Your prompt word this week is
DANCE
I’ve never been much good at dancing – it doesn’t help if you have balance issues and two left feet! But I admire those who can dance – on the ground, on ice or in the air! And it doesn’t have to be humans doing the dancing – flowers dance in the breeze, sunbeams dance in the light and animals have dance rituals they move through. What about the different types of dance – from ballet, to ballroom, to Latin, to the moonwalk, to Gangnam Style. What does this week’s prompt mean to you?
Fact or fiction, prose or poetry, I would love to read your thoughts on this week’s prompt, but there’s no obligation to share your writing. Here is the work you shared on the last prompt TASTE.
The Taste of Rock
Hemmed in by tall trees
on every side, my gaze
hungers for a horizon.
I might as well be toothless
in this bland land, all grits
and greens, my eyes starve
for a glimpse of mountains,
I pine for the sharp taste of rock.
Lacking A Taste For Mushy Stuff
So I told him it’s better to write
a love poem than whine through the night.
But his taste wasn’t for
all that mushy stuff or
he got wrong what he wouldn’t get right.
Tony:
Life is greedy,
The world bursts against my teeth, bitter and splendid, and I drink its fury until intoxication. Nothing is pale, nothing is docile, everything has the lively taste of new blood and dangerous promises.
I want the taste of endless roads, the taste of kisses that defy the laws, the taste of the sky when it opens like a bright plague over cities.
My soul is an indomitable hunger, it chews the stars, it spits out the limits. It seeks the raw taste of the absolute, without sugar, without forgiveness.
No matter the burn.
I prefer the taste of fire to the warm water of renunciations. And if I have to fall, whether with this taste of infinity on my tongue, violent and magnificent, which makes me tremble even at night.
I have a sweet tooth, especially for all the bad stuff like doughnuts, candy and chocolate.
Today, I made my sweet ginger and pineapple chicken for lunch, one of my best, and we shall have the remainder of the pineapple with custard later.
I’d taken two chicken breasts out of the freezer as Maya has been off her food for a couple of days and she needed to eat.
Chicken and rice is always a favourite, and I mixed in some of her usual dinner. So far, she has cleared the two small bowls I prepared, and there will be a third later this afternoon.
We wondered if we’d had a bad bag of food, so ditched what was left and Hubby tried to clean out the container but could not get rid of the stale smell, so that has been dumped as well. We know from our own experience that nothing tastes worse than the container the food was in and have disposed of cereals and even biscuits because of tainted smells affecting the taste of the product.
Maya isn’t really a fussy eater, but she knows what tastes good to her and we tend to stick with it. Sure she gets treats, but she can’t live on those!
No Accounting for Taste
There once was a girl who ate school paste.
Lived her whole life only according to “taste”.
Paid no attention to thought.
Could be ruled, fooled, or bought.
Still some voters put her ‘in office’ posthaste.
Springtime Dreams
Lambs; tails swinging on the hazel tree
Tiny flags dusted in gold
Shimmering in the pale blue breeze
Little secrets waiting to be told
Lamb’s tails on the hazel tree
Sun yellow, spring’s on the way
I can feel it stirring in me
Soft sun, longer days
It’s closer than it seems
Taste the sweetness of springtime dreams
Mud on my boots by the backdoor
Birdsong piercing through the grey
Steam curls up from my coffee cup
Every breath says –
‘we’re gonna be okay’
Lamb’s tails on the hazel tree
Sun yellow, spring’s on the way
I can feel it stirring in me
Soft sun, longer days
It’s closer than it seems
Tastes the sweetness of springtime dreams
All the quiet months we waited
Counting clouds and those cold nights
Now the hedges hum with promise
Every twig holding on to light
Lamb’s tails on the hazel tree
Spring is catching up to me
It’s closer than it seems
Let’s taste the sweetness of those springtime dreams
Springtime dreams.
The Afterlove Voice:
Taste is never just about the tongue.
It is memory dissolving
in the mouth.
It is the sharp green bite of an apple
that brings back a childhood kitchen.
The salt of the sea
that carries a summer you didn’t know
would become precious.
Taste is warmth —
bread torn open while it still breathes.
Coffee at dawn,
slightly bitter,
slightly hopeful.
And sometimes taste is absence.
The chair still set at the table.
The recipe you can follow
but never quite recreate
because the hands that made it first
are no longer there.
We think we taste food —
but what we really taste
is time.
Love.
Loss.
Laughter.
A life,
served in small portions.
Peter Bouchier:
Grapes
If the harvest fails,
grapes are
not to be chewed, the turnips are cooked
*
If the harvest fails
and grapes taste like disaster
you go bananas
When asked about Jason’s ability to judge the art show, Jennifer responded, “Jason has taste. Too bad it’s all in his mouth.”
Tasty Short Verses
Tanka
her taste, fashion sense
is not mine; flannels, T’s, jeans
comfort wardrobe rules
no stilettos, or high heels
I’ll wear ‘trainers’ every day
oceanic salt
overpowers what else may
end up in your mouth
After all sea creatures live
In all the wavy levels
3/5/3 haiku
hot peppers
remove any chance
of tasting
overbaked
brick brownies, lost
good flavor
Issho ni kaita retains (my own invention of haiku combined with an American Sentence)
just peachy
add sugar to pies,
cobblers
Use a store bought crust or make your own, careful not to burn the rim edges
Too soon I say, the man complained
His tolerance for sweets was strained
He just avoided the Christmas sweets
When along comes Valentine’s down the street
Chocolate was forbidden you see
No candy at all, said his Doctor, Zee
Joe couldn’t even shop in stores
All the seasons had chocolate galore
Joe decided to ask his pharmacist
Is there a pill to make me resist
The holiday candies on display
The drug counter guy said, no way
So this story is long and very sad
Finding poor Joe who had gone mad
He broke into a confection shop
Swarmed, then died from chocolate drops
He ate and ate, got very sick
But now in heaven he just says “ick“
When craving something, use my rule
Try a tiny bit and your taste is soothed.
Rall: it’s in poor taste to constantly tell the world how wonderful you are raving on for almost two hours yes you’ve guessed Lou by the Sea: How is it possible that my memory can taste you? Remember you? The sea, the salt, the sand Ice cream dripping cone. Guatamalan Java, grinding then dripping slowly strong, full bodied. Sunshine burning skin Raindrops steaming sin Chocolate melting moulding. Teeth tugging Lips licking Tongue flicking Willing you to return michnavs: Breathing Alone i have tasted love at its finest and at its worst. they say we live by it, we breathe because of it. but i say i live my life without the need of others. i breathe without borrowing the air from someone else’s lungs. not out of spite— but out of respect. because life, in itself, is more than enough to survive. Rohini: Seasoned Against My Will Dear Time, You have the strangest flavor. When I was young, you tasted like sugar – impatient and sparkling. I gulped you down in summer vacations and licked you off birthday candles. You were syrupy, endless, and embarrassingly sweet. I thought you would always dissolve kindly on my tongue. Then you changed. Or perhaps I did. You began to taste like grapefruit, sharp, unapologetic, impossible to ignore. You lingered at the back of my mouth after disappointments. You arrived metallic before difficult conversations. You left the faint salt of unshed tears. You never asked if I preferred sweetness. You seasoned me anyway. I used to resent your bitterness. I mistook it for cruelty. But now I suspect you were marinating me, slow and deliberate. Teaching me that not everything exquisite is sugary. That dark chocolate needs patience. That coffee requires courage. That some victories sparkle like champagne but settle into something quieter – a warm, steady aftertaste of earned breath. You taught me about acquired taste. How solitude first felt like burnt toast – dry, unwelcome, and later became like well-brewed tea. How ambition once tasted like glitter and applause, but matured into something saltier, steadier, more sustaining. How even heartbreak, that metallic tang I wanted to spit out, softened into wisdom I would not trade back for innocence. You have a wicked sense of humor, you know. You let me crave things that would later exhaust me. You let me reject flavors I would someday cherish. You watched me chase sugar highs in people, in praise, in approval, and then quietly let the aftertaste teach me discernment. And oh, that aftertaste. You are clever there. The applause fades. The room empties. The sweetness dissolves. And what remains is you. Sometimes you taste like salt – preserving what matters, stinging where I am still tender. Sometimes you taste like hunger, reminding me I am not done wanting, not done reaching, not done becoming. You have refined me in ways I didn’t consent to but now understand. You have stripped my palate of excess. You have sharpened my discernment. You have taught me that “good taste” is not what dazzles immediately but what nourishes quietly. I no longer fear your bitterness. I no longer chase only sugar. I have learned to sit with complexity, the dark chocolate days, the citrus mornings, the briny afternoons of effort and resilience. If childhood was candy, adulthood is a layered meal. And you, Time, are the chef who never repeats a recipe. I still have a sweet tooth. I still delight in warm doughnuts and melting chocolate and the sharp surprise of grapefruit (not all at the same time, I have learned moderation). But now I understand something I did not before: It was never about flavor alone. It was about transformation. You do not simply pass. You ferment. You distill. You season. And in doing so, you have made me, slowly, stubbornly, an acquired taste to myself. With reluctant gratitude and a refined palate, Me. Therapy Bits: A Morning Cup of Jo! Steam lifts softly from the cup, The taste of dawn in velvet flow; It warms my hands as I wake up. Steam lifts softly from the cup, A bittersweet and steady sup, Where quiet notes of cocoa glow. Steam lifts softly from the cup, The taste of dawn in velvet flow. Cathy Cade: Distasteful He pointed to a mug shot in the local paper. “Isn’t that the unsavoury character who was taking the school photographs last summer?” She didn’t look up from the recipe she was following. “Petra said he was creepy. Her friends thought so too. The school’s using a different photographer this year.” “Perceptive Petra.” “They weren’t very good photos either. I threw away the reorder form along with that cheesy flyer for family portraits and ‘chart their childhood’ offers.” “All done in the best possible taste,” he said. She left the mixing bowl to view the newspaper shot of a man trying to avoid the camera. “Is that him?” “Apparently one mother left her seven-year-old twins at his studio. Told him she was popping to the supermarket. She picked up her pre-order and came back sooner than expected, to find her kiddies wearing less than expected.” “No!” “It seems he had a lucrative sideline selling photos to paedophiles. With the advent of AI to fake more photos he got careless.” “Do you think investigators are more alert to what’s going on now? And they know where to look?” “We can only hope. Scum!” She returned to her mixing bowl with less enthusiasm. “It certainly leaves a nasty taste in the mouth.” Susan Batten: French writer, Marcel Proust discovered a host of memories in the taste of a madeleine, a little cake, and went on to write about his past. For many of us, too, taste and smell can bring to mind vivid recollections which take us back to days gone by. I will never forget the first peach I ate, in Italy, in the days when, if you found them in British shops, they sold the fruit one by one. Why should this memory be so strong? No doubt it was the sticky, messy experience itself, the sweetness of the peach, the surprise of the stone and the rather disagreeable furry skin. But I am also standing outside the grocer’s shop amongst the Italian Alps, bathed in that unaccustomed strong sunshine, enjoying the foreign-ness of the moment and the trust the family had put in me to go alone to the shop to buy lunch. I was in my early teens and everything was new. At home, I began to cook, trusted with more and more ambitious creations. I have hardly made one since but my golden Christmas cake was, for several years, a pinnacle of our celebrations. The powdery, intense taste of the royal icing, the way it snapped into shards in the mouth and married so blissfully with my home-made oozy gold marzipan… As a child, I was taken to a funfair where I tried in vain to capture some substance from the candy floss, one of my early disappointments when it congealed on my face. Holiday rock was another discovery, closely associated with the salty sea tang in the air, the feeling of liberty, gritty, cold sand between my toes and deep, mysterious rock pools… So many more recollections come teeming back when I start considering “taste”. In its way, it marked out a trail of new experiences and gradual independence for a London child.
Gathered
the taste of quiet
adds saffron to the spice of life
—gathered, precious, rare
Well, this prompt is right on time for me. Since I’d been sick and in the hospital, and now back home, I still can’t taste food very much. It’s annoying. I can get the essence of sweet and salty, and spicy, but very little actual taste is coming through. I don’t know why it happens, but it does, and eventually (I hope) it comes back. … and since I wrote that a day or so ago, my taste is almost all back to normal!
As for other kinds of taste, such as in fashion – I have none except to be comfortable. In music and art – I like what I like, even if it isn’t the most popular or widely admired.
Chat Over Chai
The first taste that my tongue needs early in the morning is that of chai or cha, as we call it. It’s an elixir – the bridge between the dreamy and awakened self. Without those few sips I cannot function. The golden liquid seeps through and spreads warmth to every cell of my body rejuvenating and making me operable.
I like my chai with milk and sweetener (plant based). Boiled but not too much. Over-boiled tea is not only very strong but its taste borders on the bitter and coarse. Many like their tea with a dash of ginger or cinnamon or cardamom. But tea has a flavour of its own. Adding any other condiment hides its natural fragrance. But at times, I do add a sprig of lemon grass or basil to it.
Inhaling the aroma of a steaming cup gives the senses a tingling wake up call – the day has begun! I like to have my morning chai in silence. That is my peace time – no noise, no hurry and scurry, no activity – just an introspective, meditative stance – me and my chai.
There was a time when I was addicted to this beverage. After the morning cup I needed another as soon as I reached the office. Then in the middle of work to take a break. One break multiplied into several. A time came when I realised excess of anything is bad – even chai. But how to get over it?
It’s easy to get into a habit but not that easy to get out of it. One day I called the pantry boy and told him not to serve me tea even if I asked for it. There were times when I would pick up the intercom, order a cup but it would not be forthcoming. Those obedient boys took better care of me than I could.
When I was posted in Kolkata, staying with my paternal aunt and uncle, I got into the habit of drinking premium Darjeeling tea. My uncle purchased the brand from a particular (well known) shop. Tea making was a ritual with my aunt. The water had to be boiled to a certain degree. Then the measured spoons of tea leaves would be steeped in hot water in a big pot. This would be followed by my aunt sitting at the dining table and humming for a while till the brew was perfect. She would then pour it in cups and serve. She had a wide selection of cups and saucers for tea at different hours of the day and for different guests. Needless to say, the more important ones got bigger cups!
My brother-in-law is again a tea addict and loves to buy various brands online as well as from different stores of different places. If he finds a fresh variety in some place he is visiting he is sure to buy a sample for tasting. He also takes pride in being the tea maker of the family and gets offended if anyone refuses to share a cup with him. Well! In our household it’s not a cup but a tumbler (read big mug) in which chai is served.
Since repeated drinking of boiled tea is unhealthy a way out was found wherein the high consumption could be retained without causing harm to the gut. Thus, green tea got introduced in the household. A new taste all together. Experiments were made with jasmine, chamomile and other fragrances.
My paternal uncle (father’s younger brother who was also my guardian upon my father’s untimely death) loved to have lemon tea. My colleagues, posted in the eastern part of the country, talked a lot about laal cha (red tea) which is caffein rich Assam tea without milk brewed with spices to a reddish brown tinge. There is another variety of tea without milk known as liquor tea – a lighter brew with a golden hue. In the western part of the country (especially, Mumbai) cutting chai is very popular which is a glass of boiled tea with milk, sugar and spices cut or divided in two halves – a quick energy booster – available from street vendors.
My Punjabi friends are all for masala chai. Once, many many years back I had visited a family from South who had offered us big mugs of tea with spices. The unexpected, overpowering taste of the brew had generated in me a forever dislike for spiced tea.
I guess it is during the COVID phase that Kehwa (kehwah – originally from Jammu and Kashmir) drinking became the rage, at least in our office. In every part of our country the taste of chai and chai or tea making is different.
Chai is not just a beverage it’s a ceremony…a ritual…a devotion…an enjoyment of another level. At times I sip it with soft music and often I play this song to myself…
Coventry
When I was a young girl, I loved to read Enid Blyton’s book series. She wrote approximately 720 books during her writing life and had several popular series like The Famous Five, The Secret Seven, and The Adventure Series. Enid Blyton also wrote a few series about young girls attending private boarding schools in England. I enjoyed all of her books but the boarding school books, Mallory Towers and St Clare’s, fascinated me. I attended a dual medium (English and Afrikaans), co-ed (boys and girls) primary school so the idea of all girls at school together and spending nights in a dormitory with lots of other girls of the same age captured my imagination. One of the concepts Enid Blyton wrote about was sending someone to Coventry. Being sent to Coventry is a British idiom meaning to deliberately ostracize someone. It involves ignoring the person, refusing to speak to them, and acting as if they do not exist. It is a form of social punishment or a way of expressing disapproval of someone’s actions.
Over the past two weeks since I resigned from my job, I feel as if I’ve been sent to Coventry by my senior work colleagues. I went into the office twice the first week following my resignation the previous Friday. The second office visit, on a Thursday, was awful. There is no other word to describe it. I felt like I had walked into a wall of resentment and anger. I could almost feel and taste the disapproval. Of course, I may have read too much into the situation as I am an empath and overly sensitive to other people’s emotions and behaviours, but I don’t think I did. I take responsibility for my work and commitments, so I originally offered to stay on a contract basis to see through the projects I’m currently working on. This offer was thrown back in my face, and I ended up having words with two of my senior colleagues. It was upsetting for me because I am sensitive but also because I think it was an illogical and ill-conceived reaction. I am an easy target for guilt because I am a soft touch and generally willing to help others. These are the personal characteristics that caused the overwhelm that resulted in my decision to leave in the first place. The more you give, the more people take and the resultant stress was becoming a health problem for me as I wasn’t getting enough down time to destress and unwind. My back went into severe spasm in mid-January and the doctors say it had probably been in spasm for months. It is now out of spasm due to a stringent programme of exercise, physiotherapy, and painkillers. I am glad I don’t need strong painkillers any more. I don’t like taking medications for long periods. I am doing very well on a physiotherapy and exercise programme. I was extremely busy at work at the time when the spasm escalated so I only took one day’s leave to get the x-rays and bone density tests done.
I have always been an unusually fast worker. I grasp outcomes quickly and come up with solutions almost immediately. I am a backwards thinker, and I simply work the solution or outcome backwards to give everyone else involved a series of steps to get to the desired outcome. Many of my on-line friends remark on how much I get done and it’s because I am able to work so fast (probably up to 4 x faster than most people) and I also have a retentive memory. I never take notes or write anything down because I don’t need to. I always remember. It was only about a decade ago that I realised this is not a common attribute to all people. If your mind works a certain way, you just assume it is the same for everyone else. I have come to realise that working faster does not mean you don’t use up the same, or perhaps more, mental energy. Getting more done quicker requires compensatory down time to recuperate as your battery depletes in line with your output.
It has been disappointing to receive such an unexpected reaction. It took a lot out of me to recover my mental balance last week and it ruined my birthday on 22 February. I had a miserable day. This being said, I stayed away from the office completely this past week and didn’t engage with any of my direct seniors. It is a busy time of year, and they did not try to engage with me either. It was as if I’d already left from a communication perspective. I focused on my client work and getting as much wrapped up as possible before I leave. I am feeling much better now and have decided to spare myself unnecessary anxiety by staying away from the office. I will go in on my last week to wrap up my administration and hand in my computer. It seems a sad way to end a 14-year work period of my life.
resentment
tasting of lemon
curls tongue
aftertaste bitter
lasting a lifetime
Note: This piece is not intended to solicit sympathy or throw stones at other people. I am responsible in many ways for this reaction as I have taken on too much, helped to much, made others too reliant on me and it has worn me down and I’m unable to continue along the same path of philanthropy I’ve always walked. It is not possible to implement boundaries and reset expectations after 14 years; it requires a clean break and a fresh start. Work environments are designed to be capitalistic and so whatever you offer will be taken and used. I’ve shared this information as part of my journey to understanding and acceptance and also because I think it may help others in a similar situation. I also think I handled my resignation badly by reacting from a place of overwhelm. That is me though, I am an impulsive person.
taste
do not waste
time
haste idle
and it is too bad too
A ridiculous quip made in haste
By those not savoring the pungent sex taste.
This hyperbole is so dumb
It couldn’t possibly have come…
From someone dining below the waist!
Matters of taste
When I was young, my dad taught me the Latin phrase: De gustibus non est disputandum which means “ In matters of taste, there can be no disputes.”
How basic, but how essentially true. How much time can and do we waste trying to persuade others to our point of view? If you won’t judge me, then I promise I won’t judge you and we’ll both be better for the exchange of perspective.
A Matter of Taste
Clothing styles are highly personal, and of course, the years have seen many changes. I’ve always been a “clothes horse”, going back to the 1960s.
At the time (1965-1969), my family was living in Europe and I had fully embraced the “Youthquake” movement, started in England. Names like Twiggy and Mary Quant set the fashion scene. In the absence of photos, these are ChatGPT depictions of two favourite outfits I had in 1967 and 1968. Dr. Scholl’s wooden sandals and white lipstick were all the rage!
To read more, click here
The Shape of a Father
It had never entered Richard’s mind that his son was not his own blood. The thought would have seemed absurd, insulting even, if anyone had suggested it in the twenty years since the boy was born.
Rory had his eyes, his stubborn streak, his way of pacing when he was thinking too hard. Richard had built an entire identity around being that boy’s father- through the divorce, the long nights of homework, soccer, football- through the long winter months when the house felt too big for just the two of them.
By the time Richard reached the hospital, Rory was already in surgery. His ex‑wife, Laura, stood in the hallway outside the trauma unit, arms wrapped around herself as if they were the only thing holding her together. They hadn’t spoken more than necessary in years, but grief erases distance. He wrapped his arms around her without thinking.
“What do they need?” he asked. “What can we do?”
She didn’t answer.
A surgeon finally emerged, face drawn, voice steady in the way people train themselves to be when delivering news that will shatter someone else’s world. Ethan was alive, but his liver was inoperable. They needed a partial transplant, and they needed it quickly. A living donor would give him the best chance.
“We’ll test both of you,” the surgeon said. “Parents are often the closest match.”
Richard jumped forward. “Test me first.”
Laura made a small, strangled sound. The surgeon didn’t seem to notice, already turning to a nurse to give instructions.
Richard reached for her arm. “Laura. Hey. Look at me. We’re going to do whatever it takes.”
She did look at him then, and the expression on her face was not fear, or grief, or shock. It was something he couldn’t name- something like dread, but older, deeper.
“Richard,” she whispered. “You don’t need to be tested.”
He frowned. “Of course I do. I’m his father.”
Her breath hitched. “You’re not. Not biologically.”
The surgeon returned, asking for the biological father’s information. Laura gave a name Richard had never heard. A man who might not answer his phone tonight. A man who probably didn’t even know he had a son.
Richard could taste the bile rising in his throat- the shock, the betrayal, the humiliation- hitting all at once. But beneath that surge, beneath the jagged realization that the life he’d thought was his for the past twenty years had been missing an entire chapter- one truth resounded with absolute clarity- Rory was still his son.
***
Image credit: Pinterest
Esther Chilton 
Leave a reply to Debbie D. Cancel reply