i

i have been making
pots of soup for forty years
now (and still not bored)

they are like writing
(each differs)
poetry-every word..

time is ticking
salt like tears
and the pepper o lord..

ii

all the signs in-
and questioned ear
a bubbling sword

o the wine!
vegetables to fear
green and red..

iii

primeordial
dragons
loup-the-loup..

the sun whirls..
reflections
in my soup..

iv

it did become a trifle
formulaic
(to tell the truth)

but with a spliff
and a song to sing
time renews..

v

order can not be ignored
(you just can not begin
at the end..)

acceptance and love
(and try not to cut
your finger off..)

vi

and then they will ask-
what it is
and you won´t know and

they will say
what is in it
and you can´t recall..

(they may seem ungratful)
but it is substantial
bellies full..

vii

more the merrier
(some one gets your plaster..)
soup is never dull..

o under the stars
gets better
long ago then..