And something of a specialty of mine, though I remain in awe of others.
Chel and I share a passion for this sort of thing and I must say that her poem about soup, this morning (my time) was quite special. It gives one something to aspire to. I repeat it here for your reading displeasure …
I don’t like soup it makes me think of love
Erstwhile torment forsooth magniloquent
Like when my boyfriend made me soup with doves
Pain angst pain angst pain angst I’m eloquent
I took a steak he cut out from my heart
Or flank -oh, agony! At least the taste
Was better, far, than soup I think in part
But haste I hates or waste on waist for taste
“You make no sense,” he croons from slurping spoon,
“The dove I caught, the steak a homophone.”
“Alas,” I rage to azure suns, then swoon
At this failed step to feed my sex hormones
Something symbolic and depressed goes here
And then I rhyme with ‘soup’ and sound unclear
It’s not too late to offer her your own soup recipe, but try to remember that anything with any claim to artistic merit will go to the bottom of the pile.
I did write something in response but I seem to have (considerately) deleted it.
Nevertheless, in the spirit of terrible poetry, I did offer something to Sammi which required 45 words relating in some way to the one word ‘Zest’. Here is what I said …
Buried here amongst his peers
Family. The near and dears
A man of hope. Of endless love
Now somewhere yonder, up above
Having taken one last breath
Repose forever now in death
Gone his treasured zest for life
(I caught him messing with my wife)
And now dammit, it’s come to my attention that it was supposed to be only 41 words. But if something is worth doing badly I might as well get it completely wrong. And anyway, I’m too lazy to do anything about it. Feel free to deduct 4 words of your own choosing at random – it will have little impact on the overall artistic merit.