It was the day of falling apples.
The tree was heavy with fruit,
branches taut under the pull of
languorous weight. The morning
breathed thick tongued, dull
eyed, waking from a dream.
There came a sudden wind
that grabbed the tawny limbs,
slender as the blue veined wrists
of young maidens, and shook.
Down plopped apples,
one
two
five
a staccato fusillade,
hoofbeats of mare and stallion.
The man flinched at the first
fat raindrop. He had been
considering the apples, firm,
pale with a faint pink blush,
breasts, one in each hand,
weighing them in his mind.
He cleaved one apple, stem
to stern, to reveal its
five chambered heart, with
five seeds like hard brown tears,
one each for the four winds
and one for the lover who had
blown him away.
Archive for August, 2009
One Fallen Apple
Under an August Moon
Coyote, wise old trickster
shuffling ‘cross the road
under an August moon,
you look a little shaggy,
a little grayer,
but you and I know
the best blueberry patches,
the way across the swale,
how to step light
over a thin crust of windpacked snow,
when to chase
and when to lay in wait.
The moon casts
reflected sunlight
on the old familiar trails,
as the summer night
gathers memories
of distant, bygone loves,
and traces a crooked path
upon my dark betrodden heart.
sour grapes
you might not believe this
but when I was a kid
grapes came with seeds
one per grape
red
green
it didn’t matter
as with many things
you had two choices
spit or swallow
i just chewed them up
real good
sweet
and bitter
and swallowed
two
three
four at a time
or for something else to do
i’d peel them first
now the days come
in bunches
and you’re the bitter seed
but I chew
and swallow
seeds
skins
and all
out of habit
too hungry to stop
49
There is nothing lucky about seven
times seven, no art or meaning,
just one year past two thirds
of one year past where my father
fell one year short of the fabled
two and seventy, twelves being the
way they counted in those days.
If, on the other hand, we had
seven fingers instead of ten,
I might say I’d reached 100.
No shedding of skin, no more
rattles on my tail, just the slow
wearing of tooth on tooth,
bone on bone, and the desire
to make the last one third
count for something.
Note: Nothing special about today. Actually, I’ll turn 50 on Nov. 25.
Working on a new type of poem
New for me, anyway.
Working title is “A Curious History of Women in the Arts in 19th Century England”
I hope to post it later today, at least a draft
Perhaps by Monday. The enormity of my task is sinking in. I have a plan!
Lady Caroline Lamb
Euphemia Chalmers Gray
