~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The knife sinks into soft meat,
steam rising like a silent prayer.
our glasses clink—
toast to holiday warmth,
to butter melting into rolls,
to cranberries exploding
on our tongues.
Laughter spills
over the gravy boat,
and for once,
no one counts the seconds
between bites.
The oven light stays on,
a quiet watch
over the pie’s golden crust.
he thankfully grazed on gravel and grass
then suddenly heard the deafening blast
now rests with fruits and nuts–
gravy boat floats his guts–
and sausage dressing's stuffed up his crevasse
Is There Chicken Fried Steak in a West Texas Heaven
David J Walker
Should I decide
To commit suicide
It will be death by
Chicken fried steak
And would it not be a mistake
To go to my grave
Via a fine china gravy boat
I could float off to my
Eternal reward
Aboard a mountain of
Mashed potatoes
Amidst the shiny halos
Of other obese Angels
Of a better Chicken fry batter nature
But really
Does it matter what I weight
When I get there
Will they put me in a
weight watchers purgatory
Before I can behold the glory of God
Odd
To think that all angels have
Perfect angels and
A proper BMI ratio
After eating all of that
Angel food cake
Still
For God so loved the World
That he gave us
Chicken fried steak
HYDROPHOBIA
Feeling some disconcert
As I saw some dirt upon my shirt,
I rinsed it out, but all in vain,
For one big spot did thus remain.
Alas, it had been surely smote
By grease from a gravy boat!
I now saw I needed attention.
To a hostile, phobic tension
Between water and oil,
Causing grease, to the shirt, to espoil.
I had to figure out whether
I could get them, as friends, together,
For only then, in some way,
Could water carry that spot away.
Aha!. I found one to clear the weather
And get the two together,
A cleaning merchant
By the name of Alfred D.Turgent
Was able to overcome this atrocity
Of phobic animosity
Allowing the water and grease to elope
With the blessings of my good friend soap
Leaving my shirt
Now free of all dirt!
Stan 1/10/14
Golden brown
and wafting
in the air,
mingling
with the
dust, flecks
of nothing
clinging to
the wanton
parallel
streams that
dripped from
my nostrils,
burgundy and
thick
from a fleshly
gravy boat.
I was walking
around on the
base of my eyeball,
trying to see what
it would feel like.
I didn't feel
anything, probably
because I realized I
was dreaming.
Cursed realization.
The bus-stop
between realization
and consciousness
is littered with
leftover entrails.
Better get to work,
men, we're on
contract, here.
Fat and muscular,
and, of course,
wearing a wifebeater.
Countenance bearing
flab coated in what
could have been
grass clippings
dyed heliotrope.
Bus stop, sidewalk, brain matter
strewn, resembling lucky charms;
entrails stain the
daily news with golden
brown.
Soakin' it up.
Snow shovel, blistered
ring finger, shucked
from a stroke. Wet, now,
is the
plastic handle.
A crater of pulpy
pink sponge beef,
dripping body-bilge.
Dust was
wafting into it,
specks of nothing
clinging to the
rim.
WHERE HAVE THE BLUEBIRDS GONE?
The Bluebirds never came home to my pine grove that first spring.
Can't say as I blame them.... my family's heirloom recipe wouldn't fill
the regal gravy boat anymore, and fresh lemonade wouldn't delight
the elegant pitcher again; their services for important holidays and
special birthdays were no longer needed, so they departed.
I tried to erect new Bluebird Houses and put out their favorite seed,
but they never came back, even if I pretended nothing had changed.
I remember the day we chose our wedding china, the pattern,
cheerful Bluebirds at play in the warm spring sunshine, was the
happiest pattern we had ever seen. We selected all the important
pieces we would need for every occasion.
Today, spring flowers are in bloom again, and not a single
Bluebird in sight. I wonder if the regal gravy boat is still
the proud captain of the table?......I miss it
My pine grove is barren now, and the few dishes I still have
never leave the storage drawer to play in the sun anymore,
can't say as I blame them....
....can't say
as I blame them
I was sitting with the family
Staring at your empty chair
The table was giving their thanks
All wishing you were there
Your uncle had a smile
As the gravy boat was passed around
I sat writing a little poem
Without making a sound
When it came to be my turn
I stood behind your place
Holding up your military picture
So all could see your face
I started by lifting my glass
And praised you, “its how I feel”
Hoping that you also
Had a fresh, hot cooked meal…
My dearest child
I am so proud of you
For fighting for our country
What you were trained to do
Against it all you’re standing
Up to this not so small task
You do it for their families
Because of what our President asked
It’s not the money that drives you
You’re not playing a game
You’re rebuilding someone’s future
Delivering them from a life of pain
Know I’m thinking about you
As the holidays come and go
I’m so proud of what you’re doing
I just wanted you to know
I sipped my glass and set it down
Looking around the room
Not a dry eye could be found
Sons and daughters come home soon
My God be with you
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.