"soups" poems
EᔕᔕᕼI
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
The kitchen's air is redolent with spices,
peppers and cinnamon, all-spice and star
anise, thyme and curry. The cooks are
shouting orders; taking rose-silver pots
and copper pans; each having the print
of the Lily of Aurelinaea; from the wooden
shelves, plates and bowls from the cup-
boards; some are stirring soups over
coal-fire stoves; others are dicing carrots,
potatoes, fresh poultry and more.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Esshi, in a light-green off-the-shoulder
dress of rose-silk with a triple ruffle trim,
lined with yellow ribbon, a thigh high slit and
white lilies beadery, is speaking to the head-chef
who nods. "Certainly, Lady Esshi." he says
and turns to his busy staff. "Bring out
the paella pans! We have orders for the
Queen Mother!"
"Yes, chef!" a woman says as she pulls
out a rose-silver paella pan and places
it on the stove. The head-chef turns to
Esshi. "You need not worry, Lady Esshi,"
he smiles. "I will make the dishes with
care."
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"You always do, Bael," Esshi chuckles as
he washes his hands and she walks to
the corner, sighing. 'My Lady...'
she thinks worried.
"Lady Esshi?" her thoughts are broken
by a woman's voice. She turns to see a
florist behind her. *'So lost in thought,
that I did not hear the door open.'*
She thinks as her eyes fall on the flower
vase.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
The vase is art noveau style; a deep emerald
green with a maiden in flowing silks, her
hair bejewelled with lilies. Esshi's eyes then
rise to look at the flower arrangement - white
lilies with lilac kisses, purple roses and
several stems of lavender.
"Lady Ainhara said I should bring this to you."
"It's lovely," Esshi sniffs the fresh flowers.
"Very beautiful! You certainly outdid yourself.
It's for our young Queen, I take it?"
"Yes. And Lady Ainhara said I should bring
you this also."
She sees her place some paper, quill and ink down
and Esshi smiles.
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 3:41 PM UTC
I held out my hands.
I placed a drop of soap on each palm
and took hold of my ***** spoon and washed it with my hands,
cupping and spooning it
like my gentle hands were trying to make it croon.
Like it were mated and flipped and slapped
against threadbare slacks.
That spoon is cleaning me,
is washing my hands as I wash its tarnished feet,
it is forgiving me.
For the scalding soups and bitter ice cream,
and not washing it but watching it grow crusted, disgusted.
And while I swoon for my spoon,
and grinning the spinning dizzy grin of Love,
I remember, and give thanks for my feast.
This spoon feeds me like a child on Mother God’s lap,
and kisses me with life, with food.
This soap, and my hands, and this bubbling love between my spoon and I,
it is clean.
My soul is more clean with my spoon.
Cleaner than dog’s saliva licking at old wounds,
but that’s alright,
cause everybody knows ******* love scars, dog.
And women love beautiful spoons,
maybe because of its viscosity, or its gentle curvature,
or the deep loving laugh it invokes,
when it sits on my nose.
My spoon communion left me with pruned hands,
bright eyes,
and a coy smile for what flowers in my mind may bloom.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 2:31 AM UTC
A satisfied appetite is a simply joy
Overlooked and simplified
Like a growing urge, a salivating need
That is entrancing and glorified.
Everlasting for moments we call meals
Forgotten in time, lingering above
But the taste, the lonesome lover pushed aside
Gazes afar and near wanting to be enjoyed again
The young lady with a tongue of raspberry delight
And the matured widow with darkened cacao lips
Ripening nectar of a sliced peach center
Halved and topped with mascarpone crème
The man with a skin of caramel glaze
Caressing and savoring
With a fragrance and scent
Of hazelnut coffee indulgence and sin
In the pursuit of a brief love affair
What oral sensation did my taste buds want?
My odyssey of gustatory endeavors await
Through the seas of lined people and waiting staff
Generous portions and humble pies
Decadent desserts so rich you’ll die
Vine cherry tomatoes sliced and sauté
Over al dente rigatoni in a roasted cashew sauce
A robust aroma and savory appeal
Basil leaves with garlic strips
Olive oil to top the surreal
Hubristic meatball aborigine
Elysian cuisine or many dreams
Teasing the senses, warming the pit
Of flowing pleasures
And tingling fingertips
Without moral measures
And succulent wines
Rotisserie lamb falling of the bone
Seasoned with Sicilian herbs
And paired with broiled asparagus
Drizzled with lemon juice
And a glass of Merlot
Spices I hardly know
Lachrymose apologies beside a bottle of faded sorrows
With love there is pain, passion endured through the names
Thin soups, flavorless and dull, feeding street-thrown bums
Breathing hard against the delicatessen glass
Hickory smoked hams, pepper-seasoned pastrami
Vinegar cultured pickles and hard dried salami
Unpleasured, without measure, at one's leisure.
Forever my endeavor
Blackcurrant tea laced with slivers of gooping honey
Layers of cinnamon hair atop olive skin
red-painted doors with cedar trim
crushed almonds mixed with hazelnut butter cream spread
devilish rounds of crumbling rum-swirl bread
Smells and wonders, tastes so ...
oh god
Divine and sublime.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 5:42 PM UTC
Dedicated to John and Bob
From first flesh we move down widening halls
That lead to lives of wondrous walls.
Our spidered fingers gripped walls of brick,
Cruets, cups and candle sticks.
Incense clouded open graves
When we too believed we too were saved.
Between Annex walls we learned our phonics,
On tin-roofed walls we lived our comics.
Garage walls scaled showed different views,
Kitchen walls steamed with soups and stews.
Our school yard walls tallied pitches
That marked our summers of youth and wishes.
Now lift memory's pane and go back
To the white-framed walls of a secret shack.
There, in confusion we would cling
To the unknown wonders girls would bring.
These young boys' walls we both outgrew;
Now new walls sprang, as we did too.
Coffee House walls offered something new.
Wet kisses lingered near shadowy walls,
We heard poetry read in a backroom stall.
Recreationals made our new skin crawl.
Cliff walls were breached by stairs of clay,
Carved by Incas on a turquoise day.
Tent walls echoed with impish fray,
Green walls beckoned at the end of day.
These walls gave rise to hot desires,
Like Vikings planning funeral pyres.
New music, cheers and weekend guests
Stood us ***** to pound our chests.
Those walls no longer ring our shores;
Time swept us forward with worldly lures.
We doffed our coats of suede and frills,
And donned new clothes and workday skills.
The walls of work are a rocky climb,
Stones laid by us, for yours and mine.
Such towers & turrets of heart & hearth
Guard all we know of any worth.
I see distant walls on cliffs, in fields;
Where do they lead? What will they yield?
Yet, there three friends climb one more hill,
Climb one more wall. Then all is still.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 2:58 PM UTC
Moments, each like a drop of rain
That is the continual movement
Of the Omniverse
Forming, falling, breaking and rejoining,
Inhaled back up to the skies
And starting all over again,
Eventually, even the Gods,
Like energy into matter
Like electrons and protons and neutrons
Like atoms into molecules,
Like those bodiless strands of DNA
Floating in magnificent soups of matter,
Cloning themselves,
Like the cells they formed connecting and creating life,
Systems of energy making machines,
Like the bodies that wasted away
When their brains became their graves
Breaking away into pure information,
Finding each other
In the vast expanses of space
And reconnecting like the broken lines of a puzzle
Finally piecing together
To make the image of a single universal being…
They too shall join and make one,
For many are the plains of the multiverse
And many are the gods that stare out
Into its infinite dimensions.
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 1:43 PM UTC
Where are the pens that
Feed our ancestors? The ink out. Or seized
Are they? The cats stand by our soups and
Mother looked on - with perched gob.
This land, what the hell befalls you?
I ask father again - where the voice dwells
Ours is a nation of eaters, no leftovers for
The wandering souls. We cry for a roof to call home.
Where are the pens that
Feed our ancestors? The ink out. Or seized
Are they? The cats stand by our soups and
Mother looked on - with perched gob.
To the grumbling minors, arrows are thrown.
Our dreams now roam in the street like the
Rome of Demons. A dome of doom.
Abiola. Giwa. Strike with your papers.
May 30, 2022
May 30, 2022 at 9:47 AM UTC
He is my least favorite vegetable.
No amount or level of preparation makes him taste better:
Boiling-
brings out his bulbous, insipid ego
the texture of his flamboyant ignorance.
when I timorously sip him in soups or broths,
his oozing insidious misogyny
contaminates my blissful dining, contorts any ingredients still pure.
I fry him, striving to remove the
excess of impertinence which
permeates the oxygen I feebly inhale.
but he evades my maneuvers:
usurps bliss and violates all semblance of tranquility
I cannot prevail
against the throb of his assaulting narcissism
I must instead attempt
to comment
(arduously, fraudulently)
on the delicate iridescence of his silkily mucoused membranes
and admire deftly
his indefatigable ventures to pervade my
every.
serenity.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 3:18 AM UTC
Peaches and pears your delight
Divine roses a gift from your wife
Your favorite soups and stews
Lamb and veal cooked to and fro
In silence in your hammock
Hoping the sun melts the cancer away
If I were there
I would rub your brow and wet your lips
If I were there
I’d warm your sheets and fluff your pillows
If I were there
I would bring you home under the old oak tree
If I were there
I would fill your house with sunflowers
If I were there
I would sing sweet poetry melody
If I were there
I would lay next to you and comfort you
If I were there
I would read you prayers
If I were there
I would have said goodbye
My knight and shining armor
Oct 25, 2010
Oct 25, 2010 at 8:00 AM UTC
Hello.
Enjoy.
I am a soup
tomato, preferably
especially savored
in the winter
with a pinch of Salt
or Pepper or a naughty dob of Cream
When I'm warmed up hot
I giggle,
tickled by bubbles
rising through me
In my can I prayed to the spoon
oh let the kingdom come
imagined soup
just flowing free
& then I flowed
& saw the Spoon
it came for me
I trembled in love
but now, I do not know where Soups go
for now I see only this darkness round me
will I be re-born
into something?
The pepper seemed to think
we are re-born into other beings
he was hoping to become
a butterfly
I hope he got
his wish.
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 11:49 AM UTC
GOD
A bowl half full
a spoon for measure
dips into and takes
division for pleasure
The soups environment
both spoon and bowl
same as the universe
relatively so
Reality beckons
an environmental flaw
having never even existed
possibly at all
thoughts derived environment
like the grids on a map
take it all away
you’re left with the exact
Define then to me
if you found it to be
the environment fictitious
what that would mean
If reality is then all soup
the soup never divided
if then we are the soup
Why aren’t we reminded?
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 9:52 PM UTC
Like when they found the chariot
wheels at the bottom of the
Red Sea so was I surprised
at the faint reaching of the
fig tree, clinging to life amidst
so much dust, as it reached
ever upward in an infinite dance,
unaware of its eventual wanweird fate.
But I tracked on, crunching through
the ancient dirt, scrolls strapped
upon my back, coarse leather digging
through my camel's hair robes, sandy
grit forced in the gaps of
my toes. I cracked the locusts
and devoured them, dampening their bitterness
with the sweet warming explosion of
wild honey. So with bound Pleiades
above me, I gave witness to
Jerusalem, saying "After me will come
one more powerful than I, the
thongs of whose sandals I am
not worthy to stoop down and
untie." And I took them into
the Jordan and made them new
men. As the chill waters numbed
their muscles, their hairs pricked up
like gooseflesh, the night echoing with
splashing water and murmured voices. But
slowly the people trickled away, back
to the twang of lutes, their
ladles of soups, and I was
left alone, sitting, contemplating, always waiting.
So I sent forth the ravens,
carrying my message, to meet at
the Brookhollow no matter the obstruction,
to come by wagon or camel,
no matter of rain or flood.
But they were stubborn and prideful,
and would be moved from their
couches probably by no less than
one of Archimedes' great battleship levers,
and even then with massive groaning
like the coarse wooden hulls of
those monolithic ships. Because the sweet
taste of pastries is lodged upon
their tongues, keeping them occupied with
this world instead of the next.
So here I'll stay, always waiting.
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 1:02 AM UTC
She hardly was an early riser.
Life at home for her was hell.
Violent voices
and mean threats.
She wrote this on a sunny start of the week, monday.
The sun seemed to have been greatly amused at her wrinkled face.
Recently, she discovered she would release a ****
whenever anxiety or nervousness hit her like a dart.
Her daily life began by 4:30am.
There she was in comfort on her irregular bed,
till a sharp light hit her face
and a thunderous voice boomed her ear drums,
His foot steps made so much sound than his voice.
It was her father.
It wasnt his voice that struck her,
or was it the sight of a whip that he wielded so callously.
It was the angry look he always beared on his face.
It was almost as if he was angry with God for waking him up everyday.
Mixed feelings of fright and fuzziness gripped her
she hastily greeted
He didnt respond.
Her sister stood behind her bed
whimpering in fear.
Only then did she discover who the whip was meant to trash at that moment.
The night before
was a nightmare she have seen before.
Her ingredients failed her,
her attention
and her organization
towards the food preparation.
Her Mom hated excuses
Her Dad hated losses and bad soups.
Her promises flew away
Phone accessories became her get-away.
It wasnt the intensity of the funny smell,
or the intense awareness of the pepper and salt,
but it was the searing look her mum had.
Her mom must have mentally shredded her like cabbage, she thought.
Her mom wondered why arguements stuck in her tongue like a tatoo.
Most times she resented her awkward behaviour,
She saw life has an eazy game.
She thought mistakes were a part of our imperfection as human beings and hence should be constantly made.
She didnt understand why God placed her in that family.
Her mom would constantly remind her of the future
She could hear her voice in her sleep
Her mom would speak with her eyes
when her anger has reached a certain height.
Hereditry
played a role
in her usual condescesion.
The environment
played a role
in her usual sadistic talk and thinking.
Yin and Yang,
Cold and Hot,
the order of seasons
Either you can change
or you can not.
Such is the nature of Monica.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 2:25 AM UTC
Cured meats hanging hooked
veiled in shadows, flies resting on pink
salmon flesh and a tall long bearded man
wearing dark denim in the Jewish Quarter
talking adventures, jumping vibrant,
Bold questions and stares, the woman
screaming in the Great Hall Market escorted out,
back of the throat slapping smells
on the train from Budapest to Bucharest
Stories from a tired man
aging wearing a musty coat no bag, complaining about wild
children near the dead sea throwing rocks at his sinking house
Hands beckoning in between white flapping cloths
- white sails everywhere high up, sleeping in the Hare Krishna temple
with mosquitoes ******* my legs, fishing for mussels
and eating grilled corn, 6.am grey skied Istanbul,
Morning prayers, the setting up of stalls
The shouting, the tasting of honey thick with the bees still immersed,
the tasting of cheese wet and dry brânză de burduf,
chubritza, soups, the hash and the ham. Escorted out
The juice leaking from tender meat
A sweating brow
Pockets full of coffee beans
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 8:57 PM UTC
Francis Bacon was a pig
He grew to be very big
And when he reached his maximum
The man from the butcher's then did come,
And hit him very hard on the head
And Francis Bacon was then dead.
The man then proceeded to
Chop him up, first into two,
Then he merrily carried on
Till what had been Francis was all gone.
He was now like a meaty jigsaw puzzle
From his tail to his snouty snuzzle,
Ham, pork and bacon he'd become
Joints,and chops, and also some,
Big pork sausages hung in loops,
And his bones were boiled to make soups,
Then the bones were sent off to,
A factory where they made glue,
So if a moral to this tale you seek -
"You can eat all of a pig except its squeak."
Tom Higgins 15/05/2015
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 4:58 AM UTC
I have come to a conclusion.
We are in an endless cycle.
We wake up and think about food.
We eat sugary cereals for breakfast
so we go to school or work thinking about food.
Afterschool, we watch food and beauty advertisements
that make us feel bad about ourselves,
so what do we do?
Shop for food and clothes to make us
"feel better" and to "fill the void."
After shopping, we get tired and watch television
where we, yet again, shovel even MORE food
into our lifeless pieholes.
We also don't want to cook anything,
so our meals consist of Campbell's soups, frozen pizzas and leftovers of whatever casserole is in the house.
Even after eating dinner, we are tempted to eat more,
so we have DESSERT!
Because of our constantly on-the-go lifestyle, half the time we are not even conscious of what we're eating.
Ironically, yet predictably, we go to sleep thinking about what we will have for breakfast the next day.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 11:08 PM UTC
Some like their poetry with ten percent less
Compressed
Into small, easy to swallow portions
Contortioned
Into short, sweet sugar-coated contents
Condensed
Into watered down soups for those emotionally constipated
Concentrated
Into thoughtless juice for the self-conflicted
Constricted
To the mind of the starving poet, cosmetically redesigned
Continuously Confined
Jun 8, 2012
Jun 8, 2012 at 6:47 PM UTC
on my basement cellar shelves i keep
a buncha cans:
soups, water chestnuts.. tomato paste
some firewood & old glass.
i go there in the evenings with a drink,
heft the big axe/chop wood, kindlings.
a friend even slept down there one time
my house was full up of sleepers (drunks)
he said the sand was cold/but comforting.
i told him:
*"that's why i go down barefoot.
that dusty sand on my feet/takes me someplace else."*
Sep 22, 2011
Sep 22, 2011 at 8:29 PM UTC
Throw away your brooms and your mops
and all the tops to your good old canned goodies
and in fact throw your little cans of goody foods
with soups and little fruities away down
your flight of stairs and flight of windows down
those shining new linoleum walls
no need to worry about garbage here in these streets
so clean so clean so mean, and lean
and here everyone cries their child cries
and their bottles whistle that empty milk whistle
red wine milk drink drunk drank drinker
old clean city blues I see your dirt musings
can’t hide from me this great dirt
more dirt here than dirt itself has to offer
all things candy coated sticky nightlife
sticky affluence all your feet
stick to the black tar candy sucker floor
and I see you’ve been rat-free for thirty years
no bugs no slugs no moss
only late night sad sauce
always empty and wanting more
no rats no cats no dogs here
only cowboy hats
and all those old boys move
on down South anyway
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 6:32 PM UTC
In a moment of defeat and despair,
we begged, “What will you eat?!”
"Noodles!" She declared.
"Noodles," we agreed, "noodles are fine."
And so noodles upon noodles upon
noodles we’ve tried: noodles boiled,
steamed and fried; strings, tubes and
swirls; noodles shaped like bunnies,
unicorns and dinosaurs; in sauces
and soups, in cheesious goops;
noodles with veggies (until veggies
were banned); noodles with
mushrooms (only from a can);
noodles made of wheat, lentils, rice or
corn - noodles made of everything
noodles could suborn.
Noodles for lunch and for dinner -
noodles again and again and again
- and what then? How many times
can one noodle? How many noodles
until brains begin to spill onto plates
in a braineous-noodle-ous state?
Noodles for breakfast - can’t do it.
Noodles for lunch - can’t get thru it.
Noodles are banned! Noodles are
not welcome near here - never again!
At least not today anyway.
Ok, fine...
NCL August 2019
Aug 7, 2019
Aug 7, 2019 at 12:25 PM UTC
endlessly, again & again.
overflowing, a fountain
of heartache, desire.
words erupt like lava
from lips, soft as petals:
these words are beautiful.
simply said, elegantly whispered,
unassuming as snow.
they are as paper before ink.
it is only once we think
that they start to sting:
spider bites, bee stings,
a mosquito ******* blood
as a lover may suckle on your *******
i do not need to be filled with warm coffee,
with soups, salads & sustenance,
with your tongue & your fingers.
i do not need to be fulfilled by anything
save your gaze:
a moonbeam that shatters my freckled skin.
i simply crave your words of adoration,
and your sleepy, contented smile.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 7:22 AM UTC
Oh mama we're broke,
Yes we're as broke as the August drenches during a drought. We're as broke as the old jar on the mantle, the empty one with the dust and flies that used to hold our spare pennies.
We're broke like the rust on pa's chevy or the must on the ripped leather seats
or broke
like the missing tooth in Ronnie's crooked smile.
We're broke like the clothes that no patches could repair, Lindie's dress scraggled at the hem like a piece of crinkled paper.
We're broke like the cupboard with the peeling paint,
limp lifeless and bare.
We're broke like the old mutt of a dog that has surrendered to the unmopped floor.
We're broke like the work on my brothers back or like the young un's toys, soiled with the earth.
We're broke like the old tin that once held coffee,
we're broke like the spoat but the tap ran dry.
Oh me, oh my , we're broke.
We're broker than condiments, broker than the pots of watered down soups, broker than pa's tobacco pipe, broker than my overalls, held together by twang, or broker than the dried out grain of our raspy field. We're broker than the pitchfork, the ones thats missing two teeth.We're broker than the wintertime potato stew kind of broke, the one that brings a frosty bite.We're broker than the fight or the struggle, we're at the bottom of this cascading chain. At the core of our selves. We're broker than this dry ridden soil underneath my nails. Broker than a frown, now only a smile, we're broker than the layer of dust at the bottom of the barrell. We're broker than resentment.
Oh man were broke Mama!
So won't you please come home?
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 4:02 PM UTC
shattered
torn asunder
in the maelstrom
the churning
of colliding seas
how we
were tsunamis
cast from foreign worlds
towering o'er star-crossed shores
devouring civilizations
those were my dreams
and there
with light eclipsing the sun
were angels
whilst God commanded
who should be saved
and who would meet
their end
by the maws
of the surging grave
the tides if death
the vengeance we partook o'er evil
to sap the fires
of the cannibals' cauldrons
of the wicked witches' works
of the devil's deed scouring the lands of innocence
tilling world for harvests of souls
God warred with fury
with wrath untold
with heaven's war cries raging, bold
I saw the towers
fall as dominoes
shrieks of villainy
soups of human flesh spilled,
feasts ruined in droves
and I ne'er wept so poorly
ne'er kissed the ground so humbly
watching the world overturned in its savagery
by change so indomitable
by goodness so gracious
but I had
as all children do
given up my dreams
of being heroic
of being a champion
for justice
was God's alone
I gave up my visions
of power unassailable
of justice that trounces reprisal
of vengeance beyond sin,
I gave it all up to God
to a victor
who is more
than a conqueror
to a being
who is love incarnate
whose surrender
is destruction loosed upon the wicked
whose mercy
touches only those who art cleansed
of their murderous hearts
and their chaotic whims
I gave up my power
to the redeemer of all who art redeemed
and to the devils I say,
woe betide those who consort
with the fallen one
whose days shall no longer be numbered
when the gates of damnation
close in upon him
and open again
no longer...
Aug 23, 2024
Aug 23, 2024 at 1:44 AM UTC
Faded brick streets,
Iron-colored pathway
Leading us downtown
Lilac shirt,
**** black raspberries,
Bursts of sweet, floral blueberries on my tongue
Old ladies in long dresses
with baskets full of vegetables
Saturday morning
Honey in espresso
Bluegrass in the blue grass
16, 17, 18 windows
Waving at little ones
while fathers' backs are turned
Sweet little braids and pink bows
Brown, but golden in the sun
Busy streets on market mornings
Moss-covered picnic tables
Giggling under shaded hide-aways
Breathe in the present
Sunshine shimmering through Maple trees
Beads of sweat;
rolling down water bottles and my forehead
Glass, pottery, and macrame
Herbs, microgreenery, and fruit
My mouth waters
with thoughts of sautees and soups
Robins chirp over the bustling morning crowd
The scent of fresh baked sourdough
carried by the breeze
Young, hip parents intermingling with kind, old farmers
All of us captivated with the now
Jul 20, 2019
Jul 20, 2019 at 12:16 PM UTC
False flags and panic. Fear the other. Hate.
Be a Patriot. Act. As you are told.
When the people are frightened, they obey.
These are the times that few men try. At all.
No one can own you unless you want them to.
Gun in hand worth ten senators. Boom.
Gay Straight Male Female Black White Muslim Jew.
Exactly the opposite of E Puribus Unum.
Stir and stir, yet the *** does not melt.
Too many soups only antagonize the cook.
The fires of discord sizzle and fry.
Dare not to think, just buy and buy.
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 2:01 PM UTC
the currency of
grieving is in....
casseroles and soups,
left with notes,
on the back doorstep
flowers, bright, beautiful
and fragant,
delivered by gangling, teenage boys.
awkard silences and cups
of lukewarm tea.
mumbled condolences and
too tight hugs
late night rememberances,
after,
far too many drinks
tears, laughter and
in-house jokes...
photos, stories and
space for quiet reflection.
these things are...
the dollars and cents
of grief for a friend
but when all is, said
and done....
i would much prefer
to be penniless,
begging on the street,
with pockets empty
and moths for friends.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 5:24 AM UTC