The enormous scratched, dented, silver pot sweats on the stove top,
as the angry steam spits, rattles, and lifts the lid
allowing the aroma of pinto beans, onions, garlic, and Mom’s magic to waft through the house and meet me at the front door.
My mouth waters, as I lift a spoon of the brown, nutty, salty, comforting treasure
to scald my lips and tongue, and embrace me in a warmth of love, home and wealth that far exceeded the scorch of the soup.
About the Creator
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The Wish
I wonder when I’ll know me again. Everyone around seems to know me. I feel scattered. I feel adrift. I feel unmoored. I feel unfamiliar, though I’m familiar with all that is around me. All these people around me are sailing in their little boats, moving swiftly through the river of their days as if everything is the same, but nothing is the same. I watched my capsized boat descend into the depths of something dark that I didn’t recognize, and now I am trying to move forward in chest-deep mud flowing in the opposite direction of my course. Their lives move on and forward, but mine has stopped and moving in any direction, especially where I perceive forward to be, is pushing against this unknown mud leaving me immobilized.
By Leslie Stavenabout a year ago in Poets
Standing While Falling
Quotation from Friedrich Nietzsche "He who wrestles long with monsters should beware lest he himself become a monster. And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you. Man is not destroyed by suffering, but by the meaning he makes of it."
By LUCCIAN LAYTH4 days ago in Critique
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