I came to soup just a girl who liked to write,
and posted a poem about my dad who had died;
now, I recall comments of compassion and how I cried,
I had written it years ago and held onto it tight.
I kept writing and posting and making life long friends,
people with the same like-minded creative thoughts;
I soon felt brave enough to try writing for contest spots,
enouraged by friends who became more with love that transcends.
That is how I learned about all the poetry forms,
about structure, syllables, rhyming and being free;
I kept writing, entering, trying and that was the key,
oh yes, over the years I have felt the ups, downs and storms.
Soon, I was placing and the rest is poetic history,
now, I know enough to do my own poetry contests;
and as other soupsters know that means a lot of stress,
have been told I am a born poet ... I find that a mystery.
I have no formal training just a writing passion,
won a life time membership in a contest years ago;
and because of the freedom it gives me I now grow,
and I will return what I received from soupsters ... compassion.
It simmers. This constant invisible, hovering
like a wasp in the forever periphery threatening
lightning strike yellows, sudden and unbidden. It spills
and spools, down into black stripes melting and melding
to pools of what could be oil, what could be memory.
What could be regret now slick with – what?
A splash of anger boiled, with sprinkles of blame out of date;
mixed with grief curdling, poured into a well of questions
overcooked yet left raw, still somehow
roasted and burnt-snap-toast /
ed too tough for even a
crouton of relief.
It’s a recipe I can never master. Ingredients
lacking, my baking tray left to crust.
‘The Chronic Pain’ special.
'The Looping Blame Game’ starter.
“Welcome to Self-Sabotage Restaurant and its
rotating menu of dishes which you serve yourself.”
Route 66ish No 3
A cowboy once rode down to Tucson,
With only his hat and his boots on,
His butt got real sore,
So he cussed and he swore,
!Cos his "whatsit" looked just like a crouton!
CUCUMBER I IN A PICKLE SALAD-
O' I'm in pickle
found my means in a garden.
picked, washed, cook, LOOK!
I have evolved went,
from a cucumber to a,
pickle I’m broken.
so stressed out now I’m
being cut-up and placed in
bowl made of salad
cucumberly, I-
found myself on this sandwich .
I'm in a pickle
fickle, fickle jam,
cut up placed beside crouton.
where’s the ranch dressing?
2/21/20
He cast a crouton on the water
Watched it sog upon the swell
What came back was lava bread
And Chelsea buns as well
She threw in an expensive cake
‘Twas softer than a futon
But what came back upon the waves
Was just a soggy crouton
© Gail Foster 2016
I feel like an expired crouton when not penning
On a soup bowl where spoons are all reeling
They would scribble like steam and taste what is read
Through minutes and hours, still they are not enough fed
As overnight alphabets brew from dandy stewing
Soup bowl has spices, purees and great presentation
And finest herbs with glories extract dollars and a donation,
The best sauce boils till TPS chef rams into a bodge glitch
There’s a fly on soup, error shuts down from techno ditch
Curdling word-ingredients; spoons like me burn in frustration!
©
. . .. .
David William’s Life Without Soup
By nette onclaud
poetry soup
nourishes the soul
delivering smooth and creamy
fodder
in a community bowl
for all to share
i am a crouton
Aperitifs and hard spirits,
With canapes and rarebits.
Delicious hors de ouvres,
Accompanied by tangy dips.
Tomato soup with crouton,
And an entree of mouton;
My strawberry red sorbet:
Makes way for my releve.
Bring on the roast,
Not with melba toast;
Poor lentils of course,are the ones hated most.
Don't forget legumes,are vegetables of course!
The entremets the sweetest,of the entire course.
This cafe's hot coffee,makes me feel not to snore,
I've got to the finish sipping Bailey's liqueur.
---- Princefreakasso
(Artist and Poet)
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.