A little bit of this
A little hint of that
A little dash of freedom to express
A drop in da ocean
A tinge of fact and fiction
A whiff of wonder and wanderings
A shade of shivering
A trifle of truth and lies
A suspicion of conspiracies
A tad bit of laughter and tears
A touch of hope and immortality
Add it all together, stir well
Share with poets from around the world
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Soup’s on!!! For Poetrysoup Con!!!
IF I WERE A POET
If you consider me a poet
Then I shall write the words
That will put down roots
And push up into your soul
To flower and blossom there
Where one concedes beauty
Without dispute or challenge
As an icon for modern times
It would be so well deserved
Yet I still struggle with it all
Recruiting rhyme and metre
With a soupcon of metaphor
To mould words into poetry
And win your heart forever
It was not a Parisian café
though it tried to be.
Our teeth were strong
they flashed
intermittently.
The house wine was red,
the bread was good bread.
The creamy leaf was dressed,
it bloomed and licked the mouth
with a blithe bouquet of ease and tease.
The fish was dunked in a
blue dish of piquant delight.
A butter fat flounder fandangoed
upon our tongues just right.
We were trying, working the words,
leaning into anything
that would further our cause.
Alas signals were misread
gambits misunderstood
subtleties stubbled over ambrosial food.
Tight lipped
we nibbled and sipped.
Time slipped, barely recovering,
the waiter was smooth, his speech
a soupcon of olive upon a slippery smear.
We tried to repair
tried to mend that which was not there.
At the frothy tick of the hour
coffee dark resignations shrugged.
We briefly hugged while hope
crumbled upon a red and white cloth,
hurried promises exchanged,
a cheek peck and wane smiles
pale preludes to nothing at all
and nothing arranged.
It was awhile since
yet
we met again
though we were ever the same,
for nothing went anywhere
and that was it
to be never again.
How terrible and perfect
the shark and the spider.
How forever unknown,
much more than we
who try to explain them are.
Weigh the salt, weigh the water,
weigh the dust. Put it in a bucket
with a hank of hair,
add a soupcon of moonlit fantasy
pour it over new mown hay.
Beings are beginning to sprout
under our scalps.
Mindful beings
who do not pluck bones out of the air
and call it truth.
Stop denying the obvious.
We are not alien Gods, we are
sharks and spiders.
Bespatter me Dash,
Run a short race.
Throw a little somethin
In the mix.
I hesitate an utterance
And drop a soupcon
In parenthesis.
I want the dasher
Who plunges
In the churn.
Signal this dot
For longer duration,
A bit of adulteration
Under the dashboard.
Bespatter me Dash.
Listen to the sound
Of such splashing.
Let's write and hurry away
Because of a sudden onset,
A stroke, followed by a rush.
I float in an aquamarine idyll;
a bird soaring in shallows
while hearing translucent echoes,
hovering pastel ripples
reminiscent of cobalt depths
carried on shy currents
to an alabaster beach.
Sun's shimmer tiptoes
on serpentine waves,
pirouettes like star bursts
among the soupcon
of fuchsias and teals
that tease the surface
like a coy lover.