Monthly Archives: March 2018

Upside Down Tree: Sunday Trees, April 1, 2018

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I had to stop and take a photo of this tree that to me looks like an upside down tree—as though someone cut it off another tree and stuck it into the ground upside down.  Seems perfect for April Fool’s Day!

Belly Talk

Version 2

Belly Talk

Stomach, darling, first of all I’d like to tell you how indispensable you are.  Literally, you are irreplaceable in my life.  Aside from digesting my food, you separate my waist from my chest and keep my belts from straying.  You warn me about absolutely revolting subjects as well as food and are handy for nudging ahead in tight crowds.

That said, I need to bring up one large touchy matter.  For all the good you do in this world, do you need to be quite so large?  Lately, for instance, I’ve watched you extending your territory–venturing out into one plump donut extending around my back.  This makes looking at my rear view in the mirror extremely distressing.  “I never look at myself in back,” one friend told me years ago, but darling, that had been evident for years–testified to by the tight snarl of hair in the middle of her head.

But I digress.  You’re  awfully quiet.  I’m a bit worried that I might have offended.  But, the topic of magnitude of sound being brought up, I’ll continue.  Were you aware that you have taken to communicating with me at inopportune times?  A small growl after midnight to remind me of today’s brownies hiding in their microwave storage space safe from ants and marauding family members and friends?  That’s fine…and probably the real reason you were given a voice in the first place. But that long low rumble increasing in volume in the middle of the significant pause in the dialogue of the movie playing in a hushed movie theater?  Totally unacceptable. Other times your voice is uncalled for?  At the dentist’s office and in the throes of a long passionate kiss.  In teachers’ conferences and at ladies bridge afternoons.  No. No. No.  You are not invited in this capacity.  Yes, digest the margarita, the popcorn or the rich dessert.  Comment upon it? No.

That’s it, dear stomach.  I appreciate you. I know you are vital to my health and happiness.  You provide me with countless pleasures–those pleasures increasing with the years.  But, sweet middle of mine, if you could see your way clear to not increasing at a rate commensurate with my pleasures, I would appreciate it very much.  Oh.  Talking again, I see.  And probably not listening.  Oh well.  I hear your message loud and clear.  A pint of triple chocolate extra fudge gelato in the freezer?  Well, honey, this time you are speaking my language.  No one is around.  And it is totally acceptable!

Prose poem For NaPoWriMo’s Early Bird Prompt. Write a love letter to an inanimate object.

Seer

Seer

Her statement that she’d had a vision
was met by general derision;
so though she tried to warn them all,
they heeded nothing but “last call!”

So while she stocked up her provisions,
they hemmed and hawed with their decisions
and had a round of boozy toasts—
gave their laments, boasted their boasts.

Then they went west while she went east
and thus were eaten by the beast
or overtaken by the flood.
Soaked in water or in blood.

The moral of this little tale
is heed your mystics, or learn to bail
or run faster than the beast
lest you become his morning’s feast

or starve to death in time of drought.
Her warnings met with only doubt
instead of action to stem the tide,
by those who stood as one. And died.

Gotta warn you.  Once again, a poem from three years ago. The prompt word today is warning.

In the Mood: Flower of the Day, March 31, 2018

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See Cee’s exquisite tulip bud HERE.

The Betrayal

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The Betrayal

There is a story hidden
In the majolica mug
that sits on the
terraza table.

Pasiano the gardener
drinks 
echinacea tea
with honey

from this cup,

coughs loudly
behind the hand

that does not cradle
a telephone.

His sly smile
betrays a love story

as clearly as the small child
who sometimes
accompanies him to work.

Some senora’s, he tells me,
but the child has
his eyes and solid legs,
his shy manner,

lives with his mother
and her husband,
but sits on my steps
with a sugar cookie––

betraying
no more secrets

on purpose
than his father does.

 

This is a rewrite of a poem written 5 years ago. The prompt word today is betrayed.