Postcard Poetry Fest: 8.19.13

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.

Image

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

Postcard Poetry Fest: 8.18.13

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.

Image

 

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

Postcard Poetry Fest: 8.18.13

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.

Image

 

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

POSTCARD POETRY FEST: August 17 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.

Image

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