Stone Soup Croutons is a weekly poem I write using lines and impressions picked up from poems overheard from Stone Soup's open mic readers and features. I figure out a title (and sometimes the rest of the poem) later. You can read the other ones I've done since 2015 here. To paraphrase Lorne Michaels, this poem doesn't go up because it's ready, it goes up because it's Friday morning.
This Wednesday, despite the cold, we had a wonderful feature performance by Kelly DuMare. I appreciate the people coming to our new location for the first time. There was a lot of good material to help me get back on the Croutons poem horse after a week away.
Kelly had a lot of inspirational verse that night, and yet my poem still turned out a bit dark. There's only me to blame. Thanks for reading.
Ill Blown
The new casinos let us all
pull at their neon windmills
for the chance at a pauper's grave.
The west wind would prefer
a lullaby over any ode, restless
yet overtired with storms.
The small details are here
a spider resting on our legs.
They all work for the devil now.
On TV, it's Them Russians!
Them Russians! Their president
asks Why so Syria? Crimea river.
A handful of prime tainted soil
is thrown in these quiet waters.
It squelches all calm to clench.
Take to hiding in the trees.
New overlords watch from Heaven,
everyone's bad dates turned stalker.
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| Quality over quantity. Always. |
Special thanks to Shannon O'Connor, Matthew Callaway, Sue Kennedy, James Van Looy and Kelly DuMar.
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