gorgonzola

Gorgonzola

      a poem by Vicki Patschke

Stepping up 

to the counter 

I declare my 

menu choice.  

“Gorgonzola salad, please.”

“Gorgonzola?” 

“Yes, Gorgonzola.”  

A wondrous word

so guttural 

so satisfying 

on the tongue.  

Sometimes I use my 

deep, throaty voice

enunciating 

ever so 

slowly

 “GOR. . . GON. . . ZO . . . LA.”  

Sometimes I 

emphasize 

just one syllable. 

“GOR-gonzola.”   

“Gor-GON-zola.”  

“Gorgon-ZO-la.”

I savor the sounds.  

They tantalize my tastebuds 

and tickle awake my fantasies.  

They are the 

bold brash brazen 

syllables 

of Greek gods, goblins and 

dragon conquest.

The young barista 

oblivious to my glee

hollers back 

toward the kitchen

“One Gorgonzola salad!”

“With vinaigrette dressing?” 

a voice calls in reply.

“Yes!  Vinaigrette,” 

I say, 

stretching out the word.  

“V I - nai - G R E T T E 

dressing.  

On the side 

of my GOR-gon-ZO-la salad, 

please.”

tim'rous beastie

This is supposed to depict a field mouse looking out of its nest. It's a corrugated-cardboard etegami-collage for my father-in-law, in honor of his Scottish roots and because he is a great fan of Robert Burns, widely regarded as the national poet of Scotland. The verse comes from Burns' oft-quoted poem To a Mouse, on Turning Her Up in Her Nest with the Plough. I've posted the first stanza below, in Burns' original Scots, and the same stanza rewritten in standard English. You can find the complete version of both by clicking this link to Simple English Wikipedia.


(original Scots) 

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty
Wi bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murdering pattle. 
 
(standard English) 

Small, crafty, cowering, timorous little beast,
O, what a panic is in your little breast!
You need not start away so hasty
With argumentative chatter!
I would be loath to run and chase you,
With murdering plough-staff.

the call won't come, i won't be the one

I Told Me So

I know, I know
I won't get my wish
The call won't come
I won't be the one.
Just sit back and sigh
As more chances go by --
See?  I told me so.

No hopes to dash
No hills to climb
No dreams to break
No chance to fail
No pain, no crying
Much easier than trying.
See?  I told me so.

I'm always right
So rarely wrong
No use stringing
My hopes along
No sweat, no strain
No fret, no pain
Just wait -- wait --
Wait --
Till it's too late.

Ha!  I told me so.

(This is a tongue-in-cheek poem by Vicki Patschke, written to poke fun at herself. But I was moved by it, as I am with all her poems. To see more of our etegami-poem collaborations click here and here)