I consider myself an occasional poet because I don’t have a burning need to write, and I’ve gone months at a time without writing a poem. When the mood (or the muse) strikes, however, I’m quick to get the words down on paper. The following poem “struck” this past April. (Perhaps I should call it a prose poem? It makes me think of the saying, “You can call me anything you want; just don’t call me late for dinner.”)
Peace to your ♥!
When the Mood Strikes
When the mood struck, I grabbed it in a hold of my own devising,
threw it in the pasta pot where the water was boiling, slammed down
the lid, and waited for the water to boil over. Then I drained it, rinsed it,
sliced it, minced it, tossed it in a pan with some fancy Spanish olive oil,
added wasabi for kick, mushrooms for umami, carrots for color, salt
and pepper to taste. Gave it five minutes for the vegetables to cook
and five more for good measure. Dumped it on a plate with the soggy
rice noodles, popped open a wine cooler, and had myself a little dinner.
When the mood strikes, I strike back.
Serendippity 