Split Pea Soup

Brother and I were hunting fairies and

Catching colds in the winter air

From staying out too late trying to snatch


Shooting stars with our tongues and

Making wishes on falling flakes of snow.

Dreaming of days when Mom’s voice,


Breathing miasma into our fairyland of snow,

Wouldn’t beckon us inside to sit at the table and

Listen to Dad and Mom discuss the details


Of some tenant down the street who ate

A bullet, and how no one saw it coming.

But Dad said that all eggs crack eventually.


All the while they sat pondering the

Screwdriver across the hall

Who made his kids work on saturdays,


And maybe we should have them over for dinner.

◄ Pinup Girl

Made of These ►


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Cynthia Buell Thomas

Wed 8th Nov 2017 12:19

I am so impressed with your scope, your imagination and your writing ability to express such strong ideas so expertly, in the vernacular of common imagery. Your titles are masterful, punching the reader's mind to expand.

But it all starts with 'thinking', doesn't it? Analysing. Balancing. Bringing together seemingly disparate ideas. Associating. Everything is interesting. Nothing is irrelevant.

You are well-bitten by the 'poetry bug'.

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