Shay Caroline Simmons

Shay Caroline Simmons Aug 24

When I was younger,
I washed lettuce heads in cold water.
I would set them on my cutting board, gently,
as if my hands hummed with lullabies.

I lifted tomatoes from their cardboard carton beds
and lined them in a row like nursery babies,
my starched jacket always white and clean.

I knew romaine and bibb,
beefsteak and cherry.
I kept my hair tied back, my nails short,
the right knife sharp and at the ready.

I didn't know, then
that lovers remember the wine, not the greens;
the sugar, not the side plate.

I wish you were here to kiss my hands
with their swollen knuckles and cut scars.
What was I doing with my tenderness
when I had someone who wanted it?

When I was younger,
I had a paying job, a small talent,
and a driver with a dolly at the back door
coming every day to keep my walk-in cooler stocked.

I thought that was bounty.
I thought there was no harm in staying on through another fall,
never considering that what I made was not mine,
Or that someone else was paying for it all.
_

written 2012, edited slightly 2025

#chef #food #restaurant

Shay Caroline Simmons Aug 23

Girl Lindbergh

oh that.
that's just my habitat.
some women
take up counted cross stitch,
others
--with scorched souls--
even like golf
as if the order and pointlessness
were balm
for their frightening wounds.

me,
I have my habitat.
it's filled with
a green growy tangle
and those cries
like animated bells
that made you open the door
in the first place.

every night
I go in there.
most mornings
I come out again
either elevated
or barely alive.
either way, it keeps me fresh
like tennis
except
my medical bills are enormous
and my poetry
keeps getting sharper and more feral.

now that you've seen it
I know you won't be back anymore
or else you'll want a piece of all of this
mistakenly thinking that I,
like it,
will be exciting.
people want
to spend time in my habitat
like wanting to space walk
without gear
or training
or
a Houston to rely on.

my habitat
is my own private
supermax
funhouse
and I am just Bluebeard's wife
glad he's gone off to sea
while I
merrily
open the door
to my habitat
and disappear into it
flying solo
like Girl Lindbergh.

Shay Caroline Simmons Aug 21

today's haiku

swallow builds its nest
from objects it can gather
steal lipstick, why pay?

Aug 21

Michael Sean Maloney

the moth flew to the right

the moth flew to the right
and then to the left

back and forth
forth and back

ping ponging
between the headlights of my car

fragile little wings of white deep in a winter’s darkness
adding to the confusion

was an unexpected november snow
the moth did not seem to mind

the heavy flakes that fell
some as big as its own body

within
and without

we are so tiny
in our lives

we are so tiny
in our world

Aug 20

Maria Mitea

…and even with a whisper,

…and even with a whisper,
revive my depths,
turn me like a veil,
face down
in the
grass
falling asleep,
with
the
feet in the sky to be born -- maybe,
maybe
something will stick to my soles,
growing arms from the rain,
flying among the clouds

but what are the depths?
other than the
unheard
pulse,
the
untouched
breath,
palms-braided-in-roots,
the flower withered
because of a kiss,
the
leaves
blown by the wind,
dew fallen on
crosses,

but what are the depths?
than frankincense, - the place where
rivers never dry,
the place where  rivers run away from us towards
forghetfulness
of oblivion…

towards
forghetfulness
of oblivion…
stir up my depths,
…and even with a whisper,
stir up my depths,
turn my
face down to earth,
hopefully
i can lose my steps in the sky-- maybe,
maybe
            something will stick to my soles,

in the sky maybe,
                                   maybe
something will stick to my soles

#mariamitea

Aug 20

Joy Ann Jones

The Beach

Here in the dry constellations,
Orion winters in the blue west, the
Drinking Gourd spills silver on the void, and
the Seven Sisters crowd together,
quilting the covers of night.
I miss the beach.

I miss the salt, I miss the sweet
curled wave that rolled the wind
into a gesturing wand
of air and water,
joining two lurching souls
ungainly in their solitary progress,
into one smooth moving thing
hip to hip, stride for stride
handfast, untarnished

because you chose to throw
your arm around my neck
and let us spin

in the eddy, as the tide
ran out, till we were dizzy

and all the slipping stars
cleared the boards and moved
their heavy banquet
to our eyes.

©joyannjones December 2016

#hippiebacksliding #caseofyou #bluebridgetothelosthighway