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 ~ 

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 ~   

Yesterday's dreams

                                                          artwork by Jack Vettriano


you gifted me with palette of colors
every brushstroke,  rushing wave  
every curved line,  weeping music 
words quivered from my lips,  
seeping deeply your wine-cupped hands,
eager to stain the white sky


now as i gaze outside the window,
every traffic light changing, falling rain  
every hour passing, wilting red poppy 
words hang precariously on slopes and edges 
of me, sharply descending into white oblivion    
   
     
reluctantly, i wait 



  
Posted for:   The Mag : Yesterday's Dreams by Jack Vettriano
and Poets United ~

Windswept

                                                                 @Margaret Bednar


i am windswept for words
in these long sun-baked nights


sometimes i stand, immobile as moai* 
on Easter Island, lost-angst lover


i throat sing in my bid to find you, 
pulsing click-chunk-click, galloping the field, 


until the emerald sea whispers to me  
Come and be with me  


silky mane and forelock flows
as i hurl myself over the white edge,  


your hand urges a tumult run, wild grains on hooves,   
until all i see is blaze marking on my nose     


there is no safety net when i free-fall
you are either a ball of fire or silent stone falling    


i choose with my eyes closed 
as the wind lifts my wingspan on my descent   




Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads:   Photography by Margaret Bednar
and D'verse Poets Pub:   Poetics:   Logophila 

* Large stone statues made of volcanic ash in Easter Island

The house

                                                                                     Kat Mortensen©2012 



he says he will build a house facing the morning sun, 
wide clear windows framing the fields of yellow 

he will shade the high ceiling in blue cloudless sky,      
color the rooms with summer and frangipani petals   

plant mango trees and vegetables at the back yard,
so I can hear the squirrels racing around the bend   

as we talk, he caresses his prized rooster’s plumage,
crooning words of devotion I half listen to as I rush

dressing up to go to work, not wanting to miss my
subway and bus tram, squeezed like sardines in a can

which I eat when I ran out of dollars to send to him, 
and rest of my family, all perched upon my back as I

scrape my knees, cleaning floors and washrooms 
in the city of lights and marble, sweeping dust

covering the letters I read each week, all asking me for
dollars dotted with promises not to wager anymore, still   

I call every Sunday to tell them of the butterflies and  
grasshoppers I catch, and tulips I see on my way to work    

everyday for the last 10 years, and my now grown up daughter
gets excited of my "adventures" in another country, half a world away     

I fold my cheque in the mail envelope and walk back to small rented room,  
Like a bloodied cock fighter that I am,

dreaming to go home
to the house he said he will build for me 

Process notes:   I originally had this idea when I wrote it for Flash Fiction 55 for the G-man - How far to walk.   I thought of expanding the story based on a migrant worker's life.

Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Photograpy by Kat Mortesan
and D'verse Poets Pub:   OpenLinkNight - every Tuesday at 3pm EST      

Field of green

by Shanyn Silinski 

you are my field of green
as i sit on my old rusty truck
cradling my coffee cup as
yellow sun rises slowly over the hill 


i hear your song as the wind
lifts my hair, brushing it with wheat and corn 
leaves in the burrow, frazzled brown,  
peer at my weathered cowboy boots     


silk and tassel wave in the breeze,
harvest crop, like warm fresh bread, 
fills my nostrils and tingles pale cheeks    


as i drive back to the city lanes,  
your pungent soil clings to my knees, 
your lush blades feather my face,
your dew moistening my dry lips


in my belly,  your seeds splay and swell,
bursting of spring, i feel abundance,
a field of green, framing the prairie sky*     




Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads :   Photography by Shanyn Silinski * who blogs at Sunflower Shan and Mystic Mom.
and D'verse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight - every Tuesday, starting at 3 pm EST. 

My one year blog anniversary is coming up in less than a month. If you have any writing requests (inspired by a song or picture) for me, please feel free to comment in my posts, and I will try my best to write it.   Thank you for your support and encouragement.  

Numbed

No Song To Me In The Numb Hours ~ Kenia Cris

I ran out to the trees

They stood silent grey

In the waning light of dusk

Hiding my nakedness, I saw

A sign “reserved”  painted

On a shiny chair, so I took

   

My paper and pen, and wrote

Of bridges I have burnt  

Of lips I have kissed

Of boat cruises I want to take

Of ice-capped mountains I see  

It was not enough

To quiver the leaves

To soften dry bark

To mend tired limbs

To seed crushed roots

So I folded my words

Into a paper boat

And left it for the trees

To dream of the sky and sea.

Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads:   The Sunday Challenge- Featuring Kenia Cris

Shared with Poets United

Picture credit:   Kenia Cris