“The French Confection”
The baker stands at the door to the kitchen,
A tried but satisfied smile on his face.
Inside the large mixer sings as butter smooth as silk spills over the sides.
Under the display case, the aroma of freshly baked breakfast foods wafts through the bakery.
Croussaints, danish, sticky buns, brioche, cinnamon twists, palmiers, muffins, turnovers, biscotti, macaroons, are all there.
In the mornings, the new croussaints, fresh out of the oven, are pulled off the pans. Melted strawberry leaks out of a strawberry-cream cheese crouissant.
The baker, in his white hat and white uniform, squeezes buttercream onto a cake. Rich chocolate ganache is poured over the cake. Kiwis and strawberries are also perfectly sliced to be arranged on the fruit tarts.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Poem Emulation: "Reluctance" by Robert Frost, emulated by Meredith Black
"Reluctance" by Robert Frost
Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?
"Self-deception" by Meredith Black
Ah, when to the folly of man
Was it ever less than a victory
To trade commitment for boundlessness
To believe freedom has no responsibility,
And to live a life alone
Without love or liberty?
Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?
"Self-deception" by Meredith Black
Ah, when to the folly of man
Was it ever less than a victory
To trade commitment for boundlessness
To believe freedom has no responsibility,
And to live a life alone
Without love or liberty?
Poem" "Rain art" By Meredith Black
Sometimes I am as solitary as the rain,
which falls and melts in puddles before
its shapes can ever be seen.
Other times I listen to sounds of the rain-song:
It is like pin drops on the tin roof;
The rain hits holes in the ground.
In many ways my heart is like a gentle rain.
Falling between the cracks, I am lost;
I change shapes to do my art.
which falls and melts in puddles before
its shapes can ever be seen.
Other times I listen to sounds of the rain-song:
It is like pin drops on the tin roof;
The rain hits holes in the ground.
In many ways my heart is like a gentle rain.
Falling between the cracks, I am lost;
I change shapes to do my art.
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