The Poetry of Stone Soup, Part VI

I like my soup hot, fresh, cold but bone broth is the basis for what makes soup, soup. Not stones. Stones have no nutritional value. Throw me a bone and I’ll put in my soup. All alone. By itself, it’s rather bland. Put in a little bit of this and some of that. Spice it up with herbs and salt. Add a pinch of saffronic incantations. And of course, love and presto ... It’s a soup party! Put the Rolling Stones on the turn table! Perhaps I’m just a poetaster but I’ll go the extra mile for you. And dance where the wild things are, even make stone soup. Stirring the pot with infinite possibilities. Every one unique. Inhale the aroma where mysteries roam. Be in two places at once. Hop inside a bowl with me. Swim to the edge of the ocean’s rim. Skipping stones that never sink. Never ending. Step up on a cloud with me, then another, up up up. Join me on my hidden spaceship. What has Poetry Chef dreamt up for us now? Make your reservation. Don’t be late. I see a placemat with your name on it. And mine too. The host at his podium wearing tails and a top hat. Holding a wand in his hand he tap tap taps ... “Follow me to your table, let the dining begin!” tap tap tap. And like a maestro, waves it magically in the air. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you, thank you,” and takes a bow., “Hope you enjoyed the show!”