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 ~