A Forager’s Poetry and Art Collage.

“Choucroute.” “Kismet.” “Sunflower.” “Pepper Cakes.” “Redbud.” “Trouble.” “Not Only Words.” “A Prayer to Persephone.” “Floured.” “Jellyfish.” “Fiction.” “dna.”
“I can’t say it all.” Alkaline.”
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“Choucroute.”

choucroute.
Sauerkraut.
Please improve
the immunity of my gut.
Wilted leaves
And salt Crushed
Then rushed Into a jar.
I want to add you
To my repertoire.
Spice you up
And spread you
Out with my fork.
To inspect
Your funky fermentation
Then eat you.

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“Kismet.”

Kismet
A kiss of sound Went whoosh
through The vocal chords
Of my progenitor’s DNA

It tastes like blueberries now
A kismet melancholy
That tastes sweet Over cheered
Yet ready To stomp out hate
from my muddied feet

But, mud is a happy flood
That swallows Doubt and bitter roots
and connects me Oroboris like
To the first spring

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“Sunflower”

Courting
The likeness
Of a flower

In a pot
Of boiling water
Seeking the sun
Each petal a ray
Each bubble of water
Hot transformed
Becomes an air seed

Swallowing
The mid pregnant
Seed of an equinox
Swimming toward the solstice
Of the sun

Adding the fourth sister
Of sunflower
To the belly
Of my gardens

How many brothers and sisters
Of the sun
Onandaga
Your creation myth
Was not given
To me by
Tongues at birth

I am a sister
of the corazón of the stars
Wearing a tinsel crown
Siblings are we many

Always I want to crush
Petals
Yellow like flames
And decorate my face
Like our closest
Star
Soleil

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“Pepper Cakes.”

Cupcakes,
frosting, all things gooey,
sugary instead of stars dying
and nuclear casseroles and tousled eggs…
just cookies but mostly cakes,
spray pepper pastries
for brutal cops yet again cakes,
layers, non pareils,
and sheer apparel

image
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“Redbud.”

Oklahoma, a shimmering light catches purple blossoms
infused with the slightest blush of pale
crimson.

You come forward as if to greet me.
Fluttering your bouquets at the side of the road.
I am rushing
past.

If I were walking I could have.
But not to destroy a stem
in a selfish folly.
Last days of frost.
A green hued sunrise.

Not an omen so much as
a surprise.

I’ve seen more sunsets than sunrise.
But,
I’m not studying.

Just in the rush
I want to remember the purple
flower.

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“Trouble.”

trouble wanes moonlike
personified splash of light
a quick shyness sought

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“Not Only Words.”

I soften
the stillness is not static
it reaches

a school of fishes swims
I hear your voice
like sun

that polishes

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“A Prayer to Persephone.”

Epiphanies for Persephone’s
epitaph to dark wintry days,
Return the light and be jewelled.

Be born like a star piercing
the heavy blanket of night.
Be nourished and feel warm.

Joy remains undoused like stars that guide
Our journey to herald the dawn.

We bathe by the lavish light of the sun
The pomegranate heart of Persephone.
Returns us from night
And we are grateful for that wing.

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“Floured.”

Scraped
Blended
Rubbed
through mesh
to remove
the husk

Strained
Mashed
Boiled
To eat the starch

Floured

Pounded
Kneaded
Folded

Rested

Stored

Stretched
Shaped
Fried
And baked

Taken
Repeated
Reclaimed

Salted
Sugared
Slathered
Traded
Cooled
Filled
Topped

Tinned
Cut
Jarred
Sometimes soured
Dried
Broken

Opened
And
Eaten

Digested
Eliminated
Integrated
Given
Shared
Loved
Passed
Down

Favored
Savored

Disgusted
Or pleasured

Reminiscent
Or triggered

what
you
take
in
and
can
be
taken.

what
can’t
be
taken.

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“Jellyfish.”

image

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“Fiction.”

I haven’t
read enough fiction
to understand the
type

I haven’t
seen enough entries
to know my
catalogue

I don’t
drink enough lemon
to soothe my bitter
liver

Soon I will be barren gladly too, iron in the dock.

Taking up
room in the house of my uterus
and read

my personals again

image

(The photo taken in Portland, Oregon library)

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“dna.”

dna dna like. dinah what is your name.
the perfect number
1951
using your dna after. you body gone.

little round up monsters
little birth babies
should have had your
love your scorn your roundup of
consent
territory body. flagged.
roundup the pretty dna.

thief by knife.

eating mutants being mutants.
how much do i want
wings to fly?

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“I can’t say it all.”

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Alkaline

rushing
by a dense grove.

almond pickers arrive
in rows with
deft harvesters’ hands.

a dip in a pass
and we are gone. All the while.

I am cooking this scene
with a small pan.

and I read:

1. Simmer flurry of a minute
until a reduced liquid.

2. Reduce to a candied vinegar.

3. a condiment
to go with.
a yellow ochre pallette
that rises above
pavement
workers

Datura

Haunting deep green
white and white and pink and trumpets.
You call to the night
Message givers.
You listen to prayers and secrets
You reap joy from a happy harvest season
And its Workers.
You. Armslengths away from the almond trees
You. Grow like shrubs.
The round tops of umbrellas.
You. Are nightshade in the day
And You. Are contrast.

the only poem I might
think to write

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Morningstar

You whiz past in your daycab
Hauling red-orange plum tomatoes
In your trailer
What friends have filled for $25.
Four hour shifts
Wake-up the driver
Times three in a day
Twenty years ago
and your trailers look the same.

songs on the radio
are
filled with
dust and almonds.

Lost tomatoes against the curb

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About wildlettucegal

certified plant lover 😀

Posted on August 1, 2013, in commentary, expect the unexpected, multimedia, photography, poetry, the art life, wild edibles and the art life and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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