Shake and Bake


I’m writing the same sentence over and over.

Yet in my mind’s eye I’m shaking spices over salmon.

I’m sitting on a balcony overlooking a river,

Writing new sentences and new words to free the soul
and unshackle my hands.

I was not made for the cubicle.

I was not born for drudgery.

Having reached these conclusions,

I believe it’s time to reach for the spice rack,

And shake.

NaPoWriMo 2.3


Lamb Cake

I do not miss my mother as much as I do at Easter.
I wish she’d resurrect
-Like Jesus-
Because I really need to know her secret
For getting the lamb cake out of its stupid cast iron mold.
All I get are busted bits of cake.
Ears akimbo,
Spine in tatters,
Half a spongy, yellow rib cage.
Mom got a newborn lamb every Easter,
while I get mutton.
But bless her
-Like Jesus-
She took her secret with her to Heaven,
Leaving me with crumbs.


Oh, how I want to make some sort of pun about cookies crumbling, except this poem is about cake.

And yes, I’ve seasoned the cast iron with oil. I seriously don’t know how she managed to get a whole freaking cake out of the mold, while I always get two messy halves.