Pet memory

Blackie
By GC SMITH

Going back sixty four years
I walk Blackie on his leash
That is until he sees the cat
Then all hell breaks loose

I am a kid of just five years,
that dog weighs more than I
With the leash around my wrist
There is no way to get me free

Down I go onto my knees
As Blackie chases that cat
I bounce behind Blackie's tail
Ker-bump, ker-thwack, like that

The cat goes racing up a tree
Blackie slides to a full stop
To whine and howl at being foiled
While me, I howl with pain

I am skinned from head to toe
My clothes are ripped to shreds
I get untangled from the leash
And turn and run toward for home

Painted up with mercurochrome
I lick on a chocolate ice cream cone
While sitting on the porch to wait
For old Blackie to come home

'cause you see, I don't blame him
For doing what a dog must do
When tempted by a kitty cat
I'd chase it, wouldn't you?

pubbed in Lamoille lamentations

Eight years into a new century

Roiled
By GC SMITH

Sensibilities scrambled
emotions pummeled
rationality forsaken
comity lost

The why
obscured
in the vortex
of our today

Twentieth century framed
a new dark age;
nascent twenty-first
remains a question

Goodbye Joe
By GC SMITH

Hank Williams in a Cadillac
Never made that Canton act
He lay down his head and died
Fans by the millions cried

Back seat of that Cadillac
Sure wasn't a heart attack
It was livin' wild, livin' fast
Shootin' up when he passed

Ole Hank he had his fill
Of lonely mansion on the hill
No jambalaya or crawfish pie
On the day he chose to die

Hank lived the honky-tonk life
Cheated some on his wife
Swilled quarts of brown liquor
OD on horse made it quicker

I was a kid, about fifteen
When old Hank quit the scene
Went to the devil that’s my bet
It's mine too says daughter Jet

So old Hank went away
Not to return another day
To row a pirogue on the Bayou
He tipped his Stetson and said bye you

Or maybe it was goodbye Joe
got a row to hoe, gotta go;
I’ll tell it straight, tell it level
I gotta go and meet the devil

So we lament that Hank passed on
We could not believe he was gone
That country songs he'd write no more
Old Hank's locked behind devil's door


Note: Nineteen hundred and fifty three, country singer Hank Williams Sr., 29, died of a drug and alcohol overdose while en route to a concert date in Canton, Ohio.

Pubbed at Coyote's Den

In Savanna GA is Bonaventure

In Bonaventure Cemetery one is supposed to bring a flask and stemmed glasses and have an early morning Martini at Johnny Mercer's grave. Did you?

Also, the best tombstone epitaph ever is:

CONRAD AIKEN
COSMIC WANDERER

Voodoo stuff is purported to go on in Bonaventure. But the infamous practitioner Dr. Buzzard is buried over here in South Carolina near where I live.

Lowcountry Summer’s Night

Summertime in the garden of good and evil
Midnight mugg descends upon the revelers
Geechee women dance among the tombstones
And shout ungodly imprecations to the heavens

Voodoo man, eagle feather in his green derby
Mixes potions to be used for casting spells
He mumbles mumbo-jumbo as he stirs
The dark elixirs to send his enemies to hell

Jagged lightning slashes across midnight skies
Pounding drumbeats speak a secret language
The dancing women tear their clothes away
Then reach upward toward the sky and scream

The women’s screams rise to crescendo
As the black night receives their vile prayers
Asking satanic Gods to weigh in with their powers
To make voodoo spells and potions work

Summertime in the garden of good and evil
Root medicine is used for dirty work
Spells are cast and lives are set a roil
Wracked with agonies of voodoo curse

Meanwhile on the other side of the garden
A sweet young woman waits for her lover
Tonight they will lay down upon a blanket
To consummate their love and that is good

Tiger? Vampire? or ???

He Waits For You
By GC Smith

Shoulders hunched, joints flexed, he moves silently, stealthily forward. His eyes fix on you. His nostrils flare. Your hot woman scent fills his olfactory sense. It enflames him. His eyes follow your every move. Saliva wets his lips as your scent wafts pheromones that stoke his lust. You, in all your innocence believe that your world is safe. You do not know what fate awaits. He watches as you enter the temporary safety of your shelter. He will remain hidden, waiting. Days and nights may pass, but those days and nights will not test his resolve. He will have you.

Diamond dew drops sparkle on blades of jungle grass as the sun comes from the eastern horizon. Night black gives way to day's light. Stars fade. Moon recedes. He remains silent, hidden in the tall grasses. Voices come to him from within the compound. The booming bass of a male. Youthful laughter. Then the melodious lilt of your voice. You, his chosen one, the object of his solitary surveillance. You, his desire and his need. You will leave the safety of the compound. You will come to the spring to fetch the cold, clear water. He will be near. Waiting.

He fades back and hunkers down in the underbrush. His eyes burn bright. He concentrates, sensing that it is you who comes. He sniffs the air, though he knows that you must pass by before he catches the woman scent that roils his blood . Your footsteps come close. Now, you appear, tall and proud, walking with your shoulders back, firm breasts prominent. He salivates. A bright cloth wraps your waist. Thighs flash as your cover moves with the breeze. You pass and your scent wafts back to him. He tenses his every muscle in anticipation of feeding. Soon. Momentarily.

Veritas
By GC Smith

Truth is in a glass of wine,
much more in two or three.
Should I drink the bottle down
my tongue would sure wag free.

I'd tell all your dirty secrets,
the ones I should not know
Those secrets that I learned
when you did tell and show.

And why did you let me know
things that should stay buried?
Secrets will come out my dear
as you and I continue to imbibe

Ahh, it's Bacchus's liquor
ambrosia from the vine
that loosens inhibitions;
there's veritas in wine.

Front and Backyard

Sussian ...

“HOP ON POP”
by Gerard C. Smith

Come "Hop on Pop," my Lisa said
And hop of course is what she did
Her brother joined in with a jump
On Poppa’s tum he went crash-bump
Lisa hopped and hopped some more
She knocked poor Poppa to the floor
Both kids did bounce, each up and down
Poor Pop was trounced and he did frown
Now he hates that bastard T. Geisel
And hopes the rotter roasts in hell

Christmas Mouse

On Christmas Eve
By GC SMITH

The children worry about Santa Claus
they truly want to please Saint Nick
so with their Mama they’ll bake away
to have a plentitude of Christmas cheer

They’ll leave their cookies on the hearth
along with a big glass of ice cold milk
then silently I will steal down the stairs
to make sure those gifts are well recieved

When all the ice cold milk is drunk
and fresh the baked cookies devoured
I’ll leave another gift upon the hearth
for our wee Christmas Eve visitor

A thimble full of spiked egg nog
some crumbs left over from the cookies
a gift of warmth and cheer for a small friend
our mouse who always comes on Christmas eve

A kid's view

There, next to the
Christmas tree,
for me, a bike!

Man, I sure like
that Santa read
what I said

Yippee, hooray
he made my day
and days to come

Needs overnight delivery

Gerard C. Smith
Beaufort, SC

December 20, 2007

Santa Claus
c/o the Elves @
North Pole.net
or there about

Dear Santa:

I'm reading your letter replying to my simple Christmas request and saying that a Porsche 911 will not fit in my stocking. I simply do not understand where you're coming from with that dumb damn message. You well know that I have been writing to you for years requesting that 911. And, you also know that for years you ignored me. That is, until you thought up this recent baloney . Well, damn, poor excuse that it is, you are correct. A Porsche 911 will not fit in my stocking, that is a true fact. But the title for a nice silver Porsche 911 will fit with room left over for those stupid walnuts and oranges and yucky hard candy that you always leave. And, I can wait until December 26th to go to the dealer's showroom to pick the dang car.

As you must certainly know, I have been very good and not at all naughty (except for just a little bit of cussing here and there). I do believe that I qualify for "nice" when you're checking off twice.

Still I suppose you'll have yet another reason why my Christmas Porsche 911 wish once again will not be accommodated. And, I simply do not know why that should be? All I've ever asked for is a gratification of a simple guy fantasy.

But, be that as it may, I'm sure you are going to continue to be the same cheap bastard as always and Porsche will not be delivered, so here is my alternate list.

1. Can you send a message to some agents and publishers suggesting that accepting Gerard C. Smith's WHITE LIGHTNING would be in their best interest. Maybe a Santa Claus (sounds like one of them Italian Godfather names) threat will get the book noticed.

2. Can you see to it that there's a bit more peace on earth. And, maybe spread about some goodwill toward man.

3. Can you see to it that lots of Christmas goodies are dropped off for the solider, sailor, marine and air force men and women in Iraq and Afghanistan. They won't be home for Christmas and they will need a little cheering up.

4. Can you see to it that all of my Blog reading buddies get some cookies (biscuits for the Brits) and milk for Christmas. No, wait, hold the milk. They're mostly all writers and will want something alcoholic. How about some Bailey's Irish Creme. It's sorta milk-like and will go very well with the cookies.

5. Can you see to it that I get a good bottle of cognac. Remy Martin VSOP please. And maybe a Macanudo cigar.

6. Can you see to it that my kids and my daughter-in-law and son-in-law and all of my friends have an excellent 2008.

7. Can you make sure that my MiMi's wish list is fulfilled. She loves bling (gold, platinum, diamonds and emeralds).

Well that's it. Just a short wish list.

Merry Christmas to you.

Your Pal


Jerry (A nice, not naughty, very good boy. An excellent boy. Who didn't do bad thing (not one) in 2007, 'cept for maybe some cussin'.)

Cookin' this stuff today

Basic Creole Sauce

Looking for some good eating.
If you have some shrimp. Or some fish. Or scallops. Or mussels. Or any combination of this stuff. Here's what you want to do.
In a heavy pot:

Fry 1 lb. Of bacon until crisp
Remove bacon

Sauté 3 lbs of strong sliced yellow onions and a couple of sliced green bell peppers in the bacon drippings until the stuff is limp and the onions are opaque

Add to the peppers/onions mix:

Three cans of diced tomatoes
Two small cans of tomato paste
One 12 oz. can of V-8 juice (or tomato juice).

Stir around some and add:

Several tablespoons of fresh ground black pepper
6-8 cloves of pressed garlic
many shakes of Worcestershire Sauce
Several shakes of Tabasco sauce
Some salt (not much)
1 short tablespoon of granulated sugar

Crumble the bacon and toss that in the pot.

Bring the whole mess to a boil while stirring.

Cover, simmer for several hours

This stuff grows with time so it's best if reheated and served the next day. When very hot add several pounds of peeled shrimp or firm white fish, or scallops, or mussels, or all of that stuff and cook until done. About five minutes.

Serve over boiled white rice.

A crusty loaf of bread and a chilled Savignon Blanc goes good with this Creole dish.

I love this stuff, me. Yeah man, I truly do. So will you.

Laissez le bon temps rouler.

In the city

Christmas Morning
By GC Smith

A kid on city streets
in the wrong place
at the wrong time
stands in the way of
a bullet’s trajectory
that rips through
his mortal flesh

A kid on city streets
in the wrong place
at the wrong time
drops a package
festively wrapped
in green and red
and meant for her

A kid on city streets
in the wrong place
at the wrong time
lies in his blood
while she waits
for him to come
on Christmas morning

His Christmas will
never come again
but hers will come
each year as memory of
that kid on city streets
in the wrong place
at the wrong time

Druidic legacy

The Mistletoe
By GC SMITH



Though a simple
parasitic plant
the mistletoe
commands attention
in the mythos of mankind

One could read
THE GOLDEN BOUGH
to learn
of mistletoe and
of its powers

Symbol of
'life-force'
(vitality-fertility)
the essence of
the mistletoe

Paired branches,
paired leaves,
berries gushing
viscous fluid
complete fertility images

Kissing customs
set forth imagery
(humorous, suggestive, ribald)
that harkens back
to Druidic rites

Mistletoe’s powers
perceived by few
none-the less
are precious links
to mankind’s roots

Merry Christmas

*
**
****
A Christmas Poem
By GC Smith

Christmas comes but once a year
So sit down, listen, be of good cheer
Ma’s nightie is off and so are my jams
We’re under the covers doing wham-bams
When up on the roof I hear a great bump
It sounds like round Santa fell on his rump
So Ma rolls from the bed, dons her robe -as I do
We’ll check out just what's interrupted our screw
We go out with flashlights to shine up on the roof
And there stuck in the chimney is that red suited goof
So we’ll call for some firemen to come and pull him out
And hope when he is free he’ll remember what Christmas is about

Cause he had a long hard evening stuck up there
And that could sour even Jolly Saint Nick

Fa lala la la lala la la.

Gift giving. Wrong holiday. All dialog.

A Gift From The Heart

By GC SMITH

“Yiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!"
"My God, Daphne, what is it? What's wrong?"
"There. Over there. On the table."
"It's simply a beribboned gift box. It's lovely"
"No, it's ghastly. It's what was in the box. I'm terrified. It's horrible."
"Now child, please get hold of yourself. There's no need for this skittishness. And, get down from atop that bookcase."
"Yes. Mother. I'm okay now. No. Yiiiiiii! There it goes."
"What?"
"There, there. It's running. It's over there in the corner."
"Point."
"Thththt-there. In the corner."
"What is it, a mouse?"
"No, it's monstrous. It's..."
"A snake?"
"Nnnnnnnn-no. It's a bug. A horrible, horrible bug. It's huge. It hissed at me."
"I'll look."
"Over there. It's running again."
"I got it. It's nothing but a cockroach. But unusual. It's black."
"Hsssssssssssssss."
"It's alive."
"Not now it isn't. I stomped it."
"What's that attached to it's leg?"
"I seems to be a piece of rolled up paper."
"Look at it. What does it say?"
"It says, 'Happy Valentine's day Daphne. Love Charlie.' And on the back it says. 'Rare, hissing Cockroach.'"
"That bastard. I'll send a black vulture to eat his heart."
"But, Daphne, darling, he's your husband."
"He was. Then, just because I threw him out of the house he sent me the centipede and then the tarantula. I'm calling my lawyer. The cockroach ends it."

pubbed in GATOR SPRINGS GAZETTE

I Won't Climb That Mountain
By GC SMITH

I don't know 'bout no muses
Livin' up on upon that mountain
Eating feta cheese and olives

Them muses always did elude me
Leave me to my own devises
For writin' prose or verse

Screw 'em all is what I say
I don't need muses any day
To tell me where my words lay

Why listen to Greeks, I'm Irish
Blessed with the precious gift, blarney
That comes straight from the stone

I'll not climb Parnassus's heights
To commune with ancient muses
I'll find the poetic strophes myself

With verses skipping rhyme or reason
Nonsense prose for my amusement
I'll please my self without a muse

________

Founding Father

George's Busy Life
By GC SMITH

Chompin' cherries with wooden dentures isn't any fun. Red stains on white painted teeth can make a man blue. Hey, red, white, and blue, great colors for the new flag. I'll have Martha talk to Betsy about that at next week's Mahjong party. Speaking of Betsy this G.W. sure would like to sleep there. Ah, to rest my weary head on that lush bosom. But, if Martha ever found out she's have my hide and I'd be in for even more shoeless camping in the snow. It would lead to disaster. A failed revolution. I can't afford that, not with Lafayette coming to meet about forming the Escadrille with 'mercan pilots (more than a century ahead of it's time). I'd better go and powder the wig now before meeting time. Lord knows a man can never look too good.

Miles to go and things to do.

Looking Forward
By GC SMITH

What stuff to do before I die?
What to grab, what to pass by?
I might learn about the polka,
nah, I'll pass on that folk art.

Should I thank to my wife’s ex?
There were a bunch before we met
but she picked out and stayed with me
so my thanks is reserved for my MiMi.

There’s stuff to do, I’ll say why;
at sixty-nine time starts to fly,
perhaps thirty years left to pilot a plane,
could, might be less for finding fame.

My novel ain’t seen light of day,
if it does I’ll damn well shout hooray!
Still I can’t complain about my life,
it’s mostly fun, it’s free of strife.

So, I’ll just do whatever I do.
I’ll have me-self a whoop-de-doo.
If you’re at all wise, do the same,
cause it is the one and only game

Seekin' the Bling

Off Again, On Again
by GC SMITH

I usta have a girlfriend
til she done gone and went away
but now it's the Christmas season
I'm sure that she'll turn up any day

Nasty

Bad Boys
By GC SMITH

The stench of flatus permeated the barroom. Beer swilling rednecks stood around in groups of four and five and hurled obscenities toward the naked pole dancer on the grime encrusted stage. She squatted and farted, adding to the general atmosphere of the joint. An irritated behemoth in a muscle shirt charged the stage and scooped the ecdysiast up into his prison workout arms. Irritated she spat at his face, a stupid move. He hurled her into the crowd. The ignorant jackasses grabbed her and stretched her out on top of the green felt covering on the pool table.

April, next up on the stage stepped back momentarily into the closet that served as a dressing room. She carried a nine millimeter Beretta in her handbag.

She would use that handgun.

Thoughts on newly minted Marines

Parris Island South Carolina
By GC SMITH

I played golf yesterday on Parris Island
yup, the east coast Marine training depot
and I thought as I drove the dimpled ball
about the kids who will graduate this day

Every Friday a class of new minted Marines
molded by a Drill Sergeant’s words and deeds
stand at attention at graduation ceremonies
while their so proud Moms and Dads look on

I’m very comfortable in these my retirement days
while these kids look forward to Iraq and worse
I spend my days hitting golf balls, drinking beer
while young Marines dodge bombs and bullets

Sometimes I think old guys
like me should fight wars;
the kids should stay at home,
play golf, live the good life

Cookin' Crab

Crab cakes Jerry Style

Not precise ‘cause I use the old Redneck toss together method rather than measurements.

I pound of cooked picked crabmeat, lump is best but mixed is okay
1 small onion finely diced
one small bell pepper finely diced
One large egg (or two small) beaten with a fork or wire whisk
Half cup of rich mayonnaise
A couple of shakes of Tabasco pepper sauce
A couple of shakes of Worcestershire sauce
Several teaspoons of Dijon Mustard
Several grinds of black pepper
A half teaspoon of garlic powder
Enough Italian flavored breadcrumbs to get the patties to hold shape while still moist

If the cakes are too dry add more mayo. Fry ‘em in about an inch of very hot peanut oil. Keep flipping ‘cause the breadcrumbs burn. When golden brown and hot through drain on paper towels and serve.

Serve with salad, French fries or potato puffs and wine or beer.

Yummy.

Just deserts

After The Christmas Party
By GC SMITH

“Ow, my fucking head,” Sandra heard Rafe mutter as he stumbled through the snow to the outdoor john. He’d partied last night. His boss took over Sonny’s honky-tonk for the Christmas party and Sandra just knew Rafe had himself a time there. No doubt he’d drunk a bucket of booze. Flirted with all the cooze. Had himself one bitchin’ good time. Served him right, he was sufferin’ now.

Sandra stood at the kitchen window watching Rafe flounder, She smiled, ~limp dick son-of-a-bitch, she thought. Coming on home drunk again and crawling on top of me. I thought I’d smother. Then him still on me and falling asleep. That was the last straw. He’ll never crawl into my bed again.

Sandra’s promise to herself was one she had made over and over again and one that she never kept. Rafe used her as he saw fit and she always gave in to him. He used her as a punching bag if she balked in the slightest at his demands. Slammed her around and took what he wanted. He didn’t give her needs a second’s thought. He didn’t care. She always caved in.

Sandra steeled herself. She was going to make her resolve stick this time. He wouldn’t ever ... Her thoughts were interrupted by Rafe’s hollering. “Sandy, Goddammit, there ain’t no ass wipe in here. What the fuck kind of woman don’t keep paper in the shit house.”

Sandra ignored Rafe’s bellowing. He threatened a beating. She stood fast, ignoring the threat. Rafe raged.

Finally, the outhouse door opened and the big man stood in its frame. Sandra set the telescopic crosshair of Rafe’s old 30-40 Krag on Rafe’s chest. She squeezed the trigger. A crimson flow opened on the big man’s chest. He crumpled to the snow. Sandra went outside and removed Rafe’s clothes. She left the body in the snow near the man's big red wood chipper.

In the morning Sandra sat at the kitchen table. She knew from her backwoods life experience that it would take the turkey vultures two or three days to complete their cleanup work, maybe a bit longer considering the cold air and the fact that vultures liked their meat rank. She dragged on her cigarette and smiled. Disposing of Rafe’s stripped bones would be easy.

Rafe had been a licensed plumber. If he’d ever honored his promise to build an indoor bathroom in Sandra’s old mountain cabin he’d likely still be alive. He’d still be beating on Sandra. Still be lord of the manor. Sandra lit another cigarette. Two weeks until Christmas. It would be the first time in years that Sandra would enjoy Christ's birthday. Sometimes broken promises are for the best.

Redneck's Pick-em-up Tricks

Those Calvin Decals
by GC SMITH

Calvin once complained that there were not enough Ford pickup truck rear windows in the world. He'd been pissing on Chevy and Dodges and Toyotas and Nissans from those rear windows since he first got out of diapers. Despite his Mommy's aghast horror at his behavior Calvin wanted to piss on every damn one of them. Fords are the trucks and that was his message. Guy trucks. Manly trucks. Calvin wanted the whole world to get the word and pissing on those other brands was his way of spreading the truth. That was, of course, until that fateful day when all of the Chevy, Dodge, Toyota, and Nissan truck owners banded together with scrapers. From that day forward Ford pickup windows were clean. Calvin pissed no more. I can't begin to tell you, dear reader, how pleased Calvin's mother was to no longer live with her embarrassment. Poor woman, she simply didn't know her Calvin. He'd be back. This time he was going to moon those other pickup truck drivers.

Soup's on

Jerry’s Pasta Fazoole

Sauté in a large, heavy pot 1 pound of stew beef in 1 inch cubes with three tablespoons of good quality olive oil until brown.

Add two-three chopped onions (big ones)
1 cup or more of chopped celery
1 cup or more shredded carrots

continuing sautéing for about 10-15 minutes over low heat. Add olive oil if needed.

Add 1 can of diced tomatoes
1 can of drained red kidney beans
1 can of drained white kidney beans
three cans of beef broth
1 can of plain tomato sauce
1 12 oz can of V-8 juice
6 to 8 ounces of good red wine (plus 4 for the cook)

8-10 grinds of black pepper
oregano to taste
a bunch of chopped parsley
two bay leafs
Several goodly shakes of Tabasco sauce

Simmer the soup for two hours or more. Add a half pound of pasta (I use small shells) Cook another half hour. Turn off heat and let sit all afternoon.

Hours later reheat and serve with crusty French bread, an Italian salad, and red wine.

Yummy!

Fiddle-dee-dee

Scarlet Fury
By GC SMITH

Katy’s family and friends believed that all was right in her world. Gorgeous, the child of privilege, a Juris Doctorate from Georgetown University Law School, a junior partnership in Hemphill, Baton, Goldman, Rodriguez, and O’Hara, and her life with Josh. But, for a long while all was not right in Katy's world.

The photographs were the last straw. A photo of Katy’s license plate, a mangled body, the bashed fender with blood splotches on the white paintwork of Katy’s Jaguar, a photo of Katy looking down at the body. Four photos and the blackmail note. Bogus photographs. Cleverly photo shopped forgeries of a scene that never was. Never-the-less the stuff made public could be damaging to the young lawyer.

Katy took a 1911 Colt .45 automatic from its case. Josh hadn’t for years touched the pistol that he had stolen from his long deceased uncle, a veteran of WW II. She slipped a full ammunition clip into the pistol and smiled. No one but she knew the real Josh. The humiliation he heaped on her. The squandered money. His sluts. And now this attempted extortion.

Katy could see her future. Tragedy. Josh gunned down by an unknown assailant in downtown D.C. Family and colleagues commiserating. A decent period of mourning. Then, … Katy smiled, thinking about her all time favorite novel.

“Tomorrow is another day “, she murmured.

???

I Dunno
By GC SMITH

Mighty minds
and nitwit intellects
have wrestled
with life’s
mysteries;
their conclusions,
reasoned or
pure wish
leave me
unsatisfied

I
don’t
know
from whence
I came
or where
I’ll go,
nor,
I think do you,
but I may err

Myths
may comfort
and if they
do
that is
very good
for you
who
would
accept

Science
may satisfy
some souls’ longings
for answers to
the here
the how
the why,
but answers,
to me,
beg questions

I,
for one,
accept
mysteries
that abound
on our earth
and, yes, beyond
and with comfort
will accept
my final fate

So,
as the winter’s
solstice draws near
I bid good cheer
to each and everyone;
it matter’s not
to me what
folks believe;
what’s in their hearts
is what counts

Lost in the ether

I Need A Notebook
by GC SMITH

I'm of Irish extraction and much given to words
with which I make magic, at least so I have heard

I sure hope that readers of my poems will agree
but there are some poems that they'll never see

Poems that are lost, simply dissolved in the ether,
poems made of thoughts never put down on paper

Sometimes I make strophes that I should write down
if I don't, then those verses are gone, I say, and I frown

Now, how the hell do I get that stuff back,
it's a mystery to me, I fear it always will be

Perhaps it's through the binary, Boolean bits,
Like yes and no, on and off and one and two hits

They'll process the stuff that's run through my brain,
it's in there, yet, I'm unsure I'll ever find it again

'Cause I'm sure not a computer, no, I'm flesh and bone
and If I don't put poems to paper then dammit they're gone

Cookin' today

GC's Heart Busting Beef Burgundy

Fry a pound of sliced bacon in olive oil until crisp, Remove bacon, drain over paper towels and crumble.

In the olive oil bacon drippings mixture sauté 3 pounds of 1 ½ inch squares of high quality stew beef. If at all fatty or gristly trim. Brown the meat on all sides using tongs (not a fork) to turn. The beef should be dark brown on all sides.

Remove beef and drain fat.

In the same pot sauté three medium sized onions and a half pound of carrot strips with 4 or 5 cloves of chopped garlic. Sauté until onions are soft and brown.

Pour off most of the oil/bacon drippings. Stir 4 tablespoons of all purpose flour into the sautéed veggies. Return crumbled bacon and browned beef cubes to the pot.

Stir in
2 cans of beef broth
2 cups of a good (palatable) red wine. Merlot, cabernet sauvignon, or whatever full bodied wine you prefer.
1 tablespoon of tomato paste
½ teaspoon thyme
2 bay leafs.

Bring to a boil, cut back to simmer for two, two and a half hours or until beef is tender.

Remove beef and veggies and reduce sauce until it thickens. If it gets too thick just thin out with more beef broth or wine.

Meanwhile sauté 1 pound of medium whole white mushrooms in a quarter pound of butter until soft. Toss ‘em in with the beef/veggies. Put it all back in the burgundy gravy.

Refrigerate overnight. The flavor will grow.

The next day just cook wide egg noodles and reheat the beef burgundy over a low flame.

Serve over noodles with a good, crusty French bread and red wine of your choice.

Mmmm! Good!