White Rice

This meant for us that the truck had come
and there would be cheese, meat,
and bread, filling stomachs lonely
too long with the ache of hunger.

The earthy smell of grain filled
the house with the warm scent of comfort
and the rattle of the old pot’s lid sang
with the chimes of neighboring church bells.

Salty margarine melted and spread
over the rice like a child’s blanket,
resting next to fried spam
and canned creamed corn.

Our bellies were satisfied
and Mother smiled again
as everyone yawned and stretched
with the contentment of the very full.

A poem on how I spent my afternoon today .  Seasons Greetings and Happy Holidays.

Afternoon Solstice

“Oh I wish I had a river
I could skate away on.”
–Jonie Mitchell

Lamps flickered on and waned
as the men from Duquesne Light
worked with a failing transformer.
Cobwebs sizzled as dusty candles
leaned like Italian towers
in ill-fitting candelabras
from an anniversary long past.

Slices of pink and tender ham
were passed beneath flickering shadows.
Butter clung to brussell sprouts
like an embrace as butter beans
shucked off their coats of translucent skin.

The presents were then opened in
the checkerboard kitchen near
benevolent windows reflecting in light.
As the last gift was opened
electricity sang like a familiar carol
bidding the darkness to fly away.

Well, I did it, I am done with school and I now have a Bachelor of Arts in Professional Writing!  I finished last week, and I’ll graduate cum laude with a 3.698 GPA.  Not bad for being 35 and working full time while I did it, eh?

Ok, enough crowing.  Since I’m done, I can go back to writing for pleasure instead of writing for grades.  Here is my first poem in a few months.

Thanksgiving Dinner

The flowers spilled over the edge of their vase
bathing the table in perfumed decadence
until the smells of turkey and dressing
overshadowed the understated floral notes.

Buttered vegetables and basted meat
were passed, scooped, and piled
on anxious Styrofoam quivering
beneath the weight of uncomfortable burden.

The years had not been kind to all who gathered
to dine and forget together salty words
and to hide the things unsavory
with ladles and ladles of gravy.

There were dinners past that no one mentioned
scented feasts on sweet dahlias of innocence
those who ate from the harvest of shame
with fingers that dipped into and tore tender flesh.

It is better to grow drunk on shared silence,
to stare at plates that have no memories
to focus on food that cannot speak
or come back from the dead.