Orange
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http://jennifernicholewells.com/2016/03/05/color-your-world-orange/
Sunset Ballet
Their silhouetted slim perfection
backed by sunset’s splashed reflection,
these teens seemed to have some connection
that loosed them from a straight direction
as they chose a swift aborting
of their stroll for wild cavorting.
In frolics on the beach, each leap
was energy they couldn’t keep
but had to spend, paying their tolls
in somersaults and flips and rolls;
while I watched, spellbound, from my step,
entranced by all their joy and pep—
glad that I had viewed by chance
this sunset’s stunning triple dance
of light on water and on sea
as well as bends of arm and knee
that turned this day all upside down
for each cavorting, spinning clown—
those of us more seasoned sat,
collected for a sunset chat,
well-worn by humor, sun and life,
taking ease from lives of strife.
And though we’re not as young and trim,
our hearts danced along with them.
(Click on first photo to enlarge, then click quickly on each successive arrow to transpose these stills into action. I’ve captioned the last photo THE END and you can click on the X to the top left at this time or at any other time to return to this screen. It may take some time to download initially, depending on your computer; on mine it went quickly. Once downloaded, it goes very quickly depending on how fast you press the right arrow each time. It’s worth the bother. So fun to view!!! Please let me know how this works for you.)
Each morning in Mexico, wherever you are, you are greeted by the sounds of the vendors of the day driving by in the street. Gas trucks, knife sharpeners, fruit and vegetable vendors––all have their own distinctive music to call us out of our houses to buy their wares. Since my bedroom window opens on the street, I’ve had a unique opportunity to have their lilting ditties engraved upon my memory so I find myself humming them to myself throughout the day––whether diving into a wave, chewing an enchilada or listening to a friend read a poem in writers’ group. Nowhere am I safe from repetitive memory and the need to duplicate their music unless I’m listening to a different tune blasted from the woofers of a passing muffer-less car or by a local band at Palapa Joe’s. Perhaps this is why we all flock there–our final escape from the gassy melodies of our mornings.
Below is my commemorative poem to all this hot gas. Today, as if in complicity with my need to get photos, they passed a total of five times! I didn’t explain why I was standing in my nightgown in the middle of the street to snap their pictures. Let them be a bit disturbed by me for a change!!!
Morning Serenade
Each time I hear the gas truck pass,
“Zeta, Zeta, Zeta Gas”
gets stuck anew right in my ear
where it will remain, I fear––
the soundtrack to my whole long day.
It simply will not pass away
until their competition passes–
with the more simple song of gasses––
“Guhassssssssssssssss” they croon, much more direct.
I almost want to genuflect
at this daily processional
and enter their confessional
to admit I’ve gone electric,
so no more I’ll hear the click
when I choose to be a turner,
flipping on my stovetop burner.
Now the coil will heat with ease
unaffected by each breeze.
No more am I the slave of gas–
with need to purchase it en masse.
Yet still each morn as they pass by,
I feel the need to run and hie
their passing with a friendly wave
and when they do not pass, I crave
the lilting message of their passing.
My day just won’t start without “guhasssssssssssssing”!
(Click on first photo to enlarge and see captions. Click arrows to move through gallery and press the X at the upper left to come back to this page.)
(Click on first photo and then on arrows to enlarge photographs and view gallery. Click on X on upper left to return to this page.)
http://hughsviewsandnews.com/2016/03/01/hughs-weekly-photo-challenge-week-15-under/
Seeing Double
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Against this periwinkle blue wall, who could overlook these gorgeous flowers with its contrasting stalk of thorns?If my bedroom were to open onto the beach side of my rental, this would be my early morning scene:
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The only sounds I would hear? Gulls, the wash of waves on the shore, Bobino’s mute plea to be fed. But, in fact, my bedroom window which must be kept open for circulation, faces onto the street and at 8 o’clock, my reality is this:
No Perfection in the Universe
After only four hours’ sleep,
my slumber should be sound and deep;
but very early in the day,
mufflers seem to be passé.
My window opens to the street
to try to beat the daily heat,
so the sounds of ATV’s
enter freely with the breeze.
When motorcycles rev and roar
just outside my bedroom door
and trucks come rumbling two by two––
there is nothing I can do
but grab my computer and write my blog
when I should be sleeping like a log.
It’s true I might be way less surly
if I got to bed more early,
but you see it’s not to be
for when the bars all close at three
the motorcycles are just as loud
their drivers young and motor-proud.
They shout and roar and spin their wheels.
Their music beats and thumps and peals
as they do one pass or more
right outside my bedroom door.
Outside the other side of my rental
all the sounds are elemental.
The surf’s loud roar is more relaxing,
but here the engine roars are taxing!
So when you picture my vacation,
just think of the daily ration
of engine angst that I confess
and perhaps you’ll envy less.
The parade of mufflerless motorcycles, cars and revving trucks begins at eight a.m. Here is one minute of traffic passing in front of my house. The blue wall with the open door and window is mine.
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Hibiscus Schizopetalus
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Thanks to Steve Frowlne for identifying this flower found in my friend Carol Lopez’s garden.
Here is a bit more information about it, thanks to Wikipedia: Hibiscus schizopetalus is a species of Hibiscus native to tropical eastern Africa in Kenya, Tanzania and Mozambique. Its common names include fringed rosemallow,[1] Japanese lantern, coral hibiscus, and spider hibiscus.
It couldn’t be further away from Cee’s tulip that is her flower of the day. To see hers, go here:
http://ceenphotography.com/2016/03/01/flower-of-the-day-march-2-2016-tulip/
The Secret Life of Gardeners
My gardener of fourteen years
has a stern unsmiling wife and grown children
that I used to know well.
I set his morning coffee on the terrace table
and there is some secret
twining through the dense thunbergia vine
that causes the flowers
to nod their heads.
Later, the man who does not know I watch
drinks his morning coffee grown tepid in the cup,
coughs gently (or is it a laugh?) behind the hand
that cradles the telephone,
sly smile betraying a secret love
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 an extensive rewrite of a poem written three years ago. Since this is the fourth time I’ve written to this prompt in three years, it seems fair to do a rewrite on this round!)
