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
Arisen from the Conflagraton 