Of green apples and old bike

sun creeps like a trickster's clock on wall



to get up now or fold under white sheets
to break the eggs with a fork or boil them in water   
to cut the blooming roses or let them fall like rosary beads 


it besets her that simple things 
seem like shaking the trees for just a leaf  
(knocking heads is probably more apt) 

to push or pull the doors
to walk to the park or skiphotch to wheat field,         
she jogs her memory of what happened last night 




torrential rain lashing her skin,
fear snapping on heels like demented dogs    
while running headlong into the city smog   



she is lost in the river tide, 
adrift in choices that roots her feet while others fly
(her son buys a second hand bicycle 
because it's dirt cheap than paying for a car)  


until a hand settles firmly on her arm



scent of pine cones and green apples
warm as honeysuckle in springbed,   
kisses cheek in gentle whisper 


it is going to be alright

Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads:  A word with Laurie:   Dementia/Insanity
and D'verse Poets Pub:   Poetics:   It's a matter of Choice

Picture credit:   here 

Working for a price

at the studio


i switch the stage lights to
capture the sun falling on the model,
$ 8000 Birkin handbag on her feet   


she awaits patiently for my time,
unlike the files on my desk with a 
RUSH stamped,  


i search for numerical beauty of her back, 
consistency and safety pins on hair,
and hint of summer underneath her corset,


but it is the eyes I am aiming for,
deep, full of emotional connections,
i strip away the clothes and make up


to figure out the shape of the face, bare beauty,
a year from now, maybe another wrinkle or line,
but nothing like depression drugs or cancer 
(the file will be DECLINED) 


my fingers frame the picture i want,
the angle to capture the light behind, 
like a buyer checking an auction find, carefully


subtract the claims from the payments
check the trends, set minimum threshold, LOWest price, 
before sales negotiations begin, because there is NUMBer 


to be negotiated, nothing, not even love
is fixed and constant, forever is an ILLUSION, 
(it exists only in my poetic head) 


like my polariod camera, catching fluid moments
into fixed frames for sale, for artistic expression, 
but always a showcase to the HIGHest bidder   


because there is a price 
to pay for something that you want 


or not  


Posted for D'verse Poets Pub:   Poetics:   Workin' For It - I should have posted this in my other blog but I want to write without fearing a backlash from my (real world) friends and workmates.  Thanks for the visit ~ 


Picture post and inspiration from Photographer Paolo Roversi

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.  

On choices

the day is still 
embrace by evening frost  


at a distance,  slender trees lean
and stretch into the blue grey sky

stirring my spoon into white cereal bowl,  
i sit in the silence, watching the sunlight


slowly melt the snow drops on red rooftops,
burnishing the ground into puddles of silver


the seasons of winter and spring 
entangle and dance on my window frame


undecided which way to blow, 
a leaf leaps and falls into the water basin,


blades stretching to savor the cold air, 
veins throbbing with color and light  


like the scrapbook of pictures gleaming
bamboo framed in coral shells, I see 


as I sip my morning rose tea,
nothing else pulsates than this, 


i am here, 
it is my choice    
  


“You have no choice but to choose."

-Jean-Paul Sartre  

Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads:   Weekend Challenge - picture credit:   Talon   and D'verse Poets Pub:   Poetics Poetry and Philosophy  

Thanks for the visit ~