2011 Poem A Day Challenge - Day 16

For today's prompt, write a snapshot poem. When I think of snapshot, I think of a photograph or painting still life. The poem would bring this particular moment to life. However, if you have another interpretation, I encourage you to follow your muse.

=================================

This is a bit of a poser for me. As far as I know, isn't all poetry and writing a snapshot? A recorded moment or series of moments designed to be read and spark something in the mind and in the heart? For me to use the standard definition as defined is redundant. There is nothing to it that is particularly inspiring.

Is there another interpretation of snapshot?

What have I learned from Burroughs and Kerouac? That words are meant to be cut apart. That spelling and syntax are not as useful as one thinks. Time to clear away my mind, and explore different cuts of words, and different ways to look at them

Snap Shot... perhaps an ode to hockey, which is perfect for his beloved Sabres...

Snaps Hot... the sound that I heard as I was grilling up some cheeseburgers...

Take two...

=================================

Snaps! Hot!
Meat laid upon the grill
Grease popping onto the coals
Flames racing up to meet it

It is a hot Saturday afternoon
His friends gather in the backyard
The radio plays the best kind of music
Motown. Stax.

He stands with a cold drink in his hand
As he wipes the sweat off his brow
But never on the meat
Never ever on the meat

This isn't just food to him
This is an offering
A boon given to his friends
And family he loves

Thick smoke rolls along
Anticipation in the air
The sights and smells
Dancing in the fire

He has become a master
Of time and spices and sauces
He has found his perfect canvas
In the form of mesquite smoked flesh

================================

And since I invoked his spirit, here is the same poem done as a William Burroughs inspired cut up...

==================================

The grill grease, a perfect family
Given to him
Saturday found him with friends
But in his hand, this perfect canvas

Mesquite stands with and is laid upon
Gathering and dancing in time
He had loved and has played
Stax, and has become ever on

Along the backyard, the radio
Music and sights are the food to him
In the cold afternoon, it
Flames in the air like a master

The best kind is in the
Meat, a boon racing up
It isn't just meat - anticipation -
Flesh drinking onto the coals

As he is popping of his brow
It is a hot smoke this
Wipes the sauces offering sweat
Smoked fire smells

Thick meat spices
He rolls in the form of
His friends snap to meet
Never mo' hot town


J.