Poetry Friday

It's nine o'clock on a Friday night and I'm sitting here desperately trying to write. Not write blog posts, that's easy for me. I'm trying to write fiction. I've just started a book that makes me want to write so badly I can taste it. I want beautiful and delicious words to spring from my hands. So I type in a couple of lines, and then my brain panics. It screams at me "what the hell are you doing?" and "you can't do that" and all other sorts of crap that my brain likes to give me. And so I close the word document without saving and stare at the computer for a bit longer. As if my courage will somehow come by contemplating this ancient computer. And then I repeat.

So to break the monotony of the cycle I'm posting a poem. I wanted something fearless, something bold. And I sat and read poem after poem looking for inspiration. Instead I remembered this. It's not fearless or even my opinion. But it does make me smile.

For my friends the true carnivores. You know who you are.

The Health-Food Diner

by Maya Angelou

No sprouted wheat and soya shoots

And Brussels in a cake,

Carrot straw and spinach raw,

(Today, I need a steak).

Not thick brown rice and rice pilaw

Or mushrooms creamed on toast,

Turnips mashed and parsnips hashed,

(I'm dreaming of a roast).

Health-food folks around the world

Are thinned by anxious zeal,

They look for help in seafood kelp

(I count on breaded veal).

No smoking signs, raw mustard greens,

Zucchini by the ton,

Uncooked kale and bodies frail

Are sure to make me run

to

Loins of pork and chicken thighs

And standing rib, so prime,

Pork chops brown and fresh ground round

(I crave them all the time).

Irish stews and boiled corned beef

and hot dogs by the scores,

or any place that saves a space

For smoking carnivores.