"Mashed potatoes." - Owlet The peel comes off in ribboned brown and cream. Bright knives slice tuber into two-inch hunks. A pot of water bubbles, sends up steam, Just full enough to barely cover chunks. Add onion, quartered, to the boiling pot, While in the oven wrapped in silver foil A head of garlic roasting sweet and hot (In just a tiny bit of olive oil). When soft enough to yield at slightest touch Remove them both from heat and then combine; Add milk for creaminess (but not too much!), And mash them as desired, coarse or fine. Serve hot with butter or with melted cheese, And praise the Maker for such gifts as these. ----- "Um ... enlightened despotism." -Jesse Dangerously You little people who oppose my will, Accusing me of tyranny and worse, Why must you all assume I mean you ill? -- I merely wish to rule the universe. And be assured, I mean to rule it well, With human rights and justice and so on; What pleasure could I take in ruling hell And knowing what my throne is built upon? No, no indeed, I am not such a fool; I mean to be benevolent and wise, And raise up those whose work supports my rule And make my world a living paradise. Why give the people reason to rebel? -- Trust me, my friends: I mean to rule it well. ----- "The fibonacci sequence." -Jesse Dangerously, cheating by asking twice in a row Me: Um ... what's the fibonacci sequence? Owlet: Pssst, Toon: it's math. A merchant in the thirteenth century (Whose mind was of a mathematic frame) A question posed on rabbits breeding free, Produced the sequence that now bears his name. A string of numbers infinitely long, Each one the sum of the preceding pair - As beautifully simple as a song, Or smoke that spirals outward in the air. Did Fibonacci guess, or could he know, What properties his sequence seems to hold On how a spiral nautilus will grow Or on aesthetics of the Greeks of old? I disliked numbers til by sheerest chance I saw them catch hands, form a chain, and dance. ----- "Write a sonnet about HOW it is you write such wonderful sonnets." -Purple Smurf Sometimes it's swift as thought: a single phrase Will streak across the inside of my head, Then rhyming lines fall neatly into place And rhythm rolls out smooth as any thread. Then there are times it's harder work than that To make the sonnet go as I intend; As independent-minded as a cat, It has its own ideas about the end. And there are times, of course, it's harder still, When all the words I want refuse to fit, The sonnet stubbornly resists my will And comes out nothing like I wanted it. Ah well; at least it's done, though not a gem. (Oh, that last kind? Yes, this is one of them.) Back to Scribblings.