The Doe

For Karin’s prompt at Real Toads, What is? I don’t know if I met the bar but….here is my poem. I don’t use metaphors. I only write what I see and feel.  Also visiting dVerse Poets Pub open link night with this.


The Doe

“And to die is different from what any one supposed, and
Luckier”. Walt Whitman Leaves of Grass
Now that we speak of dying, And should I have the right to smile:” T.S. Eliot Portrait of a Lady III

I don’t know why I have been thinking of death,
sitting up here in my tree.
Maybe it is the suicide of Tony Bourdain or of a friend a year ago
or maybe it is the death of my mother,
almost a year ago.

The tree bark is warm and rough behind my back.
Green shadows dance about my head
while birds sing and fly and fluff
and squirrels chase each other,
some of them coming perilously close to my head.
I had dropped down some withered apples from
my pantry for the forest folk to forage.
I heard the faint crack of a branch and looked down
to see a doe nibbling on the apples.
She looked up and for just a moment
almost fled.
But then she resumed her eating.
Perhaps she had seen me sitting
on the back porch as she wandered through our yard.
Her eyes reminded me of my mother,
large and pansy brown
looking up with innocence,
looking up with knowledge of her dying.
looking into my eyes with sorrow
at leaving me behind.
I’ve been thinking a lot about death.
I wonder what it is.
I don’t know what death is.
I only know what it isn’t.
Today it isn’t the blue sky and green trees
and the doe eating apples
at the foot of the tree.

After

For Marian’s challenge at Real Toads. We are to write a tetractys poem – 1-2-3-4-10 Syllable count per line.  I am deeply saddened by the suicide of Anthony Bourdain.

“As you move through this life and this world you change things slightly, you leave marks behind, however small. And in return, life — and travel — leaves marks on you. Most of the time, those marks — on your body or on your heart — are beautiful. Often, though, they hurt.” Anthony Bourdain

After
I.
An
empty
place setting
at the table.
Pour the wine. Free spirit drinks with a smile.

II.
Knives
are still.
Dust settles.
Pans are empty.
The kitchen is silent and still, waiting

Suicide happens when a person’s emotional pain exceeds their ability to cope with that pain. But there is help. If you are in trouble, pick up that ten ton phone–tomorrow can be better, even if you don’t believe it right now. National Suicide Prevention Help Line: 1-800-273-TALK.

 

 

The Southern Wind

In Honor of Walt Whitman’s birthday and his poem The Song of Myself – a song of myself for Tuesday Platform at Real Toads.

 

Eno River – public doman

The Southern Wind
I am a southern woman born and bred.
Compared to my Yankee cousin I move….
Like a sloth. Which is cool by me.
I like to dawdle behind and look at the overlooked things –
The tiny flowers hidden in the grass
or the acorn still attached to the branch
wrenched by the wind from the oak
or the small yellow butterfly
drinking from the honeysuckle.
But I am also the dragon tea set –
two of the cups cracked and mended with gold.
I am the Smokie Mountains covered in mist
And I am also Fuji covered in clouds.
Peaches warmed by the sun are my skin.
One day my ashes will be scattered
into the South Wind –
Minamikaze –
Blown across the red dirt fields –
Blown across the slow moving Eno River
Blown into the ocean, The Crystal Coast
Blown back home

Public Domain, Crystal Coast NC

Peach Cobbler

Today for the Quadrille over at dVerse Poets. De has given us the word “cobble”.  Note about cobblestones.  As a retired engineer, I amass all sorts of useless information.  Most of the “cobblestones” after the 1860’s are actually limestone setts cut into the shape of a brickbat and set into place on sand. Cobbles are round flat stones brought here millenia ago by the glaciers.  They are no primarily used  to construct buildings.


Peach Cobbler

Making peach cobbler
with icecream on the side
always reminds me of my long dead
Father – the ripe peaches, the spices.
Hello Papa I say to it
when I pull it from the oven.
Such a sunny fruit cobbler always
makes my eyes rain.

copyright kanzensakura peaches at the farmer’s market

 

Termites

For Kerry’s Camera Flash prompt over at Real Toads.

clock-of-the-acad-mie-fran-aise-paris-1932

Termites

“Indifference is the revenge the world takes on mediocrities.” Oscar Wilde

Figures swarm the bridge over
the rushing spring river –
figures looking like ants or termites swarming.
So intent on their business
looking neither to the left or right
or up or down only straight ahead
The termites swarm
never seeing the splayed bloated naked body
tumbling in the rushing river,
going past them, underneath them
looking like a starfish or
a blowup doll.
It finally wedges itself on the bank
into a nest of branches
finding its way home.
The termites swarm
over the bridge.

The Peacock Room

The Wee Notes: Another poem in my Dorian Grey series.  I am using these poems and the study of the times to get my MFA, hopefully by the end of summer. I have written a fictional epistolary poem from Dorian to James Whistler. Oscar Wilde toured America in 1882 and 1883. He and James Whistler were constantly scoring points off each other while holding court at the Café Royal in London. Whistler had finished his famous Peacock Room at the house of Frederick Richards Leyland. Thomas Jeckyll, another British architect/artist experienced in the Anglo-Japanese style, was originally commissioned. Jeckyll fell ill and the room became the responsibility of James Whistler. It was completed in 1877. The room was originally entitled Symphony in Blue and Gold and is one of the finest examples of interior art by Whistler. The portrait which is showcased in the room is entitled the Princess from the Land of Porcelain and the model is Christina Spartali. Both Whistler and Leyland were fascinated by Spartali and it became the basis for a financial disagreement between Patron and Artist. So much for the wee notes for this quadrille.  Posted for dVerse Poets Pub Quadrille Monday and Real Toads Tuesday Platform.

public domain

The Peacock Room
“Mauve is just pink trying to be purple.” James Whistler
“Memory … is the diary we carry about with us.” Oscar Wilde

Dear James,
This new world makes me feel old. San Francisco in the rain
Is not nearly as lovely as London. The reflections of buildings are too sharp –
the colours muted. Your favorite dartboard will soon return to the Café Royal.
Eternally,
Dorian

Princess from the Land of Porcelain – James Whistler

Night

Today at Real Toads, Fireblossom has the prompt. She discovered that she is related to the great American Impressionist artist, Edward Simmons. She has given us a few images to pick one and write about or to find another image. Being me, I did some research and found many wonderful paintings by this prolific artist. the one that spoke to me was Night.  Thank you Shay for this wonderful and meaningful prompt!

Night
As usual I can’t sleep.
I sit on the beach watching the sleeping ocean –
Listening to its susurrus…
The smell of honeysuckle mixes with the smell
of the sleeping ocean – like an artist mixes his paints.
The honeysuckle is magnificent this year
Climbing in fettered freedom on the
growth of trees and small bushes, fences.
On the drive down here today
the car in front of me hit a bird –
A small bird dipping down for a bit of something
in the middle of the road.
I looked in my rearview mirror and saw it flopping.
I pulled over to the shoulder
and ran and quickly scooped it up in my hands,
Where it immediately died.
A bit of blood on my hands
with its eyes still open.
I wonder does it have a nest of babies somewhere?
I go back to my car and put it into a paper bag.
Later that night I bury it in the sand dunes.
The sleeping ocean sings it a lullaby.
I look at the moon on the ocean. One day
I think,
I shall walk into that ocean.
The honeysuckle is magnificent this year.

public domain Night by
Edward Simmons 1889

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