Prompt - Cups & Plates
If the cups, plates and bowls in your cupboard could talk, what stories would they tell?
When he takes us out he's never kind
We are constantly bruised and left behind
Ans sometimes are numbers are reduced
Cause he's heavy handed and we get quite abused!
But when she enters our cupbaoard sweet,
She decorates us with fine foods and delicious treats!
She cleans us gently before and after
She compliments to her company
And on the richly dressed table we linger
For hours listening to music and poetry!
She confides her secrets to us
She truly cherishes dearly.
But he's a rogue
He uses us as weapons
He batters us like tools
Why he actual distains us like ignorant mules!
And for us she's paid
A pretty penny!
Always,
Karen
July 9, 2008
We are constantly bruised and left behind
Ans sometimes are numbers are reduced
Cause he's heavy handed and we get quite abused!
But when she enters our cupbaoard sweet,
She decorates us with fine foods and delicious treats!
She cleans us gently before and after
She compliments to her company
And on the richly dressed table we linger
For hours listening to music and poetry!
She confides her secrets to us
She truly cherishes dearly.
But he's a rogue
He uses us as weapons
He batters us like tools
Why he actual distains us like ignorant mules!
And for us she's paid
A pretty penny!
Always,
Karen
July 9, 2008
3 months ago
Nice assignment and the first response was great.
I have the day off so will write a piece for this in the afternoon.
I have the day off so will write a piece for this in the afternoon.
3 months ago
So good Karen! What a powerful message you have conveyed. I'm still waiting for inspiration......
3 months ago
How beautiful! a deft touch with language which still packs an emotional punch! AWESOME!
3 months ago
My former wife and i used to collect coffee mugs.
We saved all kinds . I bought her home made pottery ones and her and the kids bought me ones with sayings or Muppet Mugs because I used to do Muppetry.
One time when we moved to a New town we had friends over from my job.
When we were about to have coffee i jokingly said we do a psychological test on visitors allowing them to choose a mug and then the mug would tell us who they were.
Sharon who i worked with was quite a joker and she chose Miss Piggie.
Her husband ( who we kater found out was proper and anal) decided not to have any coffee and would not take a mug.
What was meant as a joke turned out to be very revealing.
I now drink my coffee out of a mug my daughter decorated for me with my granddaughters picture or a Montreal Canadiens mug. She has prom,ised to buy me a Patriots Mug for football season.
We saved all kinds . I bought her home made pottery ones and her and the kids bought me ones with sayings or Muppet Mugs because I used to do Muppetry.
One time when we moved to a New town we had friends over from my job.
When we were about to have coffee i jokingly said we do a psychological test on visitors allowing them to choose a mug and then the mug would tell us who they were.
Sharon who i worked with was quite a joker and she chose Miss Piggie.
Her husband ( who we kater found out was proper and anal) decided not to have any coffee and would not take a mug.
What was meant as a joke turned out to be very revealing.
I now drink my coffee out of a mug my daughter decorated for me with my granddaughters picture or a Montreal Canadiens mug. She has prom,ised to buy me a Patriots Mug for football season.
3 months ago
Dishes
My mother's wedding dishes
she always hated them
her mother bought them in 1950
from a traveling salesman
My grandmother's china from 1928: delicate
bohemian china orchid or iris
the artist never decided
the 1950's gift stoneware served many bowls
of pasitelle, pasta, many soups
roasts sliced on the platter with the
smoothed handles
And Then
THE HARVARD PLATES
Wedgwood
Souvenirs of my stepfather's time in Cambridge
and his blood oath; crimson!
What do with all these dishes? Some I like
some I don't.
How do I trash my heritage...
My child had abandoned me
as I will probably
abandon the dishes.
My mother's wedding dishes
she always hated them
her mother bought them in 1950
from a traveling salesman
My grandmother's china from 1928: delicate
bohemian china orchid or iris
the artist never decided
the 1950's gift stoneware served many bowls
of pasitelle, pasta, many soups
roasts sliced on the platter with the
smoothed handles
And Then
THE HARVARD PLATES
Wedgwood
Souvenirs of my stepfather's time in Cambridge
and his blood oath; crimson!
What do with all these dishes? Some I like
some I don't.
How do I trash my heritage...
My child had abandoned me
as I will probably
abandon the dishes.
3 months ago
Wow! I am humbled by these responses rich in detail and history: memories and associations dished up along with the pasta and served with the coffee. Karen...your study in contrasts between battle and nurture packs such emotional power! Eyes...your description of the "personality picks" game is like a story within the story of this prompt. And Rise...your ending pulled it all together: heritage undeniable, whether or not we pitch the plates.
It's such pure pleasure to write in your collective company!
It's such pure pleasure to write in your collective company!
3 months ago
BOWLS
In my cupboard lives a family of unrelated bowls.
One set of four, imperfectly nested and each a different
color on the inside and out, bear a related birthmark:
lively black spiral at the center to rise up singing
once the soup or cereal is gone.
Another set of four are the black tulips, perfect parallel
to the white tulip bowls my husband had used for rice
before we ever met – and kept for rice these many
years since we have parted.
Four glass bowls, plain and clear, are unremarkable
except for the faintly etched line at their base which
notes that they were made in France: utilitarian
with a certain je ne sais quoi.
And then there are the oddballs: small butter bowls
from Bennington Potters, tiny vessels for tiny tastes;
Pyrex custard cups suitable for baking;
two oversized blue leftover bowls from a leftover lover;
a black soup dish with handle, whose moon face
peers through the dark broth to wink at stars;
a teal-blue-purple bowl curved into being by hand
from a slab of clay, perfectly uneven;
a lone cranberry-red sale table 50-cent gem;
two crazy Holstein cows who gave up their
spots to play the ice cream circuit; and a
wood-fired redware soup dish from the potter
at Old Sturbridge Village, whose craft and care
transport me back across the centuries.
More bowls than I would ever need to feed those
who might share a meal around my table, each
marks its rightful spot on the family tree
whose roots have spread wide to encompass
my bowls’ makers and takers, memories’ sheen
reflected in their divine and varying glazes.
In my cupboard lives a family of unrelated bowls.
One set of four, imperfectly nested and each a different
color on the inside and out, bear a related birthmark:
lively black spiral at the center to rise up singing
once the soup or cereal is gone.
Another set of four are the black tulips, perfect parallel
to the white tulip bowls my husband had used for rice
before we ever met – and kept for rice these many
years since we have parted.
Four glass bowls, plain and clear, are unremarkable
except for the faintly etched line at their base which
notes that they were made in France: utilitarian
with a certain je ne sais quoi.
And then there are the oddballs: small butter bowls
from Bennington Potters, tiny vessels for tiny tastes;
Pyrex custard cups suitable for baking;
two oversized blue leftover bowls from a leftover lover;
a black soup dish with handle, whose moon face
peers through the dark broth to wink at stars;
a teal-blue-purple bowl curved into being by hand
from a slab of clay, perfectly uneven;
a lone cranberry-red sale table 50-cent gem;
two crazy Holstein cows who gave up their
spots to play the ice cream circuit; and a
wood-fired redware soup dish from the potter
at Old Sturbridge Village, whose craft and care
transport me back across the centuries.
More bowls than I would ever need to feed those
who might share a meal around my table, each
marks its rightful spot on the family tree
whose roots have spread wide to encompass
my bowls’ makers and takers, memories’ sheen
reflected in their divine and varying glazes.
3 months ago
We made a long and harrowing trip over the ocean from Czechoslovakia. Some of us are plain, somes fancy, most servicable. We are cut chrystal, hand blown glass and beautiful china and porcelain. One handle was broken and found in the bottom of the barrel we all shared. The hand crafted Christmas ornaments also shared our space and we were gald to make room. Cake plates, dessert dishes, vegetable servers, long stemmed wine glasses along with beer mugs nestled among us and we were thankful. We left one heritage to make another and are prized treasures that are still loved, honored and cherished.
3 months ago
Hey there, LadyShalott -- good to read you! And I can see so clearly that barrel you describe, dishes carefully packed, the delicate objects surviving a wild toss across the sea. A good friend of mine here is an artist from the Czech Republic -- a painter who comes from 14 generations of castle painters in the old country. He has just a few objects that made it out with him, and they rest on a shrine of sorts which he has created in his studio. Your dishes made that picture even clearer for me...thanks!
3 months ago
