Category Archives: Sonnet

What Is Soup?

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The following is written in response to Chel Owen’s Terrible Poetry Contest. The challenge asks that we channel our inner Shakespeare and write a terrible sonnet about everybody’s favourite one-pot food, soup.

What Is Soup?

The sorcerer’s mirepoix, the witches roux,
with bone and water forge a mystic blend,
add salt and spice, merely a pinch or two,
elements together, combine, transcend.

Cast iron cauldron yields to fiery kiss,
stir and simmer, cooking slowly in time,
bubbling, boiling, with wisps of steaming bliss,
filling the fragrant air with spells sublime.

Chick’n noodle, chowder, gazpacho on ice,
mullugatawny, bisque and gumbo too,
potatoes, pasta, or a spot of rice,
some so thick they’re more akin to stew.

What is soup? You’ll find you have to conclude,
soup is the liquid version of solid food.1

Citation: Definition of soup taken from the Terrible Poetry Contest blog post for this contest at Chel Owen’s blog, A Wife, My Verse, and Every Little Thing.

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Up Next…

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The Bottom of Nine

Trailing by two in the bottom of nine,
A single, then double, stroked down the line,
On second and third they jostle about,
While eight and nine both swing and strike out.

Ace steps to the plate, set on a mission,
Wielding his bat with reckless precision,
Direct from the mound comes a red-stitched pearl,
Did he throw straight heat or spin up the curl?

Nary a twitch as it whizzes on by,
“Strike!” shouts the Umpire,
“Hey blue, check your eye!”
Not even close, ’bout a foot off the edge,
The Babe couldn’t hit that with a six-foot sledge.

Next comes a bender, left hung out to dry,
The crack of the bat, it’s a monstrous fly,
If it stays fair it’ll sail off in the night,
Instead, it drifts foul, a long and loud strike!

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Wild Ride: A Tragic Romance Sonnet

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My handmaid’s fingers, all torn up and raw,
with one final tug, she’ll tie off the bow.
My corset so tight, a breath I can’t draw,
I’ll slip on the dress, I’m ready to go.

Off we descend from the castle above,
tonight he’ll be waiting down by the stream.
Driver don’t kill us before I know love,
to meet my fair prince beneath the moon’s beam.

The horses barreling out of control.
Into the air then crashing back down,
the carriage breaks free as we start to roll,
a ruckus so loud we woke half the town.

Terror in his eyes and a terrible squeal,
my poor prince laid down beneath the front wheel.

Written for Chel Owen’s Terrible Poetry Contest (2022/01/22) at chelowens.com
Painter: Unknown.
Copyright 2022 Greg Glazebrook, All Rights Reserved.