Simple Pleasures

A delicious little poem by my sister that you should only read if you’re prepared to salivate.

[insert clever wordplay]

Cold apple-juice my insides licks
While sour-cream of coolness tastes
And in zucchini-soup goop sticks
While down my throat the food with haste

Next radish-horse on ham and bread
And pick of veggies from the cold
If cabbage, carrot, pepper red
Or something else my mouth enfolds

Yes sir, our fridge is full of food
Like herrings in their hallowed jar
A nest of eggs in styr-form broods
And juice completes the drinking bar

A taste of yogurt, frozen fruits
And freshly apples picked (and pears)
Pink radishes and onion-roots
‘Midst carrots with their verdant hairs

I don’t aspire to gluttons’ meals
Nor in my joy deny this wealth
But since, for once, the table feels
So full I won’t raid lair or shelf

From my own kitchen to my mouth
A spice, a sauce, a green, some meat
Ring true the words “i hör ned auf”**
And so, without…

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“Your Jesus” by The Beautiful Due

This is an awesome poem I came across about who Jesus is (or isn’t). Have a read and explore this blog because it’s kind of nifty.

the beautiful due

I’m sorry but I cannot accept your Jesus.
Your Jesus is eternally afraid of things
like movies and sex and naked questions.
You’ve wrapped him in a perpetual robe of
white scripture that’s clearly too tight, and
you never let him walk without chaperones
(commonly referred to as followers).
Your Jesus is an everlastingly entitled,
pedigreed general of class warfare.
Over the years splinter groups have tried to
crucify your Jesus, yet you just keep working
your resurrection magic on that shell.
But know this – the hope is still alive, that one
of these tries the impostor will die, for good.
Then the world can watch in wonder at the one
who spins the leaves like a million chimes,
and sings a much quieter song.

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Guest Poem: “Sucking Lemons”

Today’s poem was written by my sister Miriam. I’ll be sharing some
of her talent here every now and then because it’s lovely stuff. If you thought I was good at poetry — well, think again.


Beautiful day
Turned into night
That froze us and gathered us
A bit further down
But remember warmth
And so we all sat
Sat together in rows

Sucking lemons
Bittersweet sighs
And water in my eyes
When I try to talk
But when do they hear
The rage in my voice
And hope subdued

Acid tongue
Based on the fact
That conversation lies
A little to the left
But forget the right
It’s wronged too fast
And moves too slow

Beautiful night
Turn into day
And wake and embrace me
With white-hot fingers
But forget frost
That words are stinging
And move the lonely

Counting space
Slithering time
The beat in the talk
Isn’t quite right again
But why don’t they change
The air that they breathe
And harmful words

Seen by sorrow
And I trusted
To hold my right hand
Without gripping tight
But then there’s the word
I always forget
And won’t remember

Written by Miriam Dumitra.
Image from by Christopher Jobson.

Poem in Your Pocket (Yester)Day

poeminyourpocketThe following discovery. Rocked. My world!

Apparently yesterday was Poem in Your Pocket Day – a day to appreciate poetry and to carry one around in your pocket (or share one on your blog…)

That. Is. Awesome! As a poetry fan I’m a little upset that I missed this, but I’m making up for it today. Turns out one of my odd little habits (that is to Google poetry when I’m bored) comes in handy from time to time. The following poem that I’m sharing for Poem in Your Pocket (Yester)Day is by Wendell Berry.

“The Silence” by Wendell Berry.

Though the air is full of singing
my head is loud
with the labor of words.

Though the season is rich
with fruit, my tongue
hungers for the sweet of speech.

Though the beech is golden
I cannot stand beside it
mute, but must say

“It is golden,” while the leaves
stir and fall with a sound
that is not a name.

It is in the silence
that my hope is, and my aim.
A song whose lines

I cannot make or sing
sounds men’s silence
like a root. Let me say

and not mourn: the world
lives in the death of speech
and sings there.

Emma Dumitra.
Image from
Wendell Berry’s “The Silence” taken from