I'm so sad that no one replied to my post in my class discussion. It was a mini poem collection comprising of the latest three poems that we wrote for the class. We all had to reply to two people. I'm curious why mine was avoided. It was the only one without replies. I would understand if it was the last one posted, but it was rather early. Sigh, I just wanted some feedback from at least one person. May they were too long? Some had longer poems, though. Maybe they just weren't good enough and led to people turning away? My friend said that maybe my writing style was intimidating? Whatever it was, I'm just going to post the three here. Maybe a passerby could understand.
Morning filters through kitchen curtains, / a plump woman, surrounded by ingredients, / wields a knife above a wooden board painted with raised scars / beside a heating stockpot sizzling with butter ready.
Chop, chop, chop sweet onion, / slices voicing their distress / Chop, chop, chop garlic, / cloves slick as minced and pressed / Sizzle, their fragrance alerting for their release / done set aside, replaced by oil ready
Chop, chop, chop andouille sausage, / splitting casing into small rounds / Chop, chop, chop brined chicken, / sliced against the grain / Chop, chop, chop shrimp, / decapitated, amputated, deveined / Sizzle one by one, set to the side / leaving juices behind for butter and flour / whisked till chocolate / deglazed by chicken broth ready
Chop, chop, chop celery, / fibers crunch along the stock / Chop, chop, chop carrots, / pealed, the root’s clapping snaps / Chop, chop, chop bell peppers, / water released from disrupted julienned veins / Chop, chop, chop okra, / slimy seeds cling to the blade / Sizzle under the lid / bathing in the roux, mingling in the sauna / until tender enough to accept those old and new ready
Pour, caramelized onion and garlic / Pour, sautéed meats / Pour, additional chicken stock / united they weave together their flavors / enhanced by Cajun seasoning and hot sauce until / infused when the sun nears it journey towards the horizon ready
Warm rice awaits the ladle carrying its blanket / Chop, chop, chop green onion, / empty cylinders small and light / Chop, chop, chop parsley, / rolled up leaves sliced into strips / both adorn the tucked slumber served ready.
Upon mountains, conifers mingle with the heavens, / below their bodies bound to an earth that / while before allowed them to bloom, to age throughout written and lost history, / now wane each passing bout of seasons as their land’s bounty dwindles.
Rusted armor of bark and cork shields / wrinkled flesh encasing a vulnerable heart / susceptible to the beasts that crackle and howl, / a writhing rumbling sprawling across a feeble feast. / Fate’s sweltering message is clear in its intimidation, / the trembling workers adorning the crowns— / those who gather nourishment from the gleaming sun above— / curl inward in a miserable attempt to protect all they’ve known.
Ignorant fauna scramble into brittle armor: / beetles who feast upon the feeble flesh, / ants and spiders with generations of history, / snails who retreat into shells that cling along the crown, / wasps who organize to protect their queen, and / salamanders who feast on those hidden in reach. / Others try to retreat: / scorpions, frogs, and rodents burrow below the roots, under kindling, / with the hope that it might shelter them from the insatiable inferno while / bats, birds, and moths flee into charcoal plumes blanketing the redden sky.
The barraging beasts arrive, springing forth as if with a vengeance unspoken, / jagged teeth and claws scorching and scathing across the armor, piercing through, / searing sweet flesh bubbling with caramelizing sap that fuels their ravenous onslaught, / a gluttonous gorging upon emaciated elders who can only surrender. / Their blazing bodies ascend, omnivores devouring succulent corpses, / shriveling roasts that meld to once called homes along the path of / swirling maws mauling their way towards withering workers / that blister from the heat, melting in their mouths like candied treats.
This hellion feast lasts until each rejuvenating taste cease lingering on their tongues / where they leave what once stood proud in heaven’s light as only charred ruins. / Tired, some are left to fester in the cinders as once devastating might flickers, / allowing them to fall into a forever slumber within powdered ashes of lost history.
Pink flickers below / fuels immediate action / memories alight
Generosity / once happily accepted / flies upon the wind
To shield from the sun / pink as waiting eagerness / a hat safely lands
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