I like to think I’m a well-oiled machine,

But I simply don’t work without shots of caffeine,

Not poured from a jar, but ground from the bean,

I’m coffee compulsive, I think it’s a gene!

Capuccino or Gaelic or drinks in between,

Latte Macchiato laced with grenadine,

A Zorro, a Borgia, a nice Bicarin,

A Monk’s liqueur coffee, with Benedictine.

Don’t long for a fag or for nicotine,

Don’t need any pot or amphetamine,

Just a fix of some coffee in drinks or cuisine.

Without it I’d need a long quarantine,

Or a special, fantastic, caffeinated vaccine.

It soothes my digestion, it comforts my spleen,

It keeps me quite focused, it keeps me quite ‘mean’,

Give me a shot and I’ll lick the cup clean,

I’m  just a Java junkie, a Calypso queen!

We start our day with coffee,
To set out brainstems racing,
We then indulge in a cup or three,
Of tea to keep us pacing.

And so we steadily work from home,
Writing a good blog and recipe,
‘Bout the latest seed or fine rhizome,
But then everything stops for tea.

We’ve recently found a wine buff,
To deliver wine-based chemistry,
We discussed all things vino off the cuff,
But then everything stopped for tea.

So if you pen a guest post for our blog,
Become part of our food-based family,
Write an enticing food-based monologue,
Just know this, EVERYTHING stops for tea!

I swear that there’s a sock thief,
Who lives in our machine,
Place a pair of socks in it,
One will ne’er be seen.

Every time we do a wash,
One sock disappears,
What ever does he do with them?
Keep them as souvenirs?

I’ve a whole drawer full of onesies,
From socks gone down the drain.
I’ll be lucky to find a match for them,
Or see their like again.

Why does he only take the one,
Leaving me with one odd sock?
One day I guess that he’ll forget,
Giving me a pleasant shock.

Today, my left foot is adorned,
With stripes of red and blue,
My right with little orange stars,
Well, what ever CAN you do?

I’ll be mismatched till the day I die,
And this is my belief,
I’ll owe my sadly mismatched feet,
To the sock wash thief!

I’m a woman of simple pleasures,

There are a few things I think are treasures,

And food and music are two.

There is simply nothing much finer,

Than turning your home into a diner,

And cooking for friends or a nice barbecue.

But then there is also the melody or song,

Which makes every party just bubble along,

And everyone starts to relax.

It lifts the spirits, it speaks to the soul,

It leaves all your guests feeling mellow and whole,

Yes, music almost always impacts.

A short poem about the mad British obsession with conkers. to follow yesterday’s post about this most madcap, eccentric game!

All Brits will know indubitably
That the fruits of a a Horse Chestnut Tree
Are known as conkers.

All kids in the UK know without fail
How to harden a conker like a nail
And yes, gentle reader, it’s bonkers!

But to succeed at this devilish game
You need a tough conker and a very good aim
You must not leave much to chance.

So vinegar baths and a stout piece of string
A conker as round as anything
You want your champ to advance!

I have come to a stark conclusion,
When you need to pay for some care,
Pay peanuts, and you will get monkeys,
Pay well, they safeguard your welfare.
If you pay more for all your support,
The care given is second to none,
So reader, I’ve bitten the bullet,
And that is precisely what I have done.

A short poem about the wonderful Cory Cook, who walked into our life to give it order and who has become a friend in a million. For heaven’s sake, do yourself a favour and check her website out! This woman isn’t just a Superwoman in “house doctoring” she is an Ironwoman!

She swooped into our lives via a 450 bus,
Not through the air hanging from an umbrella.
She took over the stage with minimum fuss,
Our Poppins, yes our “Cinderella”.
She carried a bag full of marvellous things,
And here’s the wickedly real paradox,
She used stickers and labels and scissors and strings,
And sorted my previous life into a box.
For her this is fun, it’s what makes her pulse race,
This sorting, recycling and throwing,
When she’s done there is order and logic and SPACE,
All this and she’s pos’tively glowing.
So yes, I’ve been sorted, decluttered,
All my excesses Ms Cook overcame,
The first words that she should have uttered,
Was “I’m a Poppins! To me this job is a game!”
But this isn’t all to the marv’lous Ms Cook,
Her qualities know no obvious end,
She’s charming, efficient, has a sunny outlook,
Above all, she’s a very good friend.

[ http://www.corycook.com ]

This tree has stood since yesteryear,

As stark reminder that,

It’s nature that we should revere,

Not the latest plutocrat.

It’s big, it’s leaves are lush and huge,

It’s beauty undenied,

The local birds seek refuge

There, a safer place to hide.

It’s this tree that I turn to,

When I need to feel,

Peaceful, calm, refreshed anew,

It’s beauty makes me heal.

…This is the ditsy, delightful cat, Domino,

Who loves to play around with the latest gizmo. 

She’ll chase after lasers, climb up tall trees,

Jump on your shoulder with great expertise.

She doesn’t trust dogs, but she sure does like ours,

She’ll play with him happ’ly for hours and hours…..

It cannot be said that she has many brains,

But she’s feisty and funny and she entertains.

This is my cat, Guinness, when very small,

She fitted into our household, no trouble at all.

She enchanted all-comers, fell in love with the dog,

They had many a feline-canine-dialogue….

Many’s the time when she went off after prey,

She would go missing for more than one day…

But she’d always return, and slink onto my bed,

For a big loving session, a scratch on the head.

A magnificent moler, but fastidious at heart,

She’d leave all her corpses outside on the path.

I never could tell how she’d done them in,

‘Cause they lay on the ground as if slumbering,

Her skill at the killing you could not surpass,

The bods were cut up in biology class…

A panther-like cat, who lives by her wits,

And reader, I tell you, I love her to bits…