Chicken Soup


There’s something about the taste of simple food
A pinch of salt over grilled meat
A sip of chicken soup
That whispers ‘home’, and ‘longing’, and ‘forgiveness’,
And ‘I’ll never leave you’s
The sense of eternities spent apart
On a cloud-bed mattress
When all you could ever hope for
Was just across the little creek
Trailing down the grassy knoll
Through the evergreen forest
Through the windswept town
To the door where she waits
Smiling, with a bowl of chicken soup

“I’m home.”



Hot. Steaming.
Potful of liquid golden earth.
A sip brings notes of roasted barley
and patter of deersteps across the forest hearth.
It coils and uncoils, a wisp of tranquil heat
down the bend of my throat
over the crevice-laced heart
mending forgotten muscles and tussles,
hustles the over-ground mill
that once again begins to spin.
And in the wind that trails its wings,
relish the scents
of winter,
and spring.


Land of No Seasons

Spring is who I first learned to love
Only sunshine and rainbows up above
Not too hot; too cold; but a perfect warmth
Sweet smile; sweet lips; she shall not be forgot

Summer is who I stayed with the longest
Way too hot; succubus among us
Wet here; wet there; shorts shorter than short
Heart or the heat? But man was she hot

Autumn is who I found depressed
With crazy nights and even crazier sex
Drunk on a drug, on time trapped in slow motion
Can’t understand my own broken emotions

Winter is who convinced me to give up
Shard of ice cool until it cuts
And once you’re bled through it’s already far too late
No escape from your pitch-black fate

And it’s a shame; it really is, for I
Never actually knew these seasons four
‘Cept for the tales passed down from distant yore
As a man from the land of no seasons