the field is a constellation of color a vast universe dotted with petal’d stars where harvesters buzz like bees armed with scissors for take-home delights that don’t last the crystal autumn sky watches without emotion throwing down rays of dust to nourish the future, who buds in quiet industry in spite of the invading hoards
This poem is about the field of zinnias at a pumpkin patch that operates as a cut-your-own-bouquetattraction. I couldn’t find a photograph of it (my hard drive just bit the dust – argh) so you’re having to settle for making your own mental image instead. Thank you for reading!
Instax wide photo by author (not of marigolds, but they ARE yellow.. . )
buttoned up with meaning, like clockwork in the sky throughout the year, a garland of desire like a field of bristling suns gravely marching to do their business with the great beyond, equal to both sides of life’s coin:
weddings and funerals joy and loss
take it or leave it, stuff your pockets full of gold
I can’t think of marigolds without thinking about that old movie Monsoon Wedding, and the friend of mine who said that it reminded of her of her own wedding. Where I live now, they take on a new meaning, cropping up outside every store for Dia de Los Muertos. . . . Thanks for reading!
bittersweet early bloomer drunk on the blood of winter swollen in the sleeping soil to thrust a graceful, frilled neck that soaks up the delight of the sun intoxicating passers by to swoon in half-sorrow longing
the perfume cuts through the air like an errant discus thrown and then struck by the jealous wind so sweetness springs from the grave where youth fell, to sorrow-seed the fallow ground
Santa Fe, New Mexico (not geraniums) | 35mm film photo by author
comfort kisses, here in this terracotta pot window seat with a view a sprawling forest of brick walls in countless kitchens, the urban jungle brightened with a touch of the pretend: no one cooks here, but if they did there’s balm for knife-slips in these leaves, just don’t mix them up with the take-out
my daughter read an article on rabies that scared the wits out of her, so I am thinking about all the wild things marauding out there in the ghostly super light
the earth’s shadow scrapes its way across her face a raw red nail turning the white lamp of the night into blood and rust breathing portents across space and time writing its own cautionary tale across the sky
in the articles of motherhood no one says how to soothe irrational fears after they have outgrown hugs and lullabies
what bedtime stories can I tell besides the truth, besides do not be afraid? even the lilies and sparrows face nature boldly every day they sleep through the moon’s fickle folklore awakening refreshed again with each new morning
Who else watched the total lunar eclipse last night? I was too excited about it and had to stay up to see totality – it was worth it. Who else has a kiddo that scares themselves reading random articles online, then refuses any kind of rational consolation??
I think, therefore I am: beautiful in a simple, smiling kind of a way velvety, underfoot, a little something to remember me by
Let me ease your heart with bard songs that bring sweet nothings to mind
Carry me close, sprinkle me with sugar and I will garnish your days, a lion-hearted darling gracing the garden with a flourish of loamy, bright color-splash
Oh the humble pansy! So ubiquitous, so nice. Thanks for reading!
delicate purple sweetness, pipe your secrets in my ear sing to me while I bury my face in your perfume the essence of something so far away in my memory I can barely see it on the horizon but it approaches at a run, swift as a river washing over my senses as I close my eyes and breathe it in
Portobello Road (I think! it was a long time ago), London | 35mm film photo by author
Pride of parks and roundabouts in Britain where Wordsworth waxed ecstatic in his regard of those yellow hosts
Bright faces perking up the lawns of New York after a dreary endless winter waving in the breeze like so many flags pointing toward warmer days trumpeting a new season
I never noticed their absence in the south, dazzled instead by the yellow face in the sky imposing a presence stronger than any waving gilded field beating the soil with warmth for longer than a short-lived chivalrous heart can bear
Daffodils don’t really bloom in Texas, not without some serious cultivation, and it doesn’t seem like anybody bothers to plant them – not that I have seen, anyway. We don’t really have the climate that suits them, with spring starting not only early but with a big warm bang. I think of them more as the type of flower that gives you a hint that maybe, just MAYBE, sometime in the next few weeks you might be able to take off your jacket. Anyway they were everywhere in the UK and so nice to look at. Also if you’ve never read Wordsworth’s excellent poem, you should. Thanks for reading!
After spending over a year hemming and hawing, an email from Medium reminding me my membership was fixing to auto-renew finally galvanized my decision to leave there. I’m sorry to do it, because I met some wonderful people and the community atmosphere amongst the poets is – for the most part – tremendous, but at the end of the day I am spread too thin being on multiple platforms, and if I have to choose I’d rather it be one that belongs only to me, rather than feeling like I am under the watchful brow of a parent organization. Granted, I don’t make money here on WordPress, but it would take me months of writing on Medium to earn enough for a trip to Starbucks. So, there ya go – lucky y’all (haha) are the only ones who get to read what drivel I push upon the world!
PS I didn’t delete my account, I just became a non-member. Because it’s entirely possible I’ll go back one day. Never say never.
I can feel myself opening back up to the creative journey. Maybe it’s the onset of summer, maybe the latest difficult period has run its course, maybe it’s the movement of the spheres, but I can feel the shell cracking and letting in a little light again. To that end, I hauled out a bunch of books (pictured above) to help jump-start the process. I have a little book on creativity that came either from Lomography with a Diana camera thing I purchased a couple of years ago, or it was in a Scribbler box, but anyway I started scribbling all over it and that got the ball rolling. You never know what will do it.
Also this book. . . . .
. . . . spoke the loudest to me and I’ve started working my way through it. When I’ve had a long dry & empty spell, I need a guided experience to unblock the channels and start me on the path again. The first exercise has to do with staring at yourself in the mirror – YIKES I do not find that fun, but I did it.
To end my rambling, here’s a little poem I got up from the piano to write the other day. Inspiration is starting to hit again at the most unlikely times. . . .
11th May
Today is a to-do, a now and all that yesterday stuff is like the memory of a sunset that time at that place with those people whose faces have faded like your old jeans that finally ripped in an indecent spot and it was a shame to throw them out but sometimes you just have to let go and move on
the divide of hours has a good reason and plenty of purpose the tense of a verb can bring you back to time and remind you of the gift, like a sunrise, that is right now, today that grand new TO-DO
Neighborly, she always says hello keeping a garden of tidy inspiration from her motorized chair Her smiles light the air that surrounds her, a heartfelt message of sisterhood arcing the distance between us with the swiftness of a blossom pushing out to announce the arrival of spring
Hardy, she has weathered life with the persistence of a kernel’d bulb, resisting the devastation of frost, blooming again because she can
I have a lovely neighbor named Iris who is mobility impaired, who has a garden that is almost as lovely as her smile, and who I love to talk to whenever I get the chance. This poem is for her. Thank you for reading!
The Poetry Patio 