Don’t be surprised to find a set of pipes in your hand and an overwhelming urge to blow. After a year’s hiatus, maybe more, I’m ready to start blah-blah-blogging again, and happily many things have changed since I followed a half goat-half man into the woods at my old website www.elainestirling.com and didn’t know what to say next.
I still don’t know what to say next, and you know what? It doesn’t matter. Because during that hiatus, enough wonderful, crazy things happened to persuade me that goal-setting and visualizing, all those “process” things aren’t what they are cracked up to be. Also, our world is blessed with a writer named Tom Robbins who sits at his desk five days a week, creating the world’s most extraordinary novels without knowing what he’s going to say.
That I happen to be reading the part of Jitterbug Perfume where a satyr enters the story is the kind of superimposition I want to explore here at Oceantics. This will be a space about having fun while adding to the store of personal power we were born with, and learned to push away for a gazillion reasons that all come down to one. I will include poetry, my own, because I have learned to love the craft, and because the Latin origin of the word satire means “poetic medley” or . . . get this, a dish filled with various fruits.
“What’s for dessert?”
“Satire, dear.”
“Lovely. Pass the custard sauce, will you?”
Of course I know that the world doesn’t need more blogsays (blog+essay, plural), but I also believe that the world we think we live in doesn’t know what it needs, so every little bit of ourselves that we reclaim helps. And with that, I shall leave you with a tasty bit of rhyme and hopes that you will enjoy Oceantics as much as I intend to enjoy playing here.
Great Big Buffet
I brewed a pot of worry
on a phosphorescent stove
with potatoes of calamity
from Farmer Beaton’s grove.
***
I stirred a heap of troubles
so they wouldn’t overboil
but stirrin’ made me weary
and my life became a toil.
***
I thought I’d be appeasin’
with my ear pressed to the ground
but all I heard was wheezin’
where’s the reason to be found?
***
Your democrats, your publicans,
the liberals and cons
they’re soundin’ all the same to me
a-gurglin’ in their ponds.
***
Whoever wins there’ll be a heap
of aggravated fish
a-snappin’ at the chance
to overturn the supper dish.
***
These stones and votes I will not cast
but not for lack of carin’
this soup I stir is made of love
I’ve added peace for sharin’.
***
If you would bring the lightening
another bring the pone
we’ll have ourselves a heap of fun
continuing this poem
***
that’s made up of humanity
the whole darned human race
we’ll toss out animosity
and bow our heads for grace:
***
Dear Lord, thank you for
this great big buffet with
room and plenty for all.
Amen.
© Elaine Stirling, 2012
Oceantics 
Brava Elaine!!!
LikeLike
Thank you, Gavriel’s Muse! I’m honoured that you’ve dropped by, and I look forward to saying more about a certain poet in the near future.
LikeLike
“croac”… dont banish me from your table dear Princess…
LikeLike
Hello dear Barbara, no banishments in this kingdom…queendom, only the expansion of imagination. Even frog princes are allowed if they clean up after themselves.
LikeLike
croak croak… Give me a kiss now…OH what do I see… ti’s le the “elected one”…/ http://thesleeplessreader.files.wordpress.com/2012/01/midsummer.jpg
LikeLike
Don’t believe what you see, the donkey’s head is just like me…”CROAC” … DELUSION will never set us free!
LikeLike
very amusing: I’m reading this poem from below until the top:::it works:
Dear Lord, thank you for
this great big buffet with
room and plenty for all
that’s made up of humanity
the whole darned human race
we’ll toss out animosity
and bow our heads for grace:
Your democrats, your publicans,
the liberals and cons
they’re soundin’ all the same to me
a-gurglin’ in their ponds.
I thought I’d be appeasin’
with my ear pressed to the ground
but all I heard was wheezin’
where’s the reason to be found?
These stones and votes I will not cast
but not for lack of carin’
this soup I stir is made of love
I’ we’ll have ourselves a heap of fun
ve added peace for sharing’
Whoever wins there’ll be a heap
of aggravated fish
a-snappin’ at the chance
to overturn the supper dish.
I stirred a heap of troubles
so they wouldn’t overboil
but stirrin’ made me weary
and my life became a toil.
Great Big Buffet
I brewed a pot of worry
on a phosphorescent stove
with potatoes of calamity
from Farmer Beaton’s grove.”
LikeLike
IF A SATYRE BURPS IN THE FOREST DOES ANYONE HEAR?
A SEPTIME FOR ELAINE
Lets bow our heads though we know not which way is up
And under write our swallows with acceptance of all that succors us
And from that which others draw nourishment, let that be digested too
And let us remember in due course all bellies that are not fed
Plant some fertile seeds that laugh away all the blues
On tables of rejubulated smiles that quake all fears to shards
And glue them again together with the dust that we all share.
All free birds shall fly and edges of their domain share
Knowing open beaks of all colored feathers are well fed.
Barriers of equitable distribution lie in antiquated shards
Broken by a common meeting of sharply denturated us
And that knows where down is and which direction’s up
And nurtures brightness everywhere instead of blues
And the table is set for those who are wrong too.
With stone soup creation all for sure will be fed
All hungry stomachs will be at last filled up
And every hungry heart will have had their share
Rainbows will take the place of all cloudy blues
And each isolated I will be an integral part of us
And the roots that separated them shall be too
And served from whole vessels made of scattered shards.
And all jibbers and jabbers are a mix of reds and blues
If only they could see they all are only purple too
Then perhaps there’d be enough that all are filled and fed
And bowls and plates would gather whole again from shards
Because wealth increases for all when all do their share
By feeding first ourselves we can nourish the greater us
And by that unity of effort we will all be lifted up.
A brand new vessel holding all of us
Is born when we recombine all shards
And to our lips lift the full cup up
And drink of the nectar we all share
And the plates on the table are all filled too
Insuring each and every mouth is fed
That pain of hunger no longer sings the blues.
I will bring the lightening that shatters hate to shards
I shall bring the thunder that dares all hearts to share
I will stomp the vintages of whites and reds and blues
And pour the single purple liquid that quenches all thirsts too
And make sure before I eat a single bite that all of us are fed
And make sure that all of those who once were down are up–
What’s inside of me reflects the outside of all of us.
When all heads held aloft with pride are bowed and humble too
And whole purple breaths part into red and white and blues
And we know that I can be I and still be part of us
And clasped hands are judged not for pointing down or up
And the scattered dust of all the shards
Satiates the common hunger we all share
Let us never rest till then, until all of us are fed
Share what you have though it only be a shard
Even your blues will help all to be fully fed–
They too will help fill us all a little further up.
D. Russel Micnhimer 9-6-12
LikeLike
Russel, I enjoy the optimism and the tone of respect in this septime. The alliterations and polarized word choices support the message, while maintaining the light-hearted nature of true satire. I appreciate your writing and posting.
LikeLike