Poetry Page:
Pastas' Lament
There's spaghetti on the ceiling,
Strung this way and that,
Strand upon strand,
Ever stuck where it's at.
'Twas a contest of sorts, see who could make
Pasta behave in such admirable shape.
Turn upon turn, all four in a row,
Eager, impatient, for spaghetti to throw.
With eyes on the sky, strands in hand,
Pasta flies with abandon from woman and man.
With shrieks and howls gazes did strain,
To see what fell, and what did remain.
Spaghetti on the ceiling is stuck in the air,
Entwined in each other, flung with flair.
Lonely they be from their vantage above but
Placed with great care, and with great love.
Mike John Steeves
Copyright ©2008 Mike John Steeves