Poem: Mom’s Pasta Spoon

She stood at the steaming stove
with the pasta spoon in her hand,
ready to sink its black teeth into the
spaghetti.

We were starving for her
to lift those cooked threads with the sleek tool
and serve us the supper we waited all day for:
The spaghetti, the sauce, the hunger –
gone.


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Poem for Mother's Day
and for
Thursday Poets Rally

Wishing for Sonnet’s Death

The poetic form of the old sonnet,
Seems so useless and very out of date
No more do girls wear a fancy bonnet
And such should be iambic poems fate.

This savage poem cuts the brain for meat,
It pierces with sharp rhymes o’r fire to fry.
And dances ‘round to words that fiercely beat,
Until the life has left the page to die.

So throw the worthless prose into the fire
Stoke the flames to make it glow bright and hot
Chant until you’re dizzy with desire
Stab its tiny heart so it will live not.

We wish for death upon restrictive lines,
and forcing fourteen phrases into rhymes.

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This is being posted for Thursday Poets Rally, Week 16