the noodles are hanging onto

the noodles are hanging onto
each other for dear life, like
lovers being pulled
apart by an unseen
force, slowly – until
they are barely
touching, then touching
no more.

a simple bowl
of ramen seems
like love
at long last
lost. the mystery lies
in the way we can
still dance helices
around each other



  1. marlowe44

    I like the image you used, the ramen noodles capturing the first layer of meaning within your fine poem, but I latched onto the perpetual motion of life, of spirit, of love–that spinning helix that piroites, undulates, and forms the primal dance that we homo sapians call love; which survives holocaust, death, and taxes. You remind us that even /a simple bowl of ramen/ has dimension, depth, multiple layers, and meanings–nutrition, taste, sculpture, still art, and a scrumptious bath in butter and cheese before it slithers across our tongue arousing sense memory and launching itself down the alimentary canal, on its journey through us, to be reawakened as something else; that love in its truest form can not be lost, like things cosmic and organic, it just transfers into some other kind of energy and sustenance.

    • y

      wow, i’ve never heard of ramen with butter and cheese. my goodness! and it astounds me how my few words always elicit such a lengthy poetic response from you. who’s doing all the hard work? (smile) thank you, again, for your thoughts.

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