A lady in sunny Rimini,
told the chef she wanted zucchini.
She finished her meal,
then said, with some zeal;
“I love, sir, a firm bucatini.”
having a plot
not more than
a large pot
growing
was a nurtured
planted by
nature
wind
blown
seed that
grew into
a dandelion
never mind
for those that
think it's just
a weed
it was never
mine from
the start
so no
need to
feel or fill
or fulfill any
care or beware
of its
dying but
when its yellow
flower turned to
a puffy
dome of
white seeds
i felt threatened
by
the
wind
and even
a
sneeze so
that no one would
blow it up and away
i placed
atop it a
laboratory
bell jar but
then
thought
and gasped perhaps
the insane happiness
of
dear
Sylvia
Plath
I like my poetry soup cooked al dente,
so lots of diced adjectives in the pot went,
and I threw in some fresh verse,
lyric, I did immerse.
I folded in liquid imagination,
and sprinkled poetic inspiration,
nothing wrong with a pinch of creation;
and a toss of wordy rhyme gambling.
and a swirl of flowers scrambling.
I sifted in beauty,
I steeped words gloomy,
it was a mix of eloquence quite soupy.
Oh, I like my poetry soup hot and al dente!
_________________________________
January 25, 2017
Poetry/Verse/I like my soup al dente
Copyright Protected, ID 17-8688-02-0
All Rights Reserved. Written Under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, Poetry Soup Recipe
sponsor, Cindi Rockwell
Eighth Place
To
reek
of blouse
sweat. Kindle
inanity like
living room fire, mothers in
coarse grain. Steeped in organic growth. Saturday’s swelled yeast.