Poem: Crackling

fresh meat
dripping blood
skin peeled back
spiced and salted
fried in butter
until crisply rendered

heaven knocks at my door
begging for a taste

go to hell
I reply
it’s where I got the recipe.

Poem: Terror Ala Wooden Spoon

she was fully conceived
when the world clearly defined
for rigid ill or static good
who cared for whom
these ones spoke
those ones listened

slow simmering tinpot dictator
the kitchen was her empire
she cooked to feed armies
of farm workers and children
now these ones fed on demand
and those ones to be silent

she ruled by arms reach
and persistent wooden spoons
maple and beech always in hand
waiting to deliver judgement
here more spice and salt
there less sass and talk

lightening quick and precise
domestic empress every watchful
nothing escaped her
ah mother I do miss your justice
for you an extra serving
and for you an extra kiss.