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.


=========
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Seems so useless and very out of date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.

================

This is being posted for Thursday Poets Rally, Week 16

A Brief Moment By The Fire


There was a brief moment
by the fire
when the two women
considered the unthinkable:

They wondered what would happen
if they tore off their constricting
dresses, corsets, underthings,
and tossed them in.

They would find themselves
standing there naked,
free,
watching the warm light
glow with the fabric fuel,
and ashes of their former life
flit up on the rising heat,
only to be stopped
by the ceiling.


========
This is my first work for the Poetry Prompt MEME. I hope to keep participating and keep writing poetry.

Poem: Returning to the Scene of a Murdered Metaphor

by Amy the Black


Your lungs are what I saw first, displayed on the window, those disgusting balloons gasping at the stale air.

Then your liver, sitting at the bar, drinking another cheap beer—the brand I can’t stand.

Your stomach sat at the table, reading a digest and devouring a nauseous meal.

Your eyes were playing pool, chalking up their sticks and trying to sink the eight ball.

Your dick was on the floor, flopping desperately like a fish out of water.

Your heart was lounging by the radio, tapping a ventricle to the beat of a song I’d rather forget.

But what I hated most were your guts, strung up on the ceiling, and clinging to the chandelier, oozing excrement onto the floor.

You were in pieces, and I was the suspect, so I turned a cold shoulder and ran.