NeuroDivine

On World Pasta Day we sing,
With appetites sincere;
For pasta of a hundred shapes
Has brought us gladly here.

We know spaghetti very well,
And macaroni too;
Farfalle spread their little wings,
And join the hungry crew.

The macaroni cheese arrives,
In bubbling golden state;
And those who planned one modest spoon
Return to fill their plate.

Lasagne stands in stately pride,
A queen in layers dressed;
Yet after helping number two,
A nap seems for the best.

Fusilli twist and turn about,
Like dancers late at night;
While rigatoni, stout and round,
March boldly left and right.

The ravioli keep their goods,
Well hidden out of sight;
Until one squirts across the room,
With unexpected might.

The little shells hold every drop,
Refusing waste or loss;
The bowl is clean when they are done,
They've stolen all the sauce.

The penne line up straight and neat,
Cut sharply on the slant;
We say we ought to leave a bite,
But honestly, we can't.

Linguine slips and slides about,
A glossy, tangled skein;
One flick of sauce against your shirt,
And there’s a stubborn stain!

So here's to every shape and size
That graces dish and tray;
Though half their names defeat our tongues,
We'll eat them all today!

There is room in poetry for the simple pleasure of a good meal—and for laughing when the sauce lands on your shirt. This poem celebrates familiar food, generous helpings, and the cheerful gap between planning one modest spoonful and returning for more.