I am craving a snow cone on this Poetry Tuesday. Cherry, preferably. That might be hard to find in December in NYC. So, instead, I am having ice cream for breakfast. It's cold comfort. Tee hee.
Continuing my tradition of admitting to having written weird food-related poetry (even loosely food-related), here's a scorcher for you. I wrote this one (on Halloween, apparently) when I was 14 years old.
1. Snow cone on fire in the dead of night
Sputtering and burning with a white, unholy light
Forms a signal beckoning with language clear and bright
glow cast on my windowpane
offers sincere shelter from the rain
Fallout from the sky is snow
Night scatters ash and Dusk below
My snow cone's light is firm and slow
It preserves a steady flow
on faces wavering unsure of love
light pierces ice bright from above
I sing a silent siren song
calling your unhappy soul
dwell with me and be made whole
bring back what other men once stole
I cannot reach your wasted tears
Etch of patterns rich with fears
2passing time finds still aglow
light beacon on a bless'd tableau
Your upturned face is ringed with light
On a cold and almost sightless night
steal you up into my home
This girl and her snow cone
no longer alone.
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