Of this morning sun and peaches

the sea tide followed you this morning, 
clinging to your hair, dripping of corn and sun 
bursting at the seams with rounded seeds 

the shell case broke open, replete with seeds, 
and for the first time, my tongue tasted morning, 
naked, lush pulp, succulent fruit under bittersweet sun 

nothing prepared me for you, flaming the sun 
sky with words drizzling like apple knotted seeds, 
staining my room forever silky bold, unlike any mornings 

this morning, sun dawned, tinged red of pomegranate seeds


~0~0~0~



She wasn’t petite  nor blushing peach lady.    
Tall with broad arms, sturdy legs, like her Dad
except for soft brown eyes.
Fiercely ambitious, she tackled her career,
like a charging bull.   

But, when he finally proposed after 7 years,
She melted, purring like kitten.                    
Nowadays,  her smile eclipses 
diamond-studded ring which she proudly wears.   

First post:    Posted for D'verse Poets Pub:  Tritina

Second post:   Flash Fiction Friday - A post in 55 words, for the G-man.   An office mate recently got engaged.

Thanks for the visit.



picture credit:   here

Bottled memory

                                                                         Painting: “Bottles” by Borg de Nobel

for a year, the bottled home-made pasta sauce

sat on the shelf, tightly capped and labelled: 

plum tomatoes and olive-sprayed onions and garlic, 

sticking to skin of summer, fresh basil leaves licking

sunny cheeks, dash of oregano, sage and thyme    



heat rekindles the fever, slow boil of regrets

skate on rim of copper pot, simmering under the lid:     

sound of wild river in my ears,

firm line of hip and limbs pressed into mine, 

tongue tip cresting soft lips,  uncapping words



into the open sea, to where no one can shape us  

into a measuring cup, sterile bottle with a label sticker:

caution, to be taken in prescribed dosage only,  

keep away from direct sunlight, 

and throw afar after use as it may cause 

melancholy, red and thick    

Updated:   I am pleased to share that this poem has been included in the Winter Issue Dec. 2012 of Emerge Literary Journal.

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub:  Poetics:  Borg de Nobel  - Part of my poem is the result of my conversation with my Italian office mate who told me their family's tradition of making home-made tomato/pasta sauce and storing them in bottles.   Happy weekend to everyone ~ 

Black orchid

Among five daughters,


she was black orchid among roses. 

Deep-purple veins on mid-wife's hands, she believed in destiny.   

Upon meeting him, wanted to marry him

though he was playful with ladies.

No cussing tongue, wild temper, stopped his wandering eye.   

Drama and fireworks were their bed pillows.    

When he unexpectedly died, Grandma withered, 

palest velvet-rose.  


Posted for:   D'verse Poets Pub:  Writing characters 
and Flash Fiction Friday - Write a story in 55 words for the the G-man.    


Picture credit:   here

Where the white gulls nest

                      Gull Lake, Ontario@SweetLust                              

here
where the white gulls nest
and the lake bends to the cool wind

i sit serenely 
on giant rocks carved out of glacier sheets
and fiery volcanic spews,    

blue water is unruffled by misty fog
nor motorboats fishing in deepest basin,
softly gliding fingers on golden harp

symphony of silence 
is loud 
muffling cries by gulls circling shores 

i lay my head 
on curve of your mountain,
warm and sparkling green in late summer 

though sands shift in copper light,  
and forest pines erode with each season,    
my bedrock,  

you

Posted for:   D'verse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight - every Tuesdays at 3pm EST - Spent the weekend basking in the serenity of Gull Lake.  Thanks for the visit ~   

Dreaming

Photo by Chapala Dmitry

                   she sees

                   dragon-sun rising from the west,  
                   silk-clouds gliding towards earth 

                   time moving backwards,
                   spider webs undulating to sky    

                   youth: wiser and prudent 
                   aged: carefree, daring

                   caught in a dream, 
                   tangled, she took her pills and went back to bed 

                   her nightmares were more bearable
                   than the reality bearing down on her,

                   harsh and unforgiving 

Posted for:   Poets United:   Dream Catcher - Playing with the ideas of dreams/nightmare.

and Flash Fiction Friday -  A story in 55 words for the G-man.  Sorry, I am late.   I was so tired playing lawn garden bowling in the hot (Thursday) afternoon, sponsored by my company.   It was so much fun though ~   

Picture credit:    here 

Quiet grief

Sculpture by Paladino in Villa Fiorentino, Sorrento, Italy 

photo by S.McPherson 2012

across the sea
tinged with mottled moss and weeds

you called like black raven
trilling high on apple tree

sated with sweet corn,
coarsely piercing the calm of day    

my hands gathered pearls,
moist silk, to fall on your cheeks

seeking your eyes in misty green,   
to lay like a fish on your crest

body wet, wedged deep in water, 
warmed by southern wind   

but the fire-lit sky devoured all 
into clay, and suckled dry by sun

you see a cold, unmoved stone, 
but i tremble with each word

flowing from your lips, each ripple tide
of quiet grief and unlit verses

float softly into my ears,  
and i dream of you again 


lost in the sea


Posted for:  OpenLinkNight of Real Toads (Monday) and D'verse Poets Pub (Tuesday)
I was particularly intrigued by this picture by Stu McPherson  ~  Thank you ~  

Paper doll

                                                                    
                                                                          image by Francesca Woodman


my hands mock  
images brimming in my head 
raw and bare earth 


my breasts betray 
passion surging in my limbs
consuming, black blur  


my eyes flicker  
like paper doll, stripped empty
unworthy of you


i hurl the shell of me,
fragile as glass, but cold as stone  
to sky window 


please, 
remember my face 

Posted for The Mag 130 :   Francesca Woodman was a young American photographer whose work was produced between 1972 and 1981. Despite the fact that she was working for only a short period, Woodman has, over the past 30 years, gained a reputation as one of the most important names in photography.  She committed suicide at age 22. 

The beautiful sadness

muted clouds on bay
gold leaves all astray 
unbidden, you slay
words so soft, still 

red blooms have faded
as long years raided   
chest of seeds, naked 

longing to spill

sea of knowing you
sky of bitter blue  
my eyes awake, true
i learn to write

of missing spaces
room, empty of place, 
scentless, my lips trace

you, in moonlight 

                                                   
            
Posted for:   D'verse Poets:  The Beautiful Sadness

and Real Toads:  Poetry form is Cyhydedd Hir.  I have used this pattern:
x x x x A
x x x x A
x x x x A 
x x x B 





The Kiss by Theodore Gericault
c. 1822
Sepia wash and charcoal on paper, 203 x 368 mm
Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza, Madrid
Picture credit:   WikiPaintings.org 

A labor of love

         frame pictures in shoe box were 6 years dusty
         a lifetime has leaped from carefree smiles to today,
         that suddenly the dam burst, frothing of words
         he never knew: sadness, angst, love uprooted so quickly

he wrote feverishly - pages upon pages,
the birthing easy, like a quick sprint to paper mill,
muscles relaxed,  breathing easy, then fast 
as release came,  furious like raging bull

         charging the streets, torrential flood of youth's passion
         he pumped his muscles until it was firm and unyielding
         of his journey, words became sharper and shades deeper,   
         only now, the birthing became more and more labored 

it felt like a sharp knife in his chest, a stake deepening,   
claws knotting his veins with each tug and pull, 
driving him crazy in the lonely hours of night,  
so after months of writing,  he decided to 
stop -

          let the words 
          sway in quiet contemplation, like the sea 
          waiting for the ship to plumb its depths,     
          bowstring curled still in lover's fingers,       
          unknowing when

they will meet again     

Posted for the OpenLinkNight of Real Toads (Monday) and D'verse Poets Pub (Tuesday).

My son and I wrote poetry at about the same time last year, but he has stopped writing, while I have continued.       

picture credit:   here

At the dinner table

                                                   A Dinner Table at Night, 1884, John Singer Sargent

she slowly runs her finger on the glass rim,
red wine smoulders on tongue, 
washing away the lamb dish, served on silver platter

should she take coffee? 

she peers at her companion, black and white tie
a study of political correctness and wealth
glimmering the room in rose madder and gold     

her black satin dress is now heavy on thighs
maybe a cold dessert pie will cool her off,
as his voice rose in disparaging, sharp clicks 

she nods slowly, pale and poised as an arrow,
while looking at the silvery lamp
it needs more polish, maybe 2 more vigorous rubbing,
she mentally muses,  while checking the dip of her decolletage       

clock ticks so loudly  
as the conversation meanders on Madame X scandal       



Written for The Mag - Thanks for the visit ~

Words at the tip of my tongue

at the tip of my tongue,
it dances slowly, 
awakening spring bud, 
unfurling pink leaf


it dances slowly
ballerina on tiptoes
unfurling pink leaf 
stretches arms wide open 


ballerina on tiptoes 
like a cocktail glass,
stretches arms wide open
leaps in mid-air, lingering    


like a shaken cocktail,   
awakening taste buds,
to leap in mid-air, then lingers      
at the tip of my tongue

~0~0~0~0~0~0~ 

I prefer the verb        
          to the noun
                when I am
                     with you


                        dripping  
        
                    so slowly
       
               or faster
       as I want to
 or moving up
and     down


as I like to


sweating
cradling hips       
gripping  arms


writhing to music   


at mid-point, adding dashes--


and punctuation points ! !, ending with a sigh~




First post:   D'verse Poets Pub - Pantoum form
Second post:   Flash Fiction Friday -for the G-man - Tell a story in 55 words ~
Shared with Poetry Jam - Verbs    


picture credit:  here