The gas fires are lit,
And the steel warms.
As the Angus goes from deep red to gray,
It hisses when turned.
A dog waits,
Obediently,
In the hopes that something might slip.
Gorgeous smells abound,
But no one except I knows from where,
For it is 7am on a Friday morning and the fog has settled on Tacoma.
Living in and near Seattle does not come without some side effects, one of them being the thought that one can write free form poetry.
At least I can control the subject matter.
Ya know, you don’t hafta be freeform, there’s a Haiku in there somewhere…
It would be hella frustrating to live next door to you and smell food being grilled every morning as I drove off to work.
Russell, Ellie and Mrs. B know that this morning their meal doesn’t come from a bag full of brown nuggets – and they say “Thank You Master”.
….and in the distance, a howl;
a vegan’s stomach
yearns for what it is denied.
My attitude about “free-form verse” is that it is usually written by prople who can’t rhyme two lines and are too stoned to write anything long enough to be called a short story,,, But then I like Kipling, so what do I know.