Pull down pale green husks
some easily, others with a yank
discover soft fine silken hair,
gossamer strands cling to yellow gems
kernels of sweetness
in perfect rows of delicious.
Assaulted by bubbling water
slathered in butter
ear by ear, cob by cob
they succumb to energetic chomping
sacrificial sustenance
for the Summer Devourer.
She sat with the counselor
and tried to explain
to divulge in words
what had not been said
for too many years.
Over-size
dime-store dark glasses
hid the terror trail
as she sat, tense
alert, waiting.
Hands clasped in lap
hid fingernails
chewed to nothingness
feet pressed on floor, heels together
knees together too.
A posture learned
to pull in, retreat
be small
in the smallest
amount of space.
She flinched
as he leaned in
and so he adjusted
settled back in the chair
to listen with his eyes.
And finally
she answered
slowly
each word mumbled
yet distinct.
I feel like
a sandwich cookie
pryed open
pulled apart
licked raw
and gnawed upon
crumb by crumb
and now
I am totally consumed.
The earth belches and spews forth her fury.
Oh Pele, goddess of volcanoes,
your power and passion are evident
as you hiss and ooze red-hot anger.
You are the earth’s psyche
and we the defiant trespassers,
over cracks and fissures
glass-sharp edges of your hardened crust.
Arrogant though we are
we step gingerly,
awed by your magnificence
as we retreat to cooler ground.
Posted in response to the Daily Post Photo Challenge: Beneath Your Feet. Photos from our 2005 Lava Walk on the Big Island in Hawaii. A once in a life-time experience, to feel the volcano beneath our feet!
The house is quiet again
all things-children put away.
If I close my eyes
I can hear their laughter echo,
see small bodies
clambering on to youth chairs.
Stillness surrounds me
memories sustain me.
Families, and time
move on.
Toys packed away until another time.
The flat smooth spatula
dips in sweetness
slowly connects with layers
methodically swirls its thickness
then dips again, rises again
and moves in circles
across the top of delicious.
Night comes earlier to the dark of soul.
Blind to the stars
the universe appears as India ink
dripped from the Master’s quill,
one unending amorphous black blot
across the everywhere sky.
Drowsy day snippets
up too late
trying to find some words
pen in _ _ _ _
words flit in _ _ _ out
eyes a _ _ _blurred
mind foggy too
time to give _ _ up
and j_ _ _
take a _ _ _
zzzzzzzzzzz……..
Penciled eyebrows arched in surprise
bright red lips and stiletto heels
short white gloves like her mother wore
and always a billowing skirt,
crinolines attached for extra flounce.
She struts through life to decorate the scene
takes center stage to raucous applause.
Shoes come off, skirt removed
she twirls it above her head
three loops, then let sail
caught by the lucky wide-eyed man
sitting in a front row seat.
Each movement choreographed
her legs curve round the rope.
She ascends high and higher still
seeks the spotlight’s heat,
craves this life,
to dangle and curl
high above the circus floor.
Stainless steel body and lid
small glass knob at top
black cord with electric plug
wake-up percolates
like ideas
poets play with words
children plot make-believe
imaginary friend or foe
hands slap high-fives
or hit
metal basket filled with grinds
crushed to bits, tampered down
tempered up with heat
bubbles clear then dark
then darker still
anger boils over
outside glassed in walls
balance shifts in hand
to pour the pot
pungent morning elixir
eyes wide shut
as outside
the world explodes.
I”ve taken a different approach to the Daily Post Photo Challenge: Inspiration. Although there are many things that inspire my living and my love (family and my spouse of 45 years at the top), it seems that my morning cup of coffee beside my journal, at a carved-out early time in the AM, inspires my words. And so, a photo of my coffee and the words it inspired this morning.
Double-dutch
two ropes twirl like egg-beaters
and I watch
on the outside leaning in
sway to catch the rhythm
wait for that right moment
when the aperture appears.
Take the chance, slip right in
jump one foot, then the other
double-time to the beat
conquer these ropes
or not
misjudge the opportunity
and I’ll be the one
twirling, standing still.
lillian the home poet 