Queen of the Stone Age

     Museum by Tess Kincaid

Let us not concoct
healing potions for the dead,
nor invent
new colours
for blind eyes.
     -Hilda Doolittle

I dream

that I am on display

I have no privacy

except inside my own mind.

So I go about building an

inner life of vast spaces

empty of people

with wind and sun and

nightjars

singing me into bed.

Meanwhile

I stare blindly past

the gawking people

past the marble floors

glass doors

past the

streetfuls of cars and crowds,

buildings, bridges

mountain ridges

past the curve of the earth

past Moon, Mars,  Pluto

Milky Way,

out and out,

past a thousand galaxies

through time itself.

Written for Magpie Tales where Tess Kincaid reigns as Queen of the Manor.  Click on the link and join us.

Memory

     Image by Mama Zen

Small beauty

etched in bone,

folded in upon itself,

pressed into place

at the back of your mind.

For Mama Zen and all the toads in the Imaginary Garden.

Pub Pals

        Photo by a random man

Two beautiful women from Wales,

both writers and tellers of tales,

welcomed me to their land

with a hug and a hand,

lots of laughter and love and cocktails!

This is about the "publife and community" for dVerse.  I am much too late to link up there, but you should still go there and check out some great writing.  I had the good fortune to meet up with two writing, cyber-freinds when I travelled to the UK last year.  The amazing Shan Ellis and Julie Watkins are pictured here with me and the non-writing, but still delightful Lori McLaughlin.  And yes, a good time was had by all!

Ripe

     Photo Grocery from Tess Kincaid

At the corner store                          

are piled apples, oranges, potatoes 

and onions enough

to make you cry 

with the cutting of them,

 but that just takes one.

And shoppers touch the fruits

and the vegetables -

I won’t even mention

 the ogling of melons,

or the squeezing of tomatoes;

that is too much

firm fruit for this page.

But there is this concentration

of life, of juices, of vegetable matter,

some of it is still ripening;

and though we cling to life like a peach,

out back, the dumpster

is full of molding pears and cabbages.

My dead grandmother used to say

when you are old

your skin gets rotten like a banana.

We are all

ripening and rotting,

every fruit and vegetable and shopper

reaching for a peach,

every person walking past,

too busy to stop

but not able

to rush, or race-walk, or outrun

their own mortality.

And in the end, we all end.

And it is sad, if the life, or the fruit, or the vegetable

was good at all.

But, despite the dumpster full 

of endings,

the store front 

still draws us in.

We want the fresh fruit,

the sweet bite,

the juices running down our chins.

So savor it,

beginning, middle, end.

This is for Magpie Tales writing group hosted by the talented Tess Kincaid.  Come join us!

Everyday Love

   Steps by Tess Kincaid

I reach for you like a dish.

You read to me over breakfast

while I pour coffee.

There is a coming

and going sort of rhythm

to us.

We are everyday

spoons and forks

not good silver people.

The stairs leading to our room

are well worn.

This is for the writing group Magpie Tales.  Come join us!

In Reverse

    Image from wikipedia.org

The fern frond opens, 

unfurls

to sunlight;

new growth new

life. At the end

of the day it

closes in upon

itself.

Waiting

Waiting

on the threshold,

promises unbroken,

you and the fresh morning beckon.

I wonder if I can jump the chasm

dark and gaping? A huge first step -

I doubt my legs, my will,

so here I stand,

waiting.