"flavorless" poems - Hello Poetry

Contemplating life over a hot bowl of soup, my mindful mentor passed me the pleasure of oyster to mix in with the pain of chilies stirred together by chopsticks held in my hands. There he taught me the lesson of humanity and the person's potential, pointing at me and then back at the bean sprout, fiddling it in his chopsticks as if he were God, mentioning to me "This sprout and you have plenty alike..." "What do you mean? How am I like a vegetable?" He smiled and nodded to disagree, "Life is not always physical. Think for a second, open your fragile closed mind. Imagine this soup not just a bowl but instead a cauldron, the mixing of different elements, sensations seared by heat to create the luxuries we call the world where you are a mere bean sprout." Looking at the small, colorless tasteless, inferior plant, I wondered, confused and asked: "Am I so inferior in this world that I cannot compare to the rich flavor of beef, to the nurturing noodles, to the accenting spices, but instead am no more than a flavorless root?" Yet my mentor laughed, and patiently passed: "You worry too much young one, too much on yourself you blame. Instead, take upon consideration that the bean sprout is small, fragile, tasteless like water; there is nothing you can change other than size and color, but lower it into the soup and patiently stir, allow it to soak up the world and obtain its potential." I repeated his actions, placed myself in the world, sat patient and absorbed its essence, and then removed it, placed it to my lips. Surprised that what I later discovered was not a bland taste of disappointment arose but instead what lingered to the tongue was the sweet taste of near perfection.

0

Apr 6, 2016

Apr 6, 2016 at 11:50 PM UTC

anoncounselor

"A Bean Sprout and a Bowl of Soup"

Contemplating life over a hot bowl of soup, my mindful mentor passed me the pleasure of oyster to mix in with the pain of chilies stirred together by chopsticks held in my hands. There he taught me the lesson of humanity and the person's potential, pointing at me and then back at the bean sprout, fiddling it in his chopsticks as if he were God, mentioning to me "This sprout and you have plenty alike..." "What do you mean? How am I like a vegetable?" He smiled and nodded to disagree, "Life is not always physical. Think for a second, open your fragile closed mind. Imagine this soup not just a bowl but instead a cauldron, the mixing of different elements, sensations seared by heat to create the luxuries we call the world where you are a mere bean sprout." Looking at the small, colorless tasteless, inferior plant, I wondered, confused and asked: "Am I so inferior in this world that I cannot compare to the rich flavor of beef, to the nurturing noodles, to the accenting spices, but instead am no more than a flavorless root?" Yet my mentor laughed, and patiently passed: "You worry too much young one, too much on yourself you blame. Instead, take upon consideration that the bean sprout is small, fragile, tasteless like water; there is nothing you can change other than size and color, but lower it into the soup and patiently stir, allow it to soak up the world and obtain its potential." I repeated his actions, placed myself in the world, sat patient and absorbed its essence, and then removed it, placed it to my lips. Surprised that what I later discovered was not a bland taste of disappointment arose but instead what lingered to the tongue was the sweet taste of near perfection.