Peter Shaheen has been writing for thirty years in a variety of genres. He does not consider himself an academic poet, but still does write mostly poetry.
Spaghetti Sauce
Tomatoes: six of them
Three heirloom; three regular reds
Onions: two
Or maybe one big one
Vadella the best.
Cut ‘em all in half
Peel the onions first
Maybe core the tomatoes
You decide
You’re the chef.
Lay each face down
One at a time
And slice eight or ten times
Long ways is best
Careful: to hold the shape.
Now sideways slices
Steady hand and sharp
Knife. Cut fine in small sections
not to offend tastes–
I like chunks but not all do.
(Note to self:
Sharpen knives–
Ones too dull tear
The skins. Funny,
I know I won’t.)
Cooking sauce is not life
Even if poets insist
Metaphor makes it so
But it cannot sustain souls–
Heat burns.
Insatiable
Law maker —
the who who know rules,
and when to break them.
Legs apart shoulder width, toes straight
firm in the firmament, fearless and foreboding
unswaying, unswayed.
The destroyer of ancient, forgotten kingdoms
Askum, Kush, Yam, Yuezhi
dealer in destruction, death.
In caves, across rivers, through trees and into night.
chest beater drumming echoes…
Resounding on earth
appetites breed appetites
Certain and immortal,
Time.
On the Road from Douma
After CAROL FROST’S ALIAS CITY
Along the river
Shaded by olive trees, euphorbias, mimosas,
Yet this is no place for emissaries.
A tentative traveler or two,
Merchants, Bakers, University Students,
Fugitives with thirsty revolvers,
Dusty palms and minarets in the distance
Not far from the war shattered shores,
And gassed out homes.
Fleeing caravans–refugees
Words burnt off tongues
Never to speak.
Shoebills, white-bellied storks, and hope
Have taken flight.
City Boy Here
City boy here—not much for fishin’.
Once on a river somewhere–
Once for Salmon in dad’s boat.
My old buddies fished all the time.
Found pleasure in it—when pleasure was to be had
fishin’ in Michigan lakes.
They’d catch bass, pike, even perch
They fish with a bow, spear and yes, a pole.
Ice fish in winter.
I’d be invited but stay back at the cabin
Thinking about dinner
Or maybe, reading this or that,
Snack on an apple, or pie,
turn pages and fall asleep.
Till they all clamored back.
Never any doubt it was them–
Came roaring in laughing and hootin’
Louder than Hades—full of fish stories.
Once Bob pushed Mark into the lake,
Mort poured a beer on Artie
And Penie got a ticket for swearing.
“Penie, just what the hell kind of name is Penie?”
That’s what we asked him once.
“It’s my name,” he said as if that settled it.
In the evenings we sat out back
Smoking and drinking beers, using rifles
To Shoot the heads off snapping turtles.
About the closet I’ve come to fishin’
Was once while bathing in the lake
I took a dump.
It was an accident,
A leach lighted on Artie’s balls
And I laughed so hard I pooped.
Penie said he would cut the leach
Off Artie’s balls. Everyone laughed;
I was the only one to crap.
The girls never went fishin’ with us,
I wonder why.
Maybe we never asked.