Easter Challenge: Good Egg

[PandoraGlitters]

I hereby challenge the poets of lit to egg it up a little. Write any poem on the theme of Egg or using the word egg somewhere in your poem.

Here is an example. I will add one of my own later down the line. Happy Spring! Happy Egg! Sweet Fertility! (or lack of it!)

 

[hmmnmm]

think I actually might have something like that somewhere - shall go and scrounge. Might've been more yolk than egg egg....

 

[Remec]

After the Fall

The detective drew on his cheap menthol,
craning out into space and peering down
towards what was supposed to be a chalk-outline,
but looked more like breakfast at his favorite diner.

"Hell of a drop, what's the word?"
He looked to the M.E., who shrugged,
"Dunno, yet, sidewalk was still so hot we
can't get a time of death."

"So he died, eh? Thought I had heard it
was just a really bad break."
"Nah, not gonna put him together again."
~~~~

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Cheers, Remec! Interesting break. Erm. Take.

 

[Tzara]

Of Chickens, Eggs, and Speciation

Both Darwin and Lamarck agreed
That Time begat the different breed.

Their disagreement was in how
It happened, not that it was slow.

Lamarck asserts the bird evolved
Through pecks and chickenish resolve

Into a rooster or a hen
And, mating, then passed on again

The plucks and clucks of chickeness—
Behavior traits had stickiness

And passed down to ensuing broods.
Darwin thought this quite unproved

And would have said the egg was what
Was changed—was where the difference caught

Its claw, its comb, its cluck, its crow
Where advantaged seed was sowed.

This different chick would prove more fit,
And leave more offspring. That was it.

So who was right, Lamarck or Charles?
(Creationists, with angry snarls,

Would shout that only God hath made
A chicken.) I would say an egg.

 

[hmmnmm]

Love‘s plumped lips glued to the swelled heart, a flower
of truth the concerned were more than willing to see through,
able to see the other and this point frankly amazed
every inner unit charged with all things having to do
with amazement, or the expression of amazement,
as although at first they were startled to
be able to do this, it took little time to accept
and enjoy; not only enjoy it but put it
to goodly use and enjoy that goodly use
and all would end up turning out rather well.

White clouds float across the sky. And the aspirant
wordsmith was immediately ashamed of that last
sentence. Seemed the heavens got all scrambled like the distress
from the shame did to the insides, like the soul or yes,
the yolk, that yellow radiance that suddenly was punctured
and began to bleed into textures that were mere
moments before highly amorous. Sore tempted
to say the ‘blue sky’ but how obvious that would be.
Reconsidered. It was obviously love yet none
ever tired of telling it and that language traversed
both directions. Suddenly the unassuming wordsmith
was more comfortable with simple truth, that the white

clouds floated across the blue sky for that is what they did
and the clouds and sky were the colors declared at the time
they were declared. Heck, they were not brown clouds
that floated across orange skies, although the mild-mannered
wordsmith felt the tug, a want, to create a scene in which
brown clouds floated across orange skies and it could so
be and there wasn’t a thing the reader could do
about it, except of course to cease reading.

And it did come to pass that there came along a fuzzy
sort of squishy comfort in letting the clouds be white
and the sky be blue. Because more pressing matters
began to bloom - or more like the matters began to crack
and run like an egg not all poached, trying to escape
the giant cookware, but it wasn’t like it really ran,
because the matters themselves did not do the running,
for they were what cracked; but more like swished or inched
or really sort of humped across the purplish
shag carpet in that section of the earth‘s layout.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Speculative, argumentative, ponderous. Ponderous! Thank you, Tzara and Hmmnmm.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

lipping the round
egg fallen low
cradled his silk
sack soft lipped

stick bounced tip
of my nose
up look up
into his face

as I pull
it through O
wet tongued nest
next its twin

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Yowzer Pandy!

Truth be told

She was my grandmother,
mother of my father,
so the small girl that was me
never thought of her as
“an old wife” but she had the tales.
Some had grains of truth
but others beggared belief.
Once, when a golden tongue
of egg juice licked down the
smoothness and approached
the blue egg china cup
I licked it thinking “waste not,
want not” in her voice. She snapped
the warm buttery taste away
“never lick the outside! You’ll get warts.”

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Warts! Hah. My grandmother told me all sorts of things. She told me that at midnight a little old man and little old lady come 'round to each house, the little old man holding an ax and the little old woman holding a bucket, and that if your feet are sticking out from under the covers, they chop them off and use them to make shoes for poor children. Really. She said that. She wanted me to stop squirming and leave the covers alone so she could sleep.

Thanks, Tristesse.

Here's another one for your basket. (Dug this up. It isn't new.)

Possible Egg

I am the possible egg
riding the red
rooster's tail

until cluck and crow
purchase my smooth
entrance which

awaited one warm
market day to roll
under hay absent

the hungry eyed
farmer's wife so I
could peck through

 

[Remec]

mottled snow
surrounds golden sun
.....steaming

 

[hmmnmm]

------

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Remec: Piss Egg!! Related to piss christ? Hmmm.

And hmmnmm . . . interesting personification. Quite chic(k).

Back from Paris and sort of sick of omlettes, now. But eggs, never sick of eggs. Even the pissy sort. Piss on, if you must. I'll pass the vinegar.