Working in the kitchen, she ruminated on the unfairness of it all. Three times passed over. For men with less experience! She propped open the instructions for how to shuck oysters. Get oriented with your oyster; nestle it in a towel. Really???? What idiot wrote this? She stabbed the knife tip into the hinge. What a jerk she was for staying. Rotate the knife blade and separate the top shell from the bottom. She dug in the knife. Twisted it. “Are you upset?” he’d asked. Stupid dull blade! The oyster shell blurred. I do not weep at the world – I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife into your gut. Oh how I wish you were nestled in this towel right now! She slammed the shell down on the counter in disgust. I’m done. She picked up the phone and dialed his private line.
Written for Prosery Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets where today Lisa introduces us to the writer Zora Neale Hurston. We are to write a piece of prose that can be no longer than 144 words, sans title, and must include the line I do not weep at the world – I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife from Hurston’s “How Does it Feel to be Colored Me” in World Tomorrow (1928). Image cropped from a photo at Pixabay.com.
i Provincetown summers. Tasty salty upper lip, mango tinted dawns. Blue hydrangeas, hollyhocks, honeysuckle and moss rose.
ii. Color profusion. Blarney Castle garden walk, nature’s floral art. Ireland is so much more than the luck of shamrock green.
iii. Singapore orchids, pride of National Garden. Soft delicate blooms, violet to deepest shades, azure-veined whites and more.
iv. I sense Japan’s calm, forest bathing in deep greens. Celebrate her spring strolling by cherry blossoms. Petals rain gently in breeze.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today is the second day of our dVerse 10 year anniversary! Our prompt is to think about the word “garden” and see where it takes us. I took that literally. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us! Photos from our travels.
Play me that jukebox, baby, you know the buttons to push. Hit Marvin, cuz we know you want to get it on with me. I know, you can’t stop loving me. Push the Ray button, honey. Hold me real close. Maybe I’ll be tempted.
dVerse is back after our two week summer hiatus! Written for dVerse’s Quadrille prompt which must use the word “juke” or a form of the word, within a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe, opens at 3 PM Boston time! Come join us! PS: I remember going on high school dates to get a burger and cherry coke, and plugging quarters in the jukebox, picking out our favorite songs.
. . . from another time. Seemingly parked in a god-forsaken place. Resting place to rust, deteriorate more.
This image. Or someone’s once loved one sent to somewhere that is out of sight, out of mind.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Sanaa is hosting and directs us to twelve images at Glenn Buttkus’ photography site, South Sound Minimalist Photos. Glenn is not only an excellent photographer, he is a fellow dVerse poet!
We are to use one of his twelve photos as inspiration for our poem. I chose photo #7: Old Rusty Truck which Glenn describes as “The isolated Model T truck bears the weight and pride of a hundredyears of rust, becoming prairie art and sentinel.”Interesting how once the photo (or the poem) is set to paper/blog, the interpretation is in the hands of the viewer/reader. I saw the photo as quite sad and hence this poem.
Summer’s delight. Ice cream time in smudgekin’s world, that’s a toddler’s chocolate delight. Chocolately face and fingers too, lick by lick by lick by drip by drip by drip. Slow salivating yumminess then nose-in-cone finale. Mama says “look at me!” Click. Then clean-up time.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse where Mish is hosting and asks us to use the word “smudge” or a form ofthe word in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Photo from Inside Source.
Lilac aphrodisiac, scent my world. Your goodness blossoms blessed with sweet delicacy. From palest to deepest shades, side by side on Lilac Lane. Each alone exudes the beautiful, together you blend as one scene. I walk slowly, senses awakened. Serenity wafts, and in the moment, all is good in my world.
I couldn’t sleep. Walking the streets I came upon a small sign: Séance Sessions. Ten dollars.
“Letting go. Crucial to finding the way is this: there is no beginning or end to this labyrinth called life. In reality”, said the medium, “you were here before your time and you will reappear many times after your body succumbs.” The lights suddenly flickered. The charlatan’s fingernails dug into my palms. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head as her mouth moved in synch with Jim’s booming voice. “You killed me. I shall never forget. You shall suffer all the days of your lives and . . .” The medium’s body lurched forward. Her head crashed onto the table. She was obviously dead. I could see the dagger I’d carefully buried in my garden, sticking out of her back. Sirens began to wail.
Three apple trees. Due date approaching. Branches loaded with fruit, over-ripe ones on ground sickly sweet with buzzing bees. Fresh picked apples brought inside, peeled carefully, cut in halves, sliced after cores are tossed. Seasoned with cinnamon, allspice and nutmeg they’re left to sit, making their own juice. I move the rolling pin over the dough, stretching it carefully into shape, leaning in as close to counter as my swollen belly allows. And then I feel it. Shirt lifted, I look….. our soon-to-be little one is rolling too. Crusts placed gingerly in aluminum pie pans spicy scented apple mixture poured into tins. Butter pads scattered on top, then top crust placed. Crimping dough I smile, remembering. Yesterday I folded sweet little undershirts, cloth diapers, and placed them just so on shelf in second-hand bassinette. Pies made, into the freezer they go. All the preparations done, we wait. Iowa’s winter won’t seem so harsh this year. We’ll have that heavenly apple aroma as one of our pies bake, and we’ll be holding a tiny baby boy or girl ever so closely in our arms.
Rain gushed from heavens thunder, lightning pandemic hell turned purgatory. Boxed in by walls. Boxed in by zoom boxes.
Snows came, windows frosted shut. Our spirits glazed as seasons passed seen from shuttered window panes. Cities crawled. Inequities laid bare.
Sparse masked figures hurried to tasks, six feet apart. A grave distance indeed. Hope impossible to grasp by stifled hands. Optimists whispered. Hang on, hang on . . .
. . .after all, tomorrow is another day. But optimists were far and few between. Tomorrow is another day wore thin because it never was.
Addendum. Recovery. Release for those us who survived. Smiles visible but leery. Freedom, sort of, for far too many to openly grieve.
Freedom for the privileged while far too many across the globe still parched, still weary still covid devastated . . .
. . . another day . . . still impossibly too far away.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Mish asks us to consider lines made famous by movies. She provides many for us and asks us to include one of them in a poem. I’ve chosen “After all, tomorrow is another day.” from Gone with the Wind, 1932.