Toast

Toast

A pop-up toaster was the thing
you put the slice into the slot
depressed the little knobby thing
and out popped toast, so nice and hot.

But word of toasters got around
in homes and shops a bread revolt
in bakeries throughout the town
loaves named it torture with a jolt.

“We will not take it any more.
We’ll blacken, catch and when you poke
to get us out the bottom door
we’ll burn your hands and bellow smoke!”

Till all the world became intent
on crispy toast that would not shred
and loved the man who did invent
(to pacify both man and bread)
the toaster oven tanning bed.

© 2012 by Violet Nesdoly

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Pure silliness, I know. I wrote this poem in 2009, when I was challenging myself to write poems about various objects.

This poem is linked to Poetry Friday, hosted this week by Carol at Carol’s Corner.

The Sisterhood

This year’s hanging baskets

Perhaps it’s because of my name that I feel such a kinship with flowers. I notice them like my husband notices vintage cars. Their colorful allure tugs at my camera — snap, snap, adjust, focus …snap. I need to own them, take them home.

There I parade them on my computer screen in all their bearded, belled and bonneted beauty.  I enlarge them to look deep inside their secret rooms. I admire this pink rhodo’s wine freckles and that one’s variegated peach-to-cream petals. My currant’s blossoms have blood-red anthers on needle-slim stamens. These hydrangeas are filigree that could tiara a bride. Jester tulips and pinwheel petunias make me grin. And see those magnolias? They’re opening like one peels a banana!

I spend a couple of garden hours on Saturday settling Impatiens, Nicotiana and Dusty Miller for the summer. After the long winter exile, it feels like a family reunion.

© 2012 by Violet Nesdoly

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I wrote this prose poem for my Volta poetry group last spring (when we set ourselves a prose poem assignment). I planted this year’s garden last Friday and felt the same sense of kinship.

This poem is submitted to Poetry Friday, hosted this week by Linda at TeacherDance.

Mrs. Backward

Mrs. Backward

Mrs. Backward teaches school
“Nothing Forward” is her rule
Eats her breakfast before bed
Sleeps with pillow on her head
Wears warm woollies to keep cool
Dries before she swims the pool
Gives the prize before the race
Shuts her book then finds her place
Grades our work before we’re done
Class dismissed before begun
But what is making me depressed
Teaches after giving tests!

- Violet Nesdoly

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This is a poem I wrote a few years ago after reading some of the fun poetry on Ken Nesbitt’s Poetry 4 Kids site, and then taking a peek at his poetry lessons. I have never done anything with it, so I’m trotting it out today as my contribution to Poetry Friday, hosted this week at Write. Sketch. Repeat.

Cream

Cream

I pass ivory tulips this morning
and think of Aunt Sally
“Let’s go out and shop for cream”
she’d say each fall and spring
She meant the color cream
oyster, mushroom, buff or biscuit
not stark or pure but antique
the perfect tone of white
for milky skin, honey-blonde hair
to complement the gold
that clipped her ears
encircled fingers
dangled from her arms

Understated, elegant
sophisticated cream
wrapped her in ecru sweaters
and khaki pants
beige blouses and oatmeal skirts
a camel coat and pumps of taupe
glamorized always
with pearl-pinned scarves
that haloed and framed her face
with the sheerest of champagne

© 2012 by Violet Nesdoly