Showing posts with label yolk. Show all posts
Showing posts with label yolk. Show all posts

Saturday, April 25, 2009

Poetry: Cake Days

I have cooking on the brain because I just recently got in from a cooking class, so it should be no surprise then that my poem # 25 for the poetry pledge drive is cooking related (on one level anyway).

Cake Days

The cake will come out perfect -
Sliding smoothly out
Of the pan, even on all sides,
Moist and melting

On your tongue. No crumbs
Will get in the frosting as
You ice. People on diets
Will take seconds and hope
No one notices. I promise,

You will have days like this.

The next day, you may burn
The toast, accidentally crack
The egg yolks, the whites

Coming out like rubber, the timing
All wrong, your juice
Glass more than half-empty
Before your plate is
Ready.

But you can
Remember the cake.

To read other poems or poetry-related posts on this blog, click here.

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Poetry: Little Yolk

In honor of National Poetry Month, which starts today, I've decided to participate in the Academy of American Poets' pledge drive. Much like a runner might collect donations for a charity for miles run in a race, by writing a poem every day this month and by raising small donations for those poems, I hope to do my small part to keep an art form I love alive.

I'm not a great poet by any stretch of the imagination, but I enjoy writing poetry from time to time and have always wished I took time to do it more often, so this is a good excuse to force myself to write. At the very least, I expect it will be a fun experiment - I can't imagine keeping up with the daily quota will be easy or that the results will always be something I would normally want to print for public consumption! So, I promise to amuse, if not inspire - maybe both unintentionally (with my bad poetry) and intentionally (to break up the monotony, I may throw in one or two bawdy limericks and/or absurd haiku).

So without further ado, in observance of April Fool's Day, I give you a brief portrait of a fool . . .

Little Yolk


In those days,

She wasn’t the type to burn

Bridges in the name of feminism.

Which isn’t to say

She wasn't a feminist;

She’d just learned to choose

Her battles. She smiled and thanked

The man eating at

The counter

Who said, “You’re smart

For a woman,” a little yolk,

Yellow, dribble

Hanging from his beard.

She thought it was

Futile to argue

With the man

With money

Who didn’t realize

He had egg on his face.



To read other poems or poetry-related posts on this blog, click here.