Flash Fiction 55: 11/18/11 : It Was Time To Get Up

                                                    Photo by Dorothea Lange      ( Posted for Poetry Jam)

The cupboard was bare
as the ragged edge of her sleeve

some potatoes lay on the hill
tumbled in dry earth.

She knew her two children
were ready for food;

she could feel and hear rumbles of
empty hunger against her shoulders.


Wyatt had gone hunting
maybe squirrel or rabbit

would soon grace the pot.

Poetry Jam, 0/24/11,An old and hidden fascination:

Along the winding, steep trails
of stone or sandy roads he traveled
all the sharp and dusty
scents of  spices 
Marco Polo spread

from his hands and sleeves
to lining, seams of pockets,
even in his saddle bags.
I would be there-

Inside rough leather
watching as jewels and coins fall
to rattle with quill pens
folded clothes,even bright silks!

There must be wrapped food,
cheese and bread
dried meat, even figs in one;

Herbs for healing too
mixed with the aroma
of dry leaves, for tea-

                                                  To dream as I did, of all the things he saw
the people he met and stories he heard ...We read a luscious book in school
about him; and I value that memory more than I can ever say.

Poetry Jam, Lozenge / One Shot Wednesday,

Yes they can -be hidden safely, see ? 

Unbruised.

Coming off a sad, sad time- they fit in well with genuine beauty.

Were you up all night listening to the foot steps passing,

did you go to the window like the poem told you to; and watch ?

This morning were you willing to feel the wrenching of regret, again ?

You do still want to push truth away : The procession has gone by!

Did you look them in the eye? That opportunity is over, done.

Apples: may share shape, shine, even color range;

but for flavor Cherries win.

If I were to paint one more fruit, it would be them.

They can surpass sadness

being chewed,

going down the throat

falling toward my heart.

Poetry Jam: Forgetting

Sun into haze-
deepens into finger mist,
seeping from the pines
down onto water.
Snake sidling
widening with breath,
The Kayak
parts it at first
then it deepens into piles and curls up behind.
Rolling forward over the top
paddles, then hair disappear;
soon I can barely
see my hands.
Not only have I forgotten
where I am
I forget
how far it is.