Ice Cream Soup
So get this--I don't do poetry. But I'm taking this poetry course hoping that I'll break out of that and find a hidden ability buried deep in my writing skills. No such luck so far, but I did write this for class and I like it. Have a great Shabbos.
1988
late afternoon
on a breezy May day
mommy and me
the house to ourselves
at my feet--my open knapsack
leftover potato chip crumbs
oiling the bottom
shiny tile floor
and light wallpaper
this is my white and pink house
my 932 East 28th Street
between I and J
this is my mother,
her funny round belly
surrounding my new baby.
we sit at the kitchen table
mommy and me
she smiles
I smile back
between spoonfuls of cookies 'n cream
she asks, "How was your day?
What did you learn?"
and takes a sip
of her afternoon coffee
I say, "Blah, blah, blah"
and take another gulp
of what is fast becoming
ice cream soup
my mother tightens her lips,
opens her eyes,
moves her face in close--
and like a small animal sensing a stampede,
I know a tickle attack is coming.
closing my eyes and squirming in my seat
I laugh before her wiggling fingers get to me
this is my mommy and me
this is a cookie bit
in my vanilla cream life.
1988
late afternoon
on a breezy May day
mommy and me
the house to ourselves
at my feet--my open knapsack
leftover potato chip crumbs
oiling the bottom
shiny tile floor
and light wallpaper
this is my white and pink house
my 932 East 28th Street
between I and J
this is my mother,
her funny round belly
surrounding my new baby.
we sit at the kitchen table
mommy and me
she smiles
I smile back
between spoonfuls of cookies 'n cream
she asks, "How was your day?
What did you learn?"
and takes a sip
of her afternoon coffee
I say, "Blah, blah, blah"
and take another gulp
of what is fast becoming
ice cream soup
my mother tightens her lips,
opens her eyes,
moves her face in close--
and like a small animal sensing a stampede,
I know a tickle attack is coming.
closing my eyes and squirming in my seat
I laugh before her wiggling fingers get to me
this is my mommy and me
this is a cookie bit
in my vanilla cream life.
Labels: Mom, tales from 932, writing
You've got one or two decent metaphors/images going, but overall, this is a prose writer trying desperately to create poetry. Don't force it, D.
Remember when I was amazed at that poem you wrote for our 8th grade yearbook? I thought you were the most talented 8th grade poet I had ever met.
Did you prefer Seeing the 100% Perfect Girl One Beautiful April Morning or Lederhosen?
I was the most talented 8th grade poet ever. My sister brought the poem in and showed it to Mrs. Berley and even she thought it was great.