Porridge in the Pot, by Susan Lesser

At my house we call oatmeal “porridge.” True, it is the same gluey, colorless stuff as oatmeal, but somehow it seems tastier if it is assigned this rather British moniker. Instead of scooping a blob of goop out of the pot that still has most of its wooden handle, and hearing that blob land with a squdging sound in the cereal bowl with the chipped edge . . . . and instead of splashing in some milk that will never mix in properly until the entire dish is too cold to bother with . . . . and instead of looking about for a bit of sugar and finding only the canister of white crystals left over from Christmas baking efforts . . . . instead of that sort of oatmeal-related disappointment, porridge arrives with a certain proud sense of itself. This can be dangerous.

Porridge, once let in the door, threatens to run away with its own self-image, flaunt itself, and make fun of ordinary domestic life. Porridge may insist on arriving at the table in a bowl festooned with images of rose blooms and forget-me-nots. Porridge demands the milk be heated and served in a small porcelain pitcher with a gold band around the top. The sugar is not to be lowly brown sugar, but demerara sugar that twinkles as you shake it onto the porridge from the monogrammed silver spoon.

Of course, if you welcome this transformation of oatmeal into porridge, you will need to hire a butler. His name is Winchester, and he will deliver your porridge to you on a tray. Okay, let’s just admit it is a silver tray.. Also on that tray will be a small cut-glass bowl of wild strawberries gathered from the woods behind the stables. You will find coffee that gurgles gently from a silver-domed coffee pot. Perhaps best of all, there is a single pink rose in a bud vase in the upper left corner of the tray. The blossom was picked just as the sun rose over the conservatory and still carries three sparkling drops of dew on it petals. This is how porridge takes over a breakfast table.

I am pleased to report that I have succeeded in keeping the porridge at my house under control. I do this by using Quaker Quick Oats (never the instant variety) and cooking it for two minutes in the ticking microwave. Sometimes in a fit of pique, the bowl boils over and makes a terrible mess. I say “Dammit! You are acting like a bowl of oatmeal!” And I shove a bagel into the toaster.

So you have been warned. Beware of humble foodstuffs putting on airs! All the same, I will continue to contend that a bowl of porridge is a much more pleasant way to start the day that a bowl of oatmeal could ever be.

I Am Waiting, by Maureen Owens

for spring
the snow to stop
to melt
unveil the mud,
the mud to dry
the right moment
to remove
the snow tires
put away
the sweaters
and fleece,
park the boots,
plant the garden.
Waiting
Waiting
waiting for the alarm
for dogs to stir
coffee to finish
my turn in the shower
the car to warm.
Waiting for the computer
the emails, the replies
the issues of the day.
Waiting for lunch
for a run, a walk,
the sun, a breeze.
Waiting to leave,
To drive and arrive,
for joyful dogs
waiting to bolt.
Waiting for dinner
waiting for bed,
the sweetness
of sheets and blankets
cotton on skin
release and surrender,
exquisite not-waiting.

Edible Haiku, by Caroline Gates-Lupton

decaying leaves
dark earth
white, wild strawberries

trees in bloom
scattered apples
night falls — deer come

clattering on the porch
a light goes on
deer in the pumpkins

twilight
fresh compost
two fawns, one doe

making hand pies
my sister
the sugar monster

ithaca parade
i’m told
i have enough candy

birthday party
soda, apple juice
i cry for water

cows don’t realize —
grass
is not delicious

dandelion heads
eat them, she says
too fluffy for me

marshmallow on a stick
burning, falling
tiny explosion

green flames
consume
the pasta box

my sister, pasta queen
the box says ten minutes
she says five

homemade whipped cream
warm summer night
strawberries

pancakes
a dinner food
in my family

container of blueberries
fresh from the store
gone in a day

my great-grandmother’s
marinara sauce
gone, forever

vegan
no more honey
on buttered toast

food for thought:
what
does ink taste like?

Quan Yin, by Rob Sullivan

She is the embodiment
the essence distilled
the deity made manifest
living, breathing incarnation
of compassion boundless, with no end

She is the comforter
the healer and changer
of hearts and minds
of obstacles and veils
the clear seeing truth sayer
the ever patient, always caring
for continual awakening experience

She is the beloved
sought for wise guidance
and skillful means
the object of subject devotion
and life giving gratitude

She is the esoteric
made simple, real and plain
the kind and gentle guide
on the path to enlightenment
beyond old age, sickness, birth and death
through illusion of duality
towards a loving embrace
of her wise ways of the feminine

She is the ah yes!
the aha! the eureka!
the yes! the now I see!
the all is well!
the what will be, will be!
the love reign o'er me!
the compassion awakens!

Labyrinth, by Stacey Murphy

While only the stars watch
I walk the labyrinth
Palming the rock
Inhaling pine scent from the trees
And worm scent from the morning rain
The clouds now a memory
The sky bright tonight
Glinting off a shell on the path —

A shell.
And I smell something else
Sea beneath my feet
A mile down, maybe more
The remnants of life before
Bones of the tiny beings
And the giant creatures,
The ones who would have engulfed me
Laid my soul bare
Divinely ravaged.

And yet I walk
Back and forth on the path
Into the middle, leave the rock
Back out again
A slower unraveling
The stars so old
Their light taking so long
To hit this shell on this path
Everything winding back
To the need for patience.