a prisoner of birth
the beachcomber
an a red rabbit
conversing in the place of lightness
spoke of the point of origon
then, shared the deception on his mind
in a painted house
until memories of midnight
became monday mourning
and the warlock
cried it's over now
let's bake ginger breads

somedays I sit
on the edge of sanity
feet dangling in a ocean
of the deepest black water

somedays I stand on the edge
of reality
willing myself not to leap
into the clouds of depression
that float by

somedays I lie in bed
whispering the mantra
circling in my head

I am not here,  I am not here,
                                                    I am not here....

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 8, 2016)

The cherry blossoms
of DC have bloomed in kind—
fair burst of the realm.

Tunnels of cotton
Blush rosier than the rose.
What moral measure.

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 7, 2016)

“I don’t care for a man’s religion
whose dog and cat are not the better for it.”
-- Abraham Lincoln


Poll the polecat for I don’t have, to say, a dog
in this fray, in this tussle of quicksand policy.
No kibble in the bowl of faithful-isms,

the ticks and slugs of sham prisms.
As the maxim goes—if you lie with dogs,
you wake up with fleas and fated policy.

You wake up as compromised as policy
uncompromised, orchestrating schisms
and foul offensives. Beware of the dog

policy, bird ******* and false Emersonian-
                                                                        isms.

The teacup holds memories
of laughter, love and time
steeped in years of  friendship

fine cut and flavorful our friendship
rests lightly in my hands beyond time
now, only in glimpes and fading memories

the russian caravan, has moved  on and i am left with time
you are gone, but the not the friendship
the aroma from the teacup, ignites the flame of memories

so it is a ritual, of loving sorrow and joy
i often have cause to maintain

i am nine
and learning
by osmosis
secret women's business or
the art of  pie making
production line style
to the uniniated

i sit perched on a stool
in the corner, out of the way
boxed in by fruit
it is a heady place to be
as scents of apricots(bought)
blackberries and apples mingle
sweet woody and exotic,
with the citrus tang
of  zested lemon that sits
in an ever growing
pryamid on the table.

ginger and cinnamon motes
float in the oven warm air
and flour clouds the room
and settless in drifts
and dusts the collection of bowls
on the table

my mother aunt
and mrs blunt,the neighbor,
bustle about the room....
my aunts girth designates her as chief baker
and she rolls out pastry with
gusto...fat arms swinging
penduously, humming to herself.

mrs blunt is the pie filler
adept at judging the mix
and making the gelatonious
gooey syrups filled with sugar
and spice, chopped crab apple
and lemon zest.

mother is the friuter, she peels
destones and cores
chopping up apples, apricots and peaches...
leaving berries and cherries intact(sans pips)
and then later she mans the ovens  
watching for the golden crust
and bubble of pie juice...
before removing
them to cool on poppa jacks
old oval dining table...

me I sit in  wonder,
snacking on fruit,
and  ***** of leftover dough
swooning with the smell
of stewing friut.

Next year my true apprenticeship will start....
Until then, I listen to the murmer of gossip
the passing of secrets,
the bonding of these women....

my granfather cultivated
beefsteak  and ox heart tomatoes

great big red things
bigger than his
gnarled and ropy fist

smelling of acid and
sun shine and deep rich
goodness

he would sit at the table
and seperate the seeds
out of the pink granular flesh
like a surgeon
and they would sit  like pink red sago
on cut pieces of yesterdays news
set upon the window ledge
gross yet compelling
there they dried out
in the sun
and were sorted for planting
some discarded as not good enough
some set aside for the "prize winning" bed
the plot of soil that got the best sun
the best compost, and some watered concoction
that smelt of things dead and rotting

I once asked what made a good tomato seed
his reply," you just know girlie....
you know the ones that are going to be great"

tomato growing was serious business to my grandpa

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 6, 2016)

The not-smell of pop fiz on ice
stimulating the hairs in the nose,
caffeine coolness so far down a throat
it touches the brain, frees the sinus
in a chemo-corporate embrace.
The soda jerks are calling for shares
of my stomach, even the crenelated
linings, even the misled calorie,
even the sorrowful marrow of the bone.
Consider the mitochondrial malaise of this,
the very ******-pathological thirst
that kills what we need.

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 5, 2016)

When I was a child a relative told me
the English do not eat tomatoes.
And I cannot let go of the false idea,
the tomato-ness of America.
Large Red, Old Virginia,
the Mortgage Lifter—
these all sound gravely patriotic.
As does Martian or Mountain Princess,
like some Appalachian fruit.
Even the almost allegorical
Early Abe. But what about the purist,
the Romaist, if you will, the one-kind
of onion eater who won’t take artichokes
or okra, lives on peas and is a veritable
celery-heart, consumes eggplant only as a slur,
garlic as jewelry; potato is his credo.

Take the speckled small watermelon,
red with evaporating streaks of green.
The part of this and the part of that.
The half breed, the synthesis, the cauliflora
extraordinary. Full of halves. I know
quite a few people who would refuse it.

tree
green
       knotty
      gnarled
               limbs
                      bark
                           rough
                           roots
                                  twigs
                   ­                 wood
                                          o­xygen
                        carbon-dioxide
                    ­                           xylem
                                                    leaf
  ­                                                        flower
  ­                                                                 ­  rings
                                                           ­                  seeds
                                                           ­                      earth
                                                           ­                              habitat
                                                         ­                                            timber
                                                          ­                                                  bole
          ­                                                                 ­                                 borers
                                                                ­                                                       sap
                                                             ­                                                          soil
                                                            ­                                                                 life
                                                            ­                                                                 ­    earth
                                                           ­                                                                 ­           trees
                                                           ­                                                                 ­         forrest
                                                         ­                                                                 ­             green
                                                           ­                                                                 ­              red
                                               ­                                                                 ­                 orange
                                                          ­                                                                 ­ autumnal
                                                       ­                                                                 ­                     livid
                                                           ­                                                                 ­            living
                                              ­                                                                 ­                     growing
                                    ­                                                                 ­                                      worlds