following an accident some years ago in which I sustained a traumatic brain injury, I still have occasional occurrences of this weird sensation. Sometimes the trigger is different but the sensation I experience is always the same. So I wrote this Haiku style poem to express my thoughts. Red refers to color not anger. The wires it seems in my brain are crossed. Does anyone one know a telephone repair person?
I like Chinese food he said
Why’s that? He was asked
It’s got a taste, but I can’t declare
The flavour sometimes masked.
Allow me then to take you,
On a little tour
We’ll begin perhaps with India
And then Japan for more.
Refrigeration is paramount
To keep food fresh and nice
But when it gets to a certain point
You have to use some spice.
Garam Masala’s good and hot
And so is Madras curry
Important though that when you cook
Do it slowly, do not hurry.
Koreans like to pickle
And of course they serve with rice
Kim-chi is a favorite dish
But not like bread to slice
It’s hot and spicy and then fermented
Exotic food that they invented
To use the cabbages that they grow
Fields and fields, row after row
Viet-Nam has Pho, a tasty noodle soup
With chicken that comes straight from the coop
And then there’s China and its cuisine
Strange snake bile soup and owl spleen
Of course Chinese pepper has a fragrant smell
Makes many dishes go down really well
Especially when served with rice
Brings the taste to twice as nice
After China there’s Japan
Cultural creations made by man
Kaiseki, Japan’s most expensive eats
Carefully made artistic feasts
But being honest, you have a choice
Drive through a Subway and with your voice
Speak to an electronic clown
It will take your order down
And deliver it at window number two
Their creation will be made just for you.
Enjoy your sandwich, lunchtime fare
Often made with Asian care.
THE FARM
There’s a farm atop that yonder hill
An old man plies his labours still
There’s grass enough for cows to graze
And crops he tends like beans and maize
He ploughed the sod when it was new
And in its clearing, trees he hew
He settled there before the road
Before cars were a transport mode
Horses and wagons ruled back then
His eggs fresh daily from a hen
Now alas, farms are fading fast
Dim reminders of our past.
When armed with scythes upon the mow
Our wheat was cut and with a bow
The sheaves were tied with the harvest knot
And food was cooked in an iron pot.
Nowadays if by chance a farm you find
It’s probably the corporate kind
There are no people going to and fro
Just machines that make it go
There are no farmers on the land
No more cow-men close at hand
And farmers’ wives are long-gone too
A dying kind, it’s sad but true.
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