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.
Last night we not only featured a returning Meg Smith, but she was able to read once again in The Chapel of St. John The Evangelist, which makes even the peddling your books seem like a holy act. Also, Meg writes a lot of horror/Gothic poetry. A little of that got into today's poem. Not too much, hence the silly title. Thanks for reading.
Randian Gothic
America blames its grey days
on too many ingredients
in the melting pot.
We pretend there's no history
between the nation
and crows gathering on the fence.
We say this isn't about
the bread left to rot
on our side of the sun.
We envision humanity
as a protective dome with a view,
those others helplessly pounding.
Stale crumbs and crow feathers
for no one to feast on
after April rain.
Frost still falls in spring.
Believer, unbeliever, stand quiet,
prepare to wipe imaginary blood.
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| First open mic without James Van Looy in so long! |
Special thanks to Martha Boss, Erik Nelson, Laurel Lambert, John Lane and Meg Smith.
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