More Soup, Less Cook

So many poems read like a thin soup tastes

Leaving a slick film on the mental palate

And a vast hunger in the heart that begs

The question, Is there no more in the poet's

Kitchen, that one understands how cheap fast food

Songs have become so popular no one

Can stomach hearty words, preferring to

Associate emotionally outside

The greasy fare, to ruminate select,

Prechewed ideas, conveniently procured

From out of air, the cupboard bare, at home

As is in heaven, daily bread forgotten

Amid the daily grind, call it a day.

Original song like unground seed grain

Lives underground in cellars of the brain.

Now is the night of discontent a spring,

Frozen above, below a living thing,

Until the sun returns diurnally.

Imagination turns internally

Upon itself as in sleep, dreaming when

A loving maker awakens hungry again.

Breakfast is served.

KLK

12/23/13