your sweetness is not enclosed
in hardened rind
nor limited in season
or to vagaries in taste.
your song is not caged,
held captive
or denied fancied flight.
your appeal depends not
on variations in ripeness,
color of flesh or plumage.
you have no true comparison
though metrics and analogies
are on offer.
you are wonderfully,
unimaginably
magically
you
you learn early not to tromp
on the lettuce, carrots and kale
as you learn names that twist
your toddler’s eager tongue.
Great-Papa shows you how to
harvest for dinner, and you taste
a bit of garden dirt along
with the veggies rinsed by garden hose.
you learn early not to tromp
on the heritage passed with each fresh taste
irrespective of the palate punch to
your toddler’s eager tongue.
our baby-hood spiral-swirls
throughout a lifetime, an indistinguishable
tangle of unfettered joy in each
immersive taste and sweetly
savored reverie
in review. I fast forward
to your teen years, when photo
sharing is an opening of you
as a book – a shy overture
to a potential love interest,
or hilarity infused late night
carouse. I envision the inevitable
toddler spaghetti-wearing snap;
and contemplate a multi-generational
montage, of the spaghetti head look.
Mommy and Daddy will shake
heads, bewildered at the time flight
from the days you squashed
yourself between them, always
assuming center stage
to the adolescent indifferent
half-hug – for public consumption.
Though I feel the tenacity
of all the embraces
in the cherished confines
of home.
your arrival draws nigh, sweet xanthous crush, heralded in hearth and home
in tandem with summer’s solstice – dancing harbinger of plenty – which celebrates
anew, the burgeoning miracles, of mothers universal and personal,
your maturation emblematic of honored fertility rites.
I feel ancient druidic urges pulsing in collective maternal consciousness
redolent of lavender and verbena, beaming in the brilliant blooms
that we weave into flowered crowns
for ourselves and our much anticipated progeny.
bursting sweet amongst us, fresh to the world
you refresh tired or angsting souls
brimming with nectar, vim, vigor and vitality
I am reminded of love for all humanity.
warming to the world, as you will
you attune to your everlasting suns
radiating love and comfort, forging familial bonds
in joining, lives are lusciously juiced, as pineapples do.
you have
a held – breath
hold
over all
my lobes –
pulmonary
and cranial
I taste
your future
kisses
in May’s
mercurial
gasps
whisper -soft
cheek grazing
zephyrs
drowsily
bestowed
as sleep
cocoons
full body
butternuttery
squashes
as you
carom
(half tornadic)
into
gigglefest
smooches
I have
engraved
these images
silver tinted
sepia toned
temporally
the melodydrop
to all
our
lullaby
duets
I remember the days
of cantaloupe disdain
the subtly orange flesh
hidden within rough rind
the challenge of cutting
is the knife sharp enough?
the hazards of a roll
or a slippery skip
melon balls seemed pretentious
an artform designed
for luncheon hosting ladies
with excessive time, anxious
and crystal bowls galore
silver melon balling scoop
while rough hewn wedges
are cookout relegated
I cannot quite place the moment
the initial acknowledgement
of gustatory potential
in the subtly sweet
juicy crunch
while avoiding the
chin drip
napkin at the ready
the flavor evades
easy categorization
less a sensational standout
than a comforting backdrop
a hint of summer soothing
without ice cream guilt
accommodating
to multiple pairings
to imagine you
as a cantaloupe
littlest melon
is incongruous
having grabbed my attention
riveted all my senses
in definitively
uncantaloupian fashion
palm tree of the genus Cocos; ubiquitous
in tropical locales; name origin –
Portuguese, for head or skull; domesticated
in Southeast Asian Islands – Neolithic;
icon of vacation decadence – sipping chilled froth
in a shell, pineapple bedecked; oil-
for frying with a hint of sweetness;
milk, used in curries or as dairy
substitute; will you be a foodie
like your uncles?; water – for hydration
and natural source of electrolytes;
in soaps and cosmetics, for softest skin;
in sunscreen and now I smell like
the beach; reminiscent of a ghost
or witch, in folklore; falling from
trees – cartoon reference; oh, the
stories we will tell; silly
rambunctiousness (slang); how soon
will you drive mommy and daddy
coconuts?; using one’s head (expression);
I am certain you will use yours; flaked, blended
in caramel frosting for German chocolate
cake – deliciousness!; perfect for
little fingers to swipe while baker’s
head is turned; size comparison
for the 31st gestational week;
and I picture all the ways we
will coconut together
In response to today’s prompt: “Today, begin by reading Bernadette Mayer’s poem “The Lobelias of Fear.” Now write your own poem titled “The ________ of ________,” where the first blank is a very particular kind of plant or animal, and the second blank is an abstract noun. The poem should contain at least one simile that plays on double meanings or otherwise doesn’t quite make “sense,” and describe things or beings from very different times or places as co-existing in the same space.”
spring plays peekaboo among
the thunderbolts and downpours
while winter lurks in the dank
shadows on redbuds’ northward sides.
the redbud lends its purple purpose,
beyond common vernal vernacular,
in musing upon the inexplicable
lingering of fuzzy socks despite
overblown tulips. the killdeer
are nesting – or so I believe, never
yet finding their nests. their cry
conjures all my longings, lost
or achingly ever-present. a shadow
casts a pall as its owner – vulture
or dementor – glides surreptitiously
silent above. ah, but there is hope,
despite the chill digits twining
about heart’s cockles. golden
dandelion heads nod and gesture,
like court jesters and innocent
babes, in their dance beckoning
the sun. we revert to childlike bliss,
plucking butter -predictive blossoms
to present in joyful abandon;
warmth harbingers –
these dandelions of hope
as you round the corner of third
base and head for home, a
check of your advancement
defines your current status –
ever a source of considerable
fanfare and fanciful botanical
gyrations. this week – 30 – a
head of broccoli is the chosen
identifier, as we squint and
judge a leafy Cruciferae with
kindly infant features. weekly
likenings challenge metaphorical
machinations, ever searching for
nuanced depictions – oblique or
overjoyed – with which to celebrate
precise progressions. egad!
quickness of wit is ever
required to raise the crop –
sequenced soliloquies –
testaments tantamount to
undying adoration hurled into a
vortex, floating crystalline droplets,
whirling words – perhaps of wisdom – no
xerox copies here. all awaiting
you, dearest boy, our baby
Z
are you up to the challenge, my friend?
prepared the status quo to upend?
will the lilt in your lines
echo the signs of the times
or suspended disbelief recommend?
will you rise to the occasion, my verse?
of current chaos converse?
may your words twinkle light
fireflies in gloaming (twilight)
or treacherous mindfields traverse?
do you have raucous rhymes at the ready?
balance on lyrical tightrope unsteady?
can you parry and thrust
at life’s permutations unjust
or syntax flip as befits a sage Jedi?
will your stanzas have spines of steel?
form mantras for lofty ideal?
leave hungry readers agape
as reality they escape
or as political protest appeal?
gather round, my dearest friends – words
flutter through thoughts as frollicking birds
weave exquisite tapestried yarns
while cranky geese hiss afore barns
and for battle the epic thus girds
cauliflower is king of the hill
reigning in repose months before he crowns
his eyes, still silent, pierce souls
in anticipation
of the baby blues
grasping heartstrings
with delicate fingers.
his future is redolent
of lilacs in spring –
rich intoxicant bouquet
hums a soothing lullaby
nectar
to the most finicky palate.
Unky Unk will dote upon him
with practiced nonchalance
at every venture
to “The D.”
he will learn he is not cosmos’ center
as that is no recipe for raising
a responsible citizen of the world
and salt the earth with convictions
that causes are to be taken up
this celebrated cauliflower
stands to change the world
with each milk-sweet smile
littlest liebchen
the adored angel of awakening
on the heels of the summer solstice
earth pauses, past its zenith
to observe the giving forth
he tilts the world on its axis
this tender liebchen
while Memaw gushes
sing-song baby talk.
they will bond
with the softest fierceness
unspoken and unconditional.
the beginning is cataclysmic
unhinging the careful balance
of familial construction
with predictable miraculousness
the blankets she crocheted
wrap him with all the love
in the universe –
cover him with wisdom
thread his nights with brightly colored promise
schlaf gut mein liebchen
baby cauliflower
blanketed in lilac
Listing
I list my rights
inalienable, fundamental, human
I list to the right
starboard -leaning in the gale
I list my lefts
logical, liberal inclinations
I list to the left
port- partial overcorrection
I list my gifts
compassionate passion force
I list gifting
among missions to reinforce
I list my flaws
strengths’ pretzeled inversions
I list – and pause –
reverse course on thought perversions
there were wisps of balm
floating on their frosted breath
hung suspended from the watchful moon.
the crunch of their footfalls on the frozen gravel
stage whispered under observant Orion
tolled the echoes of their ending.
the squirrels had been winter gathering
prepared, industrious, for imminent dearth
I can see the bushy tailed shadows
dodging our hot- breathed strides
as we dash a spontaneous 50
giggling in our gasping hilarity
Response to the poem by Christina Rossetti
In an Artist’s Studio
One face looks out from all his canvases,
One selfsame figure sits or walks or leans:
We found her hidden just behind those screens,
That mirror gave back all her loveliness.
A queen in opal or in ruby dress,
A nameless girl in freshest summer-greens,
A saint, an angel — every canvas means
The same one meaning, neither more or less.
He feeds upon her face by day and night,
And she with true kind eyes looks back on him,
Fair as the moon and joyful as the light:
Not wan with waiting, not with sorrow dim;
Not as she is, but was when hope shone bright;
Not as she is, but as she fills his dream.
Converted to
Into the Void
many tails intrude upon her absence
the multitudes crawl or creep or lumber
we see them leaping without encumber
the void steals from them their very essence.
a slug gleams in cornered luminescence
a luminary ere clouds outnumber
a ghost, a demon – abandoned umber
scatter empty into obsolescence.
her valiant escape to peace is haunted
hordes shadow her upon their ev’ry whim
dark as sun and sorrowful they wanted;
such joy with grasping, and with glory brim;
as they are, or were when hate was daunted
so as they are, as she subdues the dim.
life is a salad, dearest boy
lettuce, love in true quintessence
toss fruited angst with salted joy
life is a salad dearest boy
creative content to employ
to vary upon a season
life is a salad, dearest boy
lettuce love in true quintessence
I swallow the lump in my throat
and question if I too will be
swallowed
whole, or in shattered fragments
by a black hole
encroaching
born of the void of compassion.
Words have long been my friends,
my source of comfort
so I chase compassion down
as if in the futherance of knowing,
I can capture this treasure
oft and again scarce.
Compassion is an action, I find,
the putting into practice of
caring, empathy, concern.
I ponder
did the whole world study
etymology
or eavesdrop at the dinner tables of my childhood
as roots of words were passed
along with the salt.
and I wonder
who considers compassion
in it’s Latin origins
“to suffer with.”
Could that be the reason
of compassion some are loath to give?
next consider compassion fatigue
the term of art describing
when the carers are cared out,
our cups empty, nothing left to give
oh irony of ironies
the antidote, what say you?
compassion fatigue’s redress?
self – care, preventative and prescriptive
compassion, nothing less
graced upon oneself
pinpoints of light flicker
across the abyss into which I stare
compassion blossoms in its sharing
in balance and in measure
it is indeed in giving
I capture that great treasure
there is a scream burbling in the back of my throat
where it seems to be stuck, yet crescendoing
since it is likely not the time nor place for screaming
and take offense
as we are developing an understanding
/ these days /
of how to walk a tightrope in a tornado
between burgeoning fascism and our incipient revolt
my very throat revolts at the expectation
to carry on its normal duties
while containing
/ shrieking /
commensurate with a hurricane of banshees
while my throat skirmishes with violet screeches
metaphors tumble over imagery
a spaghetti of angry tangles
woven with words
poems burst forth
we could start a culton the third island past Lesbosand change the rulesof cultists’ culturethe center of our cultis decentralizedand we embolden all challengesto the status quothe secret to our successis in the letting goof the insatiable thirstfor unquenchable powerwe demystifythe labyrinthian legacyof indecipherable rulesand segregated sectswe unleash the powerfrom the slavering graspof the wannabeAlmightywe […]
We Could Start a Cult – Marcia J. Weber
it is deeply aquatic herein the purple-screamed eyeof our hurricanewe the peopleclamor for the unclipping of our wingsmatted as they arewith the detritus of ourhistory-onicsour senses melt as Dali’s clocksand we ponder how we arrived herein this nowwe the femaledon our proscribed attiredhandmaids to the hereaftersteeling our stilettoscloaked in the foldsof our quiescenceand bide our […]
We the Unhinged – Marcia J. Weber
Arisen from the Conflagraton 