| || whisk, knock, bucket, colder, "woodchuck" it.
Image from the Internet.
The opening poem contains all the words (or variations of them) from today's Jumble.
Comments are welcomed! And couching them in Poetry is definitely NOT required.
Do not explicitly reveal any of the actual answer words until after closing time, but embedding them surreptitiously in comment sentences is encouraged.
15 comments:
I needed the clues for this solution, but with all the letters available, it came fairly easily. It is a cute play on words, but I keep hoping there'll be an actual pun for a solution sometime soon.
The clues were no problem. I do wonder who were the people peering in and why they were doing that. Anybody?
Just a crazy WAG, Sandy, but as today (Feb. 2) happens to be Groundhog Day, I'm guessing those are the dignitaries awaiting the appearance of Punxsutawney Phil for the usual ceremonies.
Will he show his shadow... Or--?
~ OMK
Oh, of course! Thanks, OMK.
No problemo, Sandy.
"Would You Chuck 'em?"
A bucket of ice keeps beer cold enough
for any decent purpose, I've found.
Any colder, and it's likely to call your bluff.
I mean it. Don't knock it. In Williamstown,
in the Berkshires, I left a crate of Guinness
to cool on my porch a few hours.
'Twas a snowy night. The gods'll bear witness
before I could whisk 'em inside, the bottles,
the twelve, they was all burst
the worst for me thirst!
~ OMK
Since Phil when he went to "Chuck" the trash would not have seen his shadow today it means six more weeks for you northerners. Our "freeze"* here in FLA should abate by SB day.
Getting six J's as Sandy said maid the riddle-solution easy with the CK and W.
I had a lot of trouble grok'ing PLURAL FLN. I needed the letters from the riddle-solution (P,A,L) and their location.
WC
* See my CC note re. Florida Cold. And also, SECT arrived today after my Buzz,Fuzz,Children of the Elect(FLN)
As we're PG, I rhymed it with "Dessert".
In my ongoing attempts at a better, more perfect union of meter to meaning, allow me to insert two additional words between the final two lines (making them three) of my morning poem.
The concluding four lines now read:
'Twas a snowy night. The gods'll bear witness
before I could whisk 'em inside, the bottles,
the twelve, they was all burst--
frozen, accursed!--
the worst for me thirst.
~ OMK
"Bad Dad"
Kathy's father would always scold her
which made her feel sadder and colder.
On her door he would loudly knock,
which she was glad she could lock.
Their exchanges were testy and brisk,
so through her chores she would whisk.
Burdened with rags and a bucket,
she decided in time she would chuck it.
Since she had now turned eighteen,
she could leave home quick and clean.
Her new life was good and on track
and she never ever looked back.
A good one, Misty ~
I feel for your dear Kathy but was glad at the close you were able to bless her with a trademark happy ending.
Brava!
Still, it is always possible to see the other side of the matter...
Kathy's poor father, Sad Jack,
couldn't bring himself to acknowledge a lack
of that sweetness of language he needed
to express his love. He conceded
he too often covered inadequacy
with blustering expletives, hence "Bad Daddy!" He
ended up abandoned
by the child his happiness might stand on.
~ OMK
Ol' Man Keith, you are certainly in terrific poetic mode this morning. Two interesting versions of the the sorrows of beer on cold, snowy nights. You'd think they'd heat up some cocoa instead.
And then a surprise: your version of how "Bad Dad" wasn't such a bad guy after all, and deserves some sympathy. We should send Kathy a note and tell her to give poor Jack a break. But can we be sure he won't start scolding her all over again?
Yeah, he'll probably light into her again. He is sorry, but it's too deeply engrained to expect a quick fix.
He'd promise to work on it, but she'd have to be very forbearing and forgiving for the foreseeable future.
Yeah, no. It's asking too much of her. She needs to get on with her life.
But she might spare a kind thought for him and send him cards on his birthday and holidays.
As Chekhov made abundantly clear, people are too complex to resolve their conflicting sides to favor the nicer aspects.
Maybe she could offer a short visit now and then, and he could slip her some money to make it worth her while.
Y'know.
People.
~ OMK
A cattle camp cook is a challenging job.
The drivers can be a threatening mob!
They'll knock the cooking if it ain't "gourmet",
And want cold coffee hotter at close of day!
When he first tried baking, he took a risk
On learning first hand how to use a whisk.
He mixed up the dough in a washed out bucket,
Since he hadn't a bowl in his wagon chuck kit.
The cook is expected to chop the wood
To keep the fire hot enough to cook good.
But there's satisfaction in a bean-y "buffet",
Otherwise, the job, he just would chuck it!
Yeah, yeah, I'm 19 hours late today. Normally I'd just chuck it if I was this late. But I'm feeling guilty.
BTW, FLN, Keith, thanks for those recommendations on Yeats. "The Second Coming" was great, source for phrases I was familiar with, but hadn't known where they came from. The meaning was clear, and elucidated my own philosophical leanings!
"Easter, 1916" was a disappointment, tho. Disjointed, and vague ephemeral referenced that had outlived their meanings. I even tried reading an article explaining it, but still didn't interest me.
Owen, your works are always worth reading, late or early, here or on the Corner.
We appreciate your verses, Owen, no matter how early or late.
Today's chuck wagon special reminds us that even the lowliest kitchen offers opportunity for an artistic soul.
No matter how hard the tasks or menial the chores, a creative spirit will find its "satisfaction."
I'm glad you enjoyed & found the beauty in The Second Coming. It offers a special message in the most compelling language.
I may have grown fond of the Easter poem through emotional association with the Easter Rebellion.
For many years I thought I had Irish ancestry. I love the plays of Sean O'Casey & other writers of the era. I've been to Dublin, to the GPO. I know the lives of Pearse and Connolly and the other martyrs.
In a way, the joke was on me. Turns out I am not Irish. My mother had bad information from her adoptive mom, her aunt (her father's sister), who had a poor understanding of her deceased sister-in-law's parentage.
(My mother's biological parents died from the Spanish Flu a month after she was born in 1918.)
The poor clues I had persisted until about ten years ago. Then I signed onto Ancestry, and through other families' trees learned some of my maternal grandma's history.
And I took a spit test.
At first Ancestry confirmed that I was indeed Irish--nearly 50%.
But No-ooo! Whoa! Hold yer horses! What they meant to say is that I have Celtic blood, because my grandma was Welsh, and her husband, my grandpa, was Cornish!
They were indeed Celts. Those aren't the same as Irish, although Ancestry interpreted my spit DNA that way.
Anyway, this is a roundabout way of 'splaining how my "Irish connection" may have warmed me to Easter 1916 more than it deserves.
~ OMK
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