The forests of the past blend, bend into the forest of the present, different trees, different weather, memories hopscotching across time and a poem arrives.
Photo Credit: google images
The hem of her skirt catches burrs
as she races from the field
mounded with red ant hills.
She Jumps over cactus,
hides under Ponderosa,
heart racing.
She remembers how others died.
He must not die.
C.J. Prince
©2013
The forests of the past blend, bend into the forest of the present, different trees, different weather, memories hopscotching across time and a poem arrives.
Photo Credit: google images
The hem of her skirt catches burrs
as she races from the field
mounded with red ant hills.
She Jumps over cactus,
hides under Ponderosa,
heart racing.
She remembers how others died.
He must not die.
C.J. Prince
©2013
It does not matter, long or short, a poem shimmers beneath the surface and pops out an image, allows the listener, the reader to see something familiar or unexpected.
Photo Credit: C.J. Prince
She looks with peridot eyes,
the mistress of the lily garden
where emerald grasses sway
and orange sapphire tigers sing.
C.J. Prince
©2013
If you know me, you know how I adore feet. I practiced reflexology for years in a medical office and I’ve knit more socks than you or I can imagine. Feet are the root of happiness. However, I have met many who hide their feet, who don’t want anyone to see them. I could go on and on about this subject but this is a bit of background for poem # 17.
Photo credit: Michael C. Michaud google
If I were Cinderella—
Don’t look at me like that—
If I were—
Stop looking at my feet.
If I were Cinderella–
not that wimpy little victim
girl Walt Disney purified–
I’d be a real woman.
Okay, take a gander.
Examine my feet:
Perfect conformation.
Dancers would die for my arch.
Never mind, if I were Cinderella,
I wouldn’t take time with you.
C.J. Prince
©2013
Gathering last month’s poems together and posting here is taking much more time than expected. And here we are on the eve of San Geronimo Feast Day and I’m only half way through August. Written in a flurry, decorated with a beautiful stamp and tossed in a mailbox to go flailing across the universe or maybe just down to Seattle, these poems want a more permanent home. So, I’ll take my time and pursue this task. Sweet dreams and happy days.
PHOTO CREDIT: Edmund Lowe
Rorschach In Her Belly
Bye, bye Bellingham,
she thinks, wraps Ganesh
in an old paisley scarf
from Goodwill.
Pigeon droppings scar
her battered VW bug.
She empties the rooms
of herself, what he’ll never
miss. Her. Her stuff.
Morning mist freckles
numb lips.
She will miss Mt. Baker
shining in the rear view mirror.
C.J. Prince
©2013
A poem a day is a great opportunity to rev up your writing, grab images and find the gem in the mundane. Here’s another one from August’s Postcard Poetry Fest.
“Don’t.” That’s the first word
I remember…a voice from above,
Don’t doesn’t mean anything
if you’re eighteen months old.
Adults on the couch, laugh,
sip martinis.
I reach to the huge green olive
with a pimiento dot.
A finger wags. I wait.
Sip. Sip. Sip. They drink
and then a glass is lowered.
I snatch the shiny green treasure,
suck tart juice, bite into chilled olive,
martini juice runs to my elbow.
On Friday night’s they forget
the “don’t”s.
C.J. Prince
©2013
Bellingham, WA
This poem came from a prompt to write a poem as a want ad.
WANTED
Insomniac seeks light sleeper.
No snoring, snorting or hawking.
Must read Chaucer. No Virgos.
Meet me at the lake on the cusp of midnight
Where black swans circle
Under Northern Lights.
Moondancer77
©2013
C.J. Prince
Bellingham, WA
Photo Credit: Wikipedia
Thirsty comes from below,
not just the tongue,
nor the throat. Thirst—
belly deep,
drier than yucca.
A thirst for the soul
so wrenching
you tumble out
church doors
and never look back.
C.J. Prince
©2013
Bellingham, WA
You intend to trap me on this page?
Monkey Mind says. Think again.
I am illusive, ubiquitous.
I wear a rainbow mask,
A cloak of invisibility.
I hide behind the screen on your laptop.
I hover in the rafters of the barn.
I confuse you. You don’t remember.
Shift your brain just as you reach
For Icarus. You mix metaphors,
Lost as you seek Green Tara.
I take a bow.
C.J. Prince
©2013
Bellingham, WA
IF
Photo from Google Images
If I burned your bridge,
it smelled like charred toast.
If I missed you,
I hid it in a lily pad.
If you expected more,
I was not a paper doll.
If Mercury goes retrograde,
I don’t have to.
If I wanted to forgive you,
I’d look for Ganesh.
C.J. Prince
©2013
C.J. Prince Poet 