the tomatoes are gathered from the garden,
voluptuous orange globes ribbed with sun-baked
tears barely containing the bursting flesh,
tossed into boiling water in summer heat,
she sweats over the stove, retrieving
each tomato, peeling away each blistered
skin before slicing each one into quarters,
pressing each seed from the fleshy folds
of fruit, each lip holding so many chances
for new life in the moist earth of spring.
they all knew how to ride a bike;
Tony Fiatta kicked my ball with his
pointy black shoes as he rode by,
the hiss of the escaping air followed
him down the avenue.
the others screamed down the
hill, slamming on their brakes
on the cardboard at the bottom,
sliding across the street only to
crash into the cement curbs which
recently arrived in our neighborhood.
I so wanted to learn to ride a bike
that they finally walked me up
the hill, put me on the seat and
pushed me down the hill, releasing
me after only a few yards
in their hurry to ride their bikes
again, skidding across cardboard
at the bottom of the hill where I
sat alone, wishing I could ride
a bike, too.
Where do I keep that memory
of my arms, yellow butterfly wings
flapping gently (riding the bike)
in the last throes of summer,
(sleeveless blouse now covered
in bright yellow jacket); the funny
thing you said this morning or the
fact I ate his piece of pie again
(without telling him we got some,
even, is it better to know or not).
it was so good I'll have to tell him.
Wow...I'm officially stopping my posts to Le Poeme. I am now posting to http://thelastmonthatharvard.wordpress.com/. Three of us poets post to this site, all writing to the same prompts. The other two young poets are also very special people in my life: my daughter, Karen, and Andrea, her Harvard roommate who I have had the good fortune to get to know much better. We each provide one prompt a week. Some of the more recent prompts have included:
Write a poeme about a scene from where you live at a particular time of day (Karen is in Wellington, New Zealand; I am in Boulder, CO; Andrea is in Las Cruces, New Mexico).
Write a poem about brothers.
Learn the meaning of your name and write a poem about it.
Write a poem imitating the style of Wallace Stevens, your choice of poem.
Write a poem about a particular picture that is supplied..which was a pinhole camera picture.
It was just time to move on after 857 postings.
late afternoon tinged with orange
flames licking the sky, belching
black clouds towards the heavens
we watch with fear as cars funnel
from canyons onto city streets
their trunks stuffed with suitcases,
picture albums and dogs panting
in the heat, if they are lucky.
streams of blood red retardant
drop from firebomber planes
as so many tears flood down
the faces we see in cars streaked with
smoke entering our city
until we become bored with the
repetition and return to our tall
margaritas dripping in the heat.
My focus in poetry is shifting away from daily writing on themes from that day, towards writing three times a week ion prompts ( styles, themes, etc) with Karen and Andrea. I will be starting a poetry workshop in two weeks and focusing more on editing and improving my writing. Quality development rather than just quantity. It's been a good run of 850+ poems and I've learned alot along the way, but I won't necessarily be posting to this blog every day anymore...at least for the moment. If you have been a reader, thank you! You have encouraged me along the way.
in that moment when
you reached inside
a sparkling diamond
emerged from darkness
in a far off land arriving
here in this moment
when you took my
so gently sliding a tiny
golden ring onto my finger
now glistening in sunshine
having traveled a million miles
to arrive here in this moment
reflecting off these gems into
the box sits on the front porch, taped shut
revealing nothing but an address;
an address that means nothing to
the man walking up the steps to take it away
by request; her request urgently sent
late at night while sitting at the pink formica
table where all important business is conducted.
one day it will arrive at its destination
where a young woman will smile
joyously to see it, finally; she will
cut away the address label and the tape,
tenderly lifting up the white polka
dot curtains sewn late at night on the other
side of the world, just for her.