eggs

Dinner Poem

At the earliest ending of childhoodAt 30Creamy yolk, sharp red horns Pepper-punch out from the plateHere, there about the oceanA potato, an isle of curled spinach Dash of self-sufficiency, salt, LoveAs the sun sets precisely at sixNo longer a scrawny burger washed down by coke for Wally

April 7, 2014

Joseph M. Gerace

poetry, Uncategorized

adulthood, cooking, cure, depression, dinner, eggs, food, humor, life, love, poem, poetry, recipe, vegetables
Painting with Dim Light

III How do we adjust For the right leg Shorter, so We fear The men limping toward the blaring shore Except those Who do not They skim thin-edged along And do not. II Command: Don’t tweak or complicate What do we carry to our thanksgiving? What do we parcel away? Carve lines straight and strong…

November 15, 2012

Joseph M. Gerace

poetry

adrian toomine, barnes & noble, brief sexual encounters with spare change, cheap fabric, comics, dead friends, death, denim, eggs, existentialism, language, limping, literature, ocean, old ladies, owen wilson, poem, poems about dinosaurs, poet, poetry, romance, shoes, speech, water, words, words i didn’t use