Served Up Raw

 

Being a poet

is a lot like being a chef.

 

We rummage through

our mental cold storage,

picking only the finest pieces,

the freshest ingredients

to form the basis of the

banquet that we wish to be serving.

 

Scouring timeworn shelves

for zesty herbs of yesterday

which deliver that zing of flavour,

a faded reminder of a lazy Sunday

making love under the heat haze

of a summer sun.

 

A fingertip pinched sprinkle

of tear-stained seasoning

enhancing the taste.

Delicately bringing to life

long ago days. The citrus blast

of the wind in your face.

 

Every bittersweet memory,

like hearing for the first time

those beautiful, fragrant words

'I love you' knowing they will never sing

quite the same way again.

The pain felt when love walked away.

 

The flames lick the pan,

oiled with the scent of the flowers.

For, some things we heat,

others need serving up raw.

When hope was reborn

as your heart starts to race

with each new passing hour.

 

Then we start to cut.

 

Skills sharpened over time.

Delicately trimming the fat,

skimming the grime,

until we are left with something

clean, clear, divine. A crystal lake

under moonlight shine.

 

A placeholder image

in piecemeal mind.

A final serving suggestion

on this meal of life. We pair it

with a heart that feels sublime,

like that first sip of love,

from this glass of mine.

 

But until it is on the table

it is still being refined.

We take a dash of memory,

a jot of story, a person met

one long ago night in a club

that was noisy and the

lighting would blind.

 

We take our ingredients,

every ingrained moment

of life lived, or seen,

ever stage we have shared,

every melody we’ve been.

And gradually we start to glean

which flavours create the image foreseen.

 

Then after toiling hard,

we wash down the surfaces,

scrubbing clean the reminders,

the strands of history, the shavings of memory,

then we start again.

 

A clean chopping board

and some new ingredients

to bring to our story.

 

Whilst out in the dining room

Waiters dance around almost unobserved.

The plate is served and devoured.

The tongue lingers on a flavour, a memory.

Childhood, a moment from a picture book,

like being hooked, as they are swirled

like their glass of wine.

To a life that they may

have lived once upon a time.