snails eat garlic patch
farmer finds a recipe
- escargot tonight
farmer finds a recipe
- escargot tonight
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Protective eyewear
Enjoying warm Rays of sunlight. Sipping from glasses. As time passes by, Sometimes being under The sun Is not always fun, Especially if thunder Comes barging in, And yet, Change is the only constant, And never forget To protect And reflect Upon finally seeing the light Shooting stars---
You light the night sky I have another wish So please come again He got left behind in love
she never knew how he felt he watched her relatives gathering like crows wheelchair by the window sometimes she waved back always thinking what might talking to a cushion at night for her companies sake after she left him...finally they often talked together or, he fancied that they did he stopped taking medication wishing to follow her, unwilling to live without her... I died yesterday
and nobody noticed. Sun no longer sets nor rises. Tourists flocked to Dawlish Warren
attracted by cafes and amusement arcades yet we headed for quieter pastures where few ventured, strolling along a sandy path, opening wooden gates next to sand dunes with the tide sweeping in. The sea enticed us on this warm June day as the sun broke through the clouds painted grey creating stars in the turquoise ocean. But as we began swimming our screams could be heard in Exeter with the shock of the perishing water. Yet every second of the pain felt worthwhile viewing your face so invigorated, all our problems dissolved in the sea, just for a while...our minds were set free. I wrote a poem
Found phrases in lines by long remembered poets and long forgotten singers I dug into history exploring sad and troubled times and rejected words that glorified war. I cried for those needlessly lost. I hoped while researching that men had changed That lessons were learned That politicians had mellowed I wrote a poem, then I watched the news Men haven't changed New weapons are more deadly And politicians still fuel the fires of war I wrote a poem that makes me cry. No one
saw her wade up to the water -fall & enter the light of a moon -bow, her delicate beauty aglow like lead -light. See from the outside,
And also from deep within The interior The pitch blackness, absolute terror
The heart as heavy as a boulder The bottom of the ocean, desolate Not a soul to be seen, not a whale in sight The boy freezes in the absolute cold His heart frosty, almost rocklike The repugnant odor of his dying flesh The flagrant and overpowering stench of his dying thoughts The loneliness crippling, the desolation absolute The boy is a fish out of water Gasping for breath, wriggling with pain It’s as if there is no oxygen in the ether In a flash, the ocean opens, the shimmering sun rays everywhere The flesh restores, leisurely, taking its time The hands embracing the boy are warm, tender, and delicate Tears roll down his face, pellucid, a drop in the ocean Sylvia writes about her death
and of her little children too although thankfully she ensured gas did not leak into their bodies. She comments on the indifference of the moon because nature does not care for us forlorn creatures and our despair. I picture a resigned woman at her desk still creating beautiful and poignant words just days before her demise. What inner turmoil she must have suffered with her children too young to understand the horrors lying in their mother's mind, dying the only exit she could find. The Tampon is a wily fish
that doesn't swim in water not the sort of insertion to use in Neptune's daughter Like a shark it senses blood but not in a water situation no...it has more to do with female menstruation The Curse it comes monthly our fish it swims upstream some women have no problem but others, just want to scream! As a man, I can't imagine walking with one inserted especially if it doesn't fit and on the pavement squirted... Perusing old love letters like
ancient, fragile Dead Sea Scrolls, sans animal skin, sans papyrus, my paramour’s script as elusive as the Qumran Caves, our romance an equivalent Judaean Desert where dry air kept fervor's proclivities from melting into an endless fluid tryst; yes, yes, yes—your perfumed missives added an ineffable essence to pages of vulnerable self-revelation, confessions revisited today—eyes misty, heart lonely; words intended to be read by me alone; I now want the world to mourn my loss. a snail crawls unharmed
over sharpened sequiturs to eat green pellets Bent over the kitchen sink,
Maa is scrubbing utensils with a puritanical zeal. I notice the mahogany linoleum warped from moisture and ants darting up and down the counter. In the living room, a lizard clings to the ceiling, Maa chases it away with a broom. I see termite trails growing like creepers over wooden cupboards and mildew stained photographs sealed into albums, lush green mounds of grapes and a delectable loaf on the dining table. How I love my childhood home, all my memories are rooted in these four walls after all! Home is not where I rest my head at night or fancy furniture or avant-garde décor, home is the love I’m surrounded with, the warmth in my chest, the guardians of my darkest thoughts, crippling fears and my deepest secrets. On the grass verge opposite
lies a pink skip with traffic cones guarding as if to highlight its transience. It resides next to a red berry tree where birds sing. The house is empty, the skip's open tomb whispers to me about sadness and doom: in its bowels are slippers as withered as daffodils in May, they will not be worn again. There's a plethora of black plastic bags and a mirror broken on impact, the lost owner never again to stare at a drink-ravaged face...etched with despair. Principles involving
More than a combination Of sense and sensibility, For within modernity, Privilege merely suggests The supreme, And no matter how hard Life might seem, Entitlement Could actually Distort society, So practice humility, And combine love With humanity To create a better Reality They scurry and skitter in places unknown
harassed and playful a dog with a bone chewing and gnawing at anything tasty carrying food in pouches but, not too hasty whirring, unwinding a slow turning key running and jumping in search of their tea papers they like to soften their billet yes...at a push, they'll even eat millit * flashing around as they wind down they lodge in the dark, under the ground... *wartime bread diet overdue rain drops
on dry soil & frees plant oils-- petrichor rises My bella prima donna.
You pluck at my heart strings, Lily... I've wasted daisies to find out if she loves me. Attitude turned lackadaisical. I know the truth about you now. You're poison. I've cut the ivy you've spun around my eyes. You were my rose. Does that make me the prick? My goddess Venus- flytrap. Men swarm. We're just snacks to you. You chewed me up and spit me back out. I guess I'm not a catch to you. I'll miss the little things; the scent of you. But you made your bed, now lay in it. You're dead to me, Lily. Atropa belladonna. My deadly nightshade. The MPAA began censorship guidelines
After the release of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Nevertheless, cinema really is nothing more Than Hollywood fantasy, And within reality, Some parents do try Their very best To provide guidance So that their children Could live independently, And dance freely As if no one Watched them Cope with hope For not fearing Virginia Woolf It was the burning summer of 1921 in Tulsa, Oklahoma.
Even after Lincoln’s emancipation of slavery Tulsa remained divided along the racial line. Black citizens, working hard became prosperous The “Black Wall Street” became city’s successful business zone. Time was ripe for jealousy and anger for the city’s other race. A rumor bomb was thrown into that flashing rage Black Dick Rowland raped white Sarah Page. Thus began the race-riot, burning businesses, and massacre. Then the entire event miraculously vanished from nation’s consciousness. The recent brutal murder of Mr. George Floyd Resurrected the Tulsa-event back in spotlight, a century later. |
PoetryThis is the section where fiction prose becomes something else. We still expect the poems to be short, though – sonnets, perhaps, or around that length at the very most. 
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March 2023
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