ending to-do list hover in the background even as I wait for Paul Hollywood to shake a contestant’s hand? I was never a zen person, firmly believing in planning ahead, being prepared. Yep, a real stick-in-the mud.

I do think part of it is the aging thing. The older I get, the longer it takes to get simple stuff done — stuff I could whiz through twice as fast twenty years ago. So, it’s important that I keep to plan. I’ve settled on a sensible compromise: give myself small breaks throughout the day (quick YouTube fix, drown in a fave tune from my iTunes playlist, reach for a cookie, read a poem, arrange flowers).

“The Bath” by Alfred Stevens (1873).

I’m simply not capable of giving myself an entire day off, even if I can convince myself I deserve it. Call me crazy, but I’d much rather feel productive. Alternating work + play = much less guilt. 🙂

How about you? When was the last time you gave yourself an entire day off? Any advice for how to lessen the guilt? Maybe in my next life I can be ‘devil may care’ Jama. 😀

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Lovely and talented Michelle Kogan is hosting the Roundup at MoreArt4All. Be sure to zip on over to check out the full menu of poetic goodness being served up around the blogosphere this week. Have a good Memorial Day weekend!

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“Breakfast in Bed” by Miki De Goodaboom.

“I’d rather spend my leisure time doing what some people call my work and I call my fun.” ~ Jared Diamond


*Copyright © 2024 Jama Rattigan of Jama’s Alphabet Soup. All rights reserved.

two poems from the wonder of small things

“Sometimes, love looks like small things.” ~ Tracy K. Smith

I’m a big fan of James Crews’s poetry anthologies and often dip into them whenever I need a calming moment of reflection or a fresh dose of inspiration.

His third and most recent book, The Wonder of Small Things: Poems of Peace & Renewal (Storey Publishing, 2023), contains some especially delectable food-related poems, two of which I’m sharing today.

Both poets pay homage to their Italian grandmothers, recalling childhood memories that continue to sustain and nourish.

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“Grandma’s Kitchen” by Lisa Pastille.
THE LESSON 
by Paola Bruni


On Sundays, Grandmother alight on the altar
of making and I, only old enough to kneel
on a wooden chair beside her, watched.
From the cupboard, she unearthed a dusky
pastry board, flour formed into a heaping crater,
the center hollowed. Eggs, white as doves. Salt.
Cup of milk, fragrant and simple. No spatula.
No bowl or mixer. Just a pastry board
and Grandmother's naked, calcified fingers
proclaiming each ingredient into the next.
She murmured into the composition
until the dough fattened, perspired, grew
under her ravenous eye. A rolling pin
to create a still, quiet surface. Then, the point
of a sharp knife chiseling flags of wide golden noodles.
For days, the fettuccini draped from wooden
clothing racks in her bedroom under the scrutiny
of Jesus and his Mother. Mornings, I slipped
into Grandmother's bed, dreamt about eating noodles
swathed in butter and the sauce of a hundred
ripe tomatoes roasted on the fire.

~ from The Wonder of Small Things: Poems of Peace and Renewal, edited by James Crews (Storey Publishing, 2023).

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Continue reading

“Ode to Gray” by Dorianne Laux

“I like the muted sounds, the shroud of grey, and the silence that comes with fog.” ~ Om Malik

“Whose Turn Is It” by Dempsey Essick.
ODE TO GRAY
by Dorianne Laux

Mourning dove. Goose. Catbird. Butcher bird. Heron.
A child’s plush stuffed rabbit. Buckets. Chains.

Silver. Slate. Steel. Thistle. Tin.
Old man. Old woman.
The new screen door.

A squadron of Mirage F-1’s dogfighting
above ground fog. Sprites. Smoke.
“Snapshot gray” circa 1952.

Foxes. Rats. Nails. Wolves. River stones. Whales.
Brains. Newspapers. The backs of dead hands.

The sky over the ocean just before the clouds
let down their rain.

Rain.

The seas just before the clouds
let down their nets of rain.

Angelfish. Hooks. Hummingbird nests.
Teak wood. Seal whiskers. Silos. Railroad ties.

Mushrooms. Dray horses. Sage. Clay. Driftwood.
Crayfish in a stainless steel bowl.

The eyes of a certain girl.

Grain.

~ from Only As the Day is Long: New and Selected Poems (W.W. Norton & Co., 2020)
“Dust Motes Dancing in Sunbeams” by Vilhelm Hammershøi (1900).

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What’s the first thing you think of when the color gray is mentioned? Dull, drab, boring, noncommittal? Neither black nor white (yet both), gray hovers in-between, taking a neutral, indifferent stance.

“Old Couple” by Elena Roginsky.

We associate gray with aging and cloudy days. Having worked in many office settings, I’ve seen my share of gray cubicles and file cabinets, copy machines and shredders. Gray is institutional, business-like, a calling card for conformity.

In Europe and North America, only about 1% of those surveyed consider gray their favorite color.

And yet . . .

Continue reading

wendy cope’s orange: this juice is worth the squeeze

Here’s an appeeling little poem to cheer you up. 🙂

“Orange” by Lu-Yong.
THE ORANGE
by Wendy Cope


At lunchtime I bought a huge orange—
The size of it made us all laugh.
I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave—
They got quarters and I got a half.

And that orange, it made me so happy,
As ordinary things often do
Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park.
This is peace and contentment. It’s new.

The rest of the day was quite easy.
I did all the jobs on my list
And enjoyed them and had some time over.
I love you. I’m glad I exist.

~ from The Orange and other poems (Faber, 2023)

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Continue reading

a fragrant memoir poem by Judy Lorenzen

“The scent of cinnamon is like a hug for your senses, wrapping you in comfort and nostalgia.” – Unknown

photo by Brent Hofacker.

What could be more enticing than the sweet spicy aroma of cinnamon wafting from the kitchen? It carries the promise of something scrumptious in the oven: apple pie? gingerbread? snickerdoodles, bread pudding?

Mmmmmmmm! Warm and woodsy cinnamon feels cozy and comforting. It speaks of Saturday morning cinnamon toast, late summer peach cobblers, hot mulled cider, nutty streusels and autumn’s molasses cookies. It’s snappy cinnamon tea and hot chocolate with whipped cream. Moreover, cinnamon is the smell of Christmas.

Good aromas transcend time and space by not only stimulating the appetite, but conjuring up satisfying, sensory-rich food memories. We thank Nebraska poet Judy Lorenzen for permission to share her poignant poem and for commenting on what inspired it.

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“Cinnamon Roll” by Justin Clayton
CINNAMON
by Judy Lorenzen


with a line from William Butler Yeats

Where goes the memory wandering
but to the house of my childhood
to smell the sweet aroma
of Mother's baking goods.
Where her kneading hands are covered
in butter or in flour
where the crimson spice's fragrance
hangs in the air for hours.
And there is nothing better
than in her presence here,
to see her face, feel her embrace,
I feel the welling tear.
The loaves of bread and rolls dark red,
were love that served the child,
where time is gone and memory lives
my mind rests for a while.
I didn't know how fast time passed,
holding her cinnamon-scented hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than I could understand.

~ posted by permission of the author, copyright © 2024 Judy Lorenzen. All rights reserved.

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Cinnamon-Streusel Coffee Cake via King Arthur Flour.

NOTE FROM JUDY:

“I bought a cinnamon-scented candle the other day. After I opened the lid to take in the perfume, my mind went straight back to my childhood. My mother was such a wonderful mother, a natural teacher who was always teaching my six sisters and me about the flowers, night skies, stars, constellations, the birds and their songs—everything.

She taught my sisters and me to read before we went to school, using the King James Bible. She had memorized a lot of poetry in her childhood, and sometimes, these long, beautiful poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, W. B. Yeats, Robert Frost or John Neihardt, among others, would come pouring out of her. I’d watch her face glow as she quoted them and listen to the music in the poetry. I was mesmerized by her and all of her abilities—we all were. We just never stopped learning from that wonderful woman.

l to r: Jamey, Joy, Mom, Judy, Jonna & Jacki (Jo & Jill not pictured).

Because there were seven of us girls, she baked a lot, and we all loved those days. The cinnamon smell lingered around the house all day. When I walked home from Engleman Elementary on baking days, I could smell the cinnamon on the winds as I got closer to home, and I knew what was waiting inside those doors. Such sweet memories!

I write memoir poetry, and many times, a smell, a song, or a thought triggers a poem. The cinnamon candle made me think about how much I miss my mother and her sweetness, and I remembered that line from Yeats’s poem ‘The Stolen Child’ that I loved so much. I thought about how true it was that I didn’t understand then that the world was so full of weeping. I knew I had to end my poem with that line—she loved that poem.”

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Judy Lorenzen is a poet and writer who holds an MA in Creative Writing from the University of Nebraska at Kearney and a PhD in Rhetoric and Composition from the University of Nebraska-LincolnHer work appears in journals, anthologies, newspapers, magazines, and on calendars and websites.

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Lovely and talented Irene Latham is hosting the Roundup at Live Your Poem. Be sure to check out the full menu of poetic goodness being served up around the blogosphere this week. Enjoy your weekend!

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*Copyright © 2024 Jama Rattigan of Jama’s Alphabet Soup. All rights reserved.