Saturday, February 14, 2015


Saturday, February 14, 2015

We want it to be sweet
But it rarely is,
At least, not completely,
Like a not yet ripe cherry
We are anxious to devour,
We bite through the skin
To learn the truth,
Sometimes we get what we need
From not yet ripe or too ripe
The juices dripping
Down inside us to fill us up
Too bitter or two sweet
It is always hard to choose
Though we soon learn
Unripe ripens over time
While too sweet is the last lap
Before the last gasp
And in this we are engaged
In a life and death struggle
We know as love
Bursting out of us,
Dripping down our chins
Sweet and sour at some time
Leaving us to wonder
How we can endure
The hot and cold of it,
When in truth, the best part
Is the first bite, when we do not know
If it will be sweet or not,
Part of what makes it so perfect
Is its imperfections
The off center rose,
The different colored pearl
The slanted lips we kiss
And know we’ve kissed
For the shape they take
Around our lips,
Not too sweet or too sour
Not too hot or cold
Fast or slow,
Soft or hard,
But just right
This trust we accept as truth
No more solid than
The ever changing universe
We live in, real only because
We make it real,
Solid only because we take the chance
To bite the fruit in the first place
Sour to sweet we take it all in.

Monday, February 2, 2015

Orange marmalade

Monday, February 02, 2015

The tang of it stings my tongue
As I lick the curved inside of the spoon,
Lumps of rind still cool from the refrigerator
Clinging to my mouth as I lust for more
The kiss of sweet saddled with the lash of bitter
Lapped up and consumed
Unable for me to tell which is which
If indeed there is a difference,
And in hungering for sweet we must accept the bitter
I rarely spread across bread instead consume it
Straight out of the depths of the jar
Rattling my spoon at its bottom,
Licking as deep as my tongue will go
First around the grooves near where the lid screws on
And then into the deep of it, each inch
A painful reach that makes me ache the deeper I go
I can never get it all, as deep a reach as my tongue has –
Even my fingers, scraping the bottom
Can’t get at all the fruit, hidden in the crevices
And I settle to licking off what my fingers have found,
And still not in the least satisfied.

Sunday, February 1, 2015

The scent of flowers

Sunday, February 01, 2015

I part the pedals with my fingers
To feel what is inside
Flushed red and moist with dew
That I taste with the tip of my tongue,
This humming bird existence
Of near invisibility
Cloaked but not immune,
Caught up in the quicksand
Of my own desire,
In need of compassion
To ease me out
When I delve too deep,
Buzzing wings to keep me hovering
Until the moment I can again plunge in
I hear the moan of the pedals parting
And the groan when I ease out
My back heavy with sap from the middle.
They say honey tastes like the flower
From which it comes,
Yet none tastes so sweet as this
Or rich or thick,
Poured over me with nectar too heavy
For me to fly far
So I sink again, and again,
Sinking into the froth I am too drunk to drink,
Covered head to toe

With the scent of flowers.