She has gone shopping for chicken stock.
I miss the vichyssoise of this potpourri season.
The unexpected earliness of most happenings
are so easy to miss.
My friend will soon return with a carton of broth,
plus, a Saran wrapped pre-prepared roaster.
I miss the plucking and the slimy fingered
dressing of a fresh plump bird,
the cleaning and chopping, the spatchcock,
the ‘mise en place’.
Today I will cook only with missing ingredients.
Everything is in order,
all is a hunger surrounded
by the soft anticipation of open lips.
I do miss the mélange and medley,
the consommé of fat times.
I will miss cracking chicken bones,
scraping out their boiled gelatinous marrow,
miss the suety brewing of bouillon,
the simmering potage.
My friend returns from the store.
She miles at the look
of childish relief on my face.
If I am left alone too long, I tend to make lists,
I become a Saran wrapped emptiness -
I disappear for a while.
We’re absorbed
by the Saran-wrapped food,
the plastic cutlery,
tired brains monopolized
by the clutter of the meal tray,
numbed by hours of jiggling -
the carting of torpid bodies
through interminable distance,
wedged into
a restricted boredom.
Anesthetized – we fear nothing.
If the aircraft stalls,
if an engine fails
few will find the strength to panic,
we’ll keep decanting small bottles
of vin de table,
studiously apply hard butter
to soft buns.
As the aircraft plummets earthward
we’ll continue to struggle
with condiment sachets,
coffee creamers,
with small, molded cruets,
glad to be occupied
and totally blanked out
to what comes next -
or whatever.
Here is a magic chicken,
you can almost taste it
if you use chicken stock,
but if you do,
your internal organs
will eventually be Saran wrapped
as free-range produce
for pets, or the modified minded,
only,
you were never really 'free-range'
if you had been,
a humane hunter
might have harvested you,
knowing that the law of
mass consumption
is:
"First do no harm."
The obscenely convincing,
have arrived in their stealth mobiles.
We are made to unmake-belief,
to regurgitate Saran wrapped words.
Wide-eyed we watch the spreading creep
of windowless thought-factories.
Druids rage for the loss of their tongues.
Magic dragons puff obesely
and cannot now climb their spines.
Combative batmen tussle
with spitting cats.
It all makes no-sense, and yet
we know the fantasy is built
on self-destructing concrete,
we see now how red lipstick
smothers us with a smirk
in the dark.
Too late to run for cover.
Even as we slumber
the mother of all bombs
gives birth to yet more
pre-packaged fictions.
It was too heavy, I could not lift it
onto the page.
The poem was bleeding from an ancient wound,
I did what I could to mend and heal.
Some visions are male, some female,
some disclose themselves,
to be utterly alien to any sexual persuasion.
The poem was multi-dimensional,
I had to peel realty away from it,
as if it were swathed in Saran wrap.
Gradually it became lighter,
much lighter,
until it was more diaphanous
than a dragonfly's wing.
I could pin it upon paper now,
but many would still not see it,
nor ever name it.
hoped for
white down
but it's
saran wrap
settling dust
soak staining
weathered wood
laquering streets
warming bars
and hearts
gray wool
hugging the earth
softly
snuggling me
on this
see-your-breath
morning
Came down on me
Without warning
Nothing seemed out of place
Or so I thought
All of your words of amor
Turned into slits of a dagger
Shattering my heart
Until it’s all just dust
Couldn’t even blink
Bluntly spoken
All of your alligator tears
An additional pinch of salt on the wound
Who knew your reflection was so contorted
Shame that you didn’t believe in the magic
Wouldn’t even want to try
How you can take it all and pour it down the sewage drain
Such a pity
And you should be sad
Can never fill a hole that never stops needing more
Aching for more
You just needed me
To be your comfort pillow
Because you had no one else then
You only had me
And I was there at your worst
Now you don’t want me at your best
Because you gave up
Only wanting what he can get his hands on
Regretting the saran he lost and let go
And that’s how
You become a boring old man in the corner scoffing
All the while collecting dust
Letting time fly past you
I believed in us
But now I only believe in karma
And now you’re dead and gone
We’re monopolized by the Saran-wrapped food,
the plastic cutlery,
absorbed by the clutter of the food tray.
Numbed by hours of jiggling,
the carting of torpid bodies through interminable distance,
we’re wedged now into boredom, uncomfortably numb.
Anesthetized – we fear nothing.
If the aircraft stalls, few will scream.
We’ll keep decanting small bottles of vin de table,
butter buns.
As the aircraft plummets
and drops like a stone to certain death
we’ll still be struggling with condiment sachets,
coffee creamers, with small, molded cruets
oblivious now to anything less important.
To My Dream Woman Who Loves Me
to my dream woman
who has loved me so
over the years
since I first dreamt
of meeting her
thank you for finding me
and rescuing me
I just have three words
to say
I love you
Saran hae
and in a million other languages
and will love you
until the end of time
writers digest prompt to write a x Blank x
We are monopolized
by the Saran-wrapped food,
the plastic cutlery;
absorbed by the clutter
of the crowded food tray.
Numbed by hours of jiggling,
the carting of torpid bodies
through interminable distance,
we’re wedged now into boredom.
Anesthetized – we fear nothing.
If the aircraft stalls,
few will scream.
We’ll keep decanting
small bottles of vin de table.
We must butter those buns.
As the aircraft plummets
earthward,
we’ll continue to struggle
with condiment sachets,
coffee creamers,
with small molded cruets.
An ornamental doe and fawn,
suddenly move. Tails wave, noses nuzzle –
I have mistaken an actuality,
and now am thrown out of my skin.
I’m a millipede of fractal awareness.
I sniff the body-odor of the planet
take inward, then sift out
Australia and Africa.
I pause to dip my face in the River Liffey,
odoriferous waters foam over septum and cranium.
I’m a teaming acre of feelers and heads. Until
an atom of disbelief re-enters its exoskeleton.
The next moment is inevitable;
it is a concrete bunker of inevitability.
I am a stone goblin with a blunt chisel.
Nerve buds are again Saran wrapped.
Oddly, I’m carrying a large red kangaroo
on my shoulders;
it’s demanding to be sent back,
and I would send it back – if I knew how.
A guy just seeking a tan
Went out all wrapped in Saran
A psychiatrist near
Said your case is quite clear
I see your nuts crazy man
REVELATION OF A STALKER
my daughter brought her stalker date
i watched him closely...my eyes penetrate
like a bloodhound, my nose to heels
he feels my presence in the revolving door
he’d call when she wasn’t home
just to hear my voice upon the phone
i told her to make it very clear
to cut him loose without a tear
he tried to penetrate her heart
to fill the chambers with goosebump art
with saran wrap clarity a mama knows
she follows each precarious footfall
he crept into our night with his stalker coat
the leather long, foreboding weaponry
a stalker tells his tale straight up
“Some people are scared of me”
with a heart of gold, my daughter hearkened
to this mother’s knowledge of good and evil
we stomped out the fire, until it was cold
removed the ash, buried it, eyes shut tight
11/10/2017
Silent One’s Stalker Contest
March 15,2016
I placed the saran wrap on the commode,
Laughing, I waited till she had to go.
Finally, it was time for her to pee,
Never laughed so hard at a little wee.
I apologised for being that mean,
I drew her a bath so she could get clean.
I promise to never lay the same trap,
I will never again buy saran wrap.
BY EZAR
I SAID THAT I APOLOGIZE BUT NOW I TAKE IT BACK
WITH MY EMOTION TIED IN THIS SARAN WRAP
I FEEL CAUGHT IN A SAND TRAP
MY MIND BAND ABOUT TO SNAP
USING ME TO PRODUCE STANDS AND HAND CLAPS
MY HART BLEEDS THROUGH SPEECH
WHILE FRUIT OF THE LIPS ESCAPES MY TEETH
EXPRESSIONS OF LIFE SEEN AS RAYS OF HEAT
I HEAR WITH MY EYES CRIES IN THE STREETS
FEEL WITH MY EARS VIBRATIONS IN CONCRETE
SPIRITUALLY GROWING LIKE A GIANT PALM TREE
YOUR VOICE MOTIVATES AND INSPIRES ME
OUR ROLLS ARE REVERSED NOW THATS THE IRONY
I ALLOW YOU TO TOUCH PEOPLE CONTINUOUSLY
TO INFINITY WE SEEM TO BE CONNECTED
LEAVING THE AUDIENCE BREATHLESS
DEMONSTRATING WORD PLAY
CREATED FORM EVENTS OF MY BEST TO WORST DAYS
STILL GIVING THE LORD PRAISE
ASSISTING USING CREATIVE WAYS
BY ALLOWING VOICE DISPLAY TO FILL THE PLACE PROJECTING PICTURES PAINTED FROM SOUND WAVES
Sub Categories
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.