In the middle of my plate,
split perfectly in thirds,
those tiny pesky peas
rolled around the corkscrewed barricades
and jumped the border.
Harmless-looking perky spheres of green
frolic freely and carelessly
amidst the curvaceous ivory folds
of my cheddar cheese rotini.
My seasoned chicken mocks me silently
from her assigned position
knowing that I'm done.
I cannot eat my dinner now,
the components intertwined erotically,
their flavors clashed and mingled.
Angela Hinkle is an English teacher by trade, although she is currently unclaimed by any school district. In her plentiful off hours, she is working on a fantasy novel with her trusty sidekick (AKA husband). She hopes to finish it within this lifetime. Angela loves the feeling she gets when she actually manages to complete a poem, after hours of tweaking, revising, sighing, and swearing. There's a sense of fulfillment and accomplishment (a cathartic release, if you will) that she hopes to experience a hundred-fold when she someday finishes that aforementioned novel.
And, no, she's not procrastinating by writing poetry. Sometimes the poem just comes, and it has to be written. If it doesn't get written down, it eats away at your brain, clawing and whining until you finally give in and let it out. Just the other night, she had to stop eating her dinner so she could write a poem about how her peas had invaded her potatoes. Sigh...