Thursday, November 19, 2009

Olive Oil and Talking Myself to Bed

There it is
in the steaming wine sauté
meandering about the room
dancing with herbs
and spices

it's hopping about
in tiny oil splatters
and dripping artfully
onto clean

it's in the sound of
carbon steel meeting
moist wood
a knife writing it's name
in each item
a pan sealing
it's locked within

it's in the glistening
salad leaves
red and green;

floating in soups

wound deeply in the
knot of angel pasta
floating up from the
boiling water.

but mostly it's
in the heart and hands
of the chef

a gift of love
for the stomach
and soul.


A strange thing it is
that tears should be warm
a tea brewed within your heart
and poured in celebration
of love and loss;

more like blood
than water.

A beautiful release
a punctual headache
removing glasses
rubbing the bridge of
your nose;
something beyond
that annoying
"upper lip" phrase.

Allowing not the wallow
but the wrapping of a blanket
letting yourself

Listing little lies
great intention
lacking gusto
the kitchen floor
never submitting to
hands and knees.

Always such important things
running about in a whirling mind;
plenty of time to do all that


just as company arrives,
a great desire consumes -
a need
to do
the laundry.

Stuffed this and that sitting
on porcelain platters
can't distract fully
from the thumping
of the washing machine
and the constant clatter
of scrubbing dishes

the vacuum comes out
met with a dirty look from
the TV viewers
and the mop is shunned;
apparently some people need
the bathroom open
no questions asked

the chores end

there is nothing left
but to sit and talk;
but the world seems too still
and the conversation is
not enough to hold attention

eyes darting about the room
looking for imperfection
purpose beyond a simple chat.

Hours pass
baseball games
action movies
dirty jokes
listening to one's mind

then the company leaves

the room falls silent

and you're left wondering
where did the time go?
You're ready to give in
let go

you fall back;
staring at the ceiling
for hours.

Daydreams of conversations
yet to be uttered -
the future.

Yet in the night
dreams of nothing;
a darkness plain and unnatural
stays fixed all about
my eyes

Where are the space journeys
sea voyages
castle walls
and cobbled streets?

The void consumes me
and sleep itself becomes a symbol
a cause
of unrest.

What use is there in dreams
when the greatest adventures
and epic loves
are wrapped in cloth
and paper?

The hero
isn't you
those lovers
don't love you
and you certainly aren't
an angel
floating above the world
written below

Looking for similarities

and meaning in fiction
is a messy business
the covers of a book
will never contain more
than the covers
of your own bed.

So the attempt is made

each night
to drift off with
a new tide


Anonymous said...

Amazing job here...I love the first poem...the mingling of smell and sights you have conjured for the pleasure of the reader. I was amused by the second...thinking that I too have been haunted by chores while company was about, usually this happens when I have nothing in common with said company...

Lovely Little Lovelies said...

a wave of hunger is rolling over me now. if the poetry doesn't work out, you might want to consider a career as a food writer.