Poetry – Page 78

Apple Harvest

Emmentaler cubes
Rustic tables, cedar chairs
Fresh, clear apple juice
Laughter and the sound of love,
a merry apple harvest

To be young is less
than admirable to the
grumpy old cretins

Other people have a great beauty to adore or a muse of flesh and blood.

Yet when she sits and writes poetry, such inspiration does not come from the beauty of the flesh.

Instead, she sits with pots and pans, touching, rubbing and feeling them.

The kitchen is her muse.

A faint whisper
from a long summer.

A dark blanket
from a cold winter.

By the sea,

By the hills,

By both, we
feel cool
against
the skin.

Encased within winter,
between the green hills
and
the blanket grey sky
you hear a faint whisper.

You hear a whisper
from spring,
a spring
cool
against
the skin.

He walks constrained by a constant diet.

Every walk past the bakery caused him to whelve his love for carrot cake, doughnuts, and vanilla slices.

All whelved out on a Saturday morning, he purchases all three and sits at home looking at them lovingly.

Quibble with a fish
Such language in the bubbles
Hiding in the depths

in a sea of tired
dropping kitchen utensils
awake and asleep

Mustering courage,
you brace for the blossoming
hayfever sneezing.

From one to many
Grey hairs are multiplying
without permission