the apple barrel
swell of my belly delights
me so very well !
.
haiku
Category Archives: Apples
lady of Avalon
.
i dream i’m drowning
it’s an old one
but it no longer owns me
now i’ve come home to avalon
.
thoughts of rain awake me
the lady comes again for me
from across the levels blurred in
a banging of silver bangles
a breathing womb of grass and apples
a trembling of limbs still stuck in the suck
of muck-moist land that’s been drained for ages
until it rains; and it rains
.
she is ages older than me, yet young
she speaks an older tongue, voice
fizzy with dialects of scrumpy cider and musky crusts of ancient cheddar
echoes dance from dank chalk caves
wassail wassail wassail
and so it was
and so it is
.
i dream her lovely face
etched upon a sorrow of cloud
heavy as half a pound of moonlight
light as a fragrance of lemoncakes
i dream her silken garments
and steely armaments
reflected in the ancient lakes of this summer land
do you see me, she rasps
swirling me in underwater loves
she drags me to her breast where i rest
kisses the stone of my bones
unheeding of the summons of Merlin
defiantly ungifting trinkets to the kings
the legend of the lady
awaits a feminist twist
shhhh, she whispers, coming
and i dream myself asleep
.
not a haiku
.
ps
I moved the the isle of ancient avalon last year. Do you know where that is? Quite simply, Somerset in the West Country of the UK, near Glastonbury. I felt a pull to come here and so here am i. Still dreaming…
NaPoWriMo day 25
prompt is based on the aisling, a poetic form that developed in Ireland. An aisling recounts a dream or vision featuring a woman who represents the land or country on/in which the poet lives, and who speaks to the poet about it. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that recounts a dream or vision, and in which a woman appears who represents or reflects the area in which you live. Perhaps she will be the Madonna of the Traffic Lights, or the Mysterious Spirit of Bus Stops. Or maybe you will be addressed by the Lost Lady of the Stony Coves. Whatever form your dream-visitor takes, happy writing!
insistent joy — pouring
pale-green tea in a delicate cup
unceremonious —
koi in a pond swimming up
miniscule coal glowing in foaming
waterfall in my infinite chest
autumnal tumble spring expressed
palms pressed, lips open
to happiness —
to all things beckoning
recognising every small thing as tasting
fortuitous —
that stuff of thankfulness
.
oh, that soft embrace from — you know who
you are — rhymes of mint thyme coriander sage i
planted in a riot of wild flowers and trees i
will never see the shade of
oh, and that kiss — you know who
you are — amber and a thousand stars
stammer
in a pond swimming in
your mouth making the sound of
my name secure
murmur
oh, and that caress — you know who
you are — a sacrament of butterflies, thunder
rising on a summer breeze — a whole summer
lain in front of us to pray in
cascades made of holy gifts sipped to my infinite limbs
in the pond swimming around
winter hours shining in burnt orange glints
oh, and that gaze — you know who
you are — tiny tremors that become exquisite
shivers on a fresh blanched page
oh, and that hand in mine — you know who
you are —
oh,
you are
in
bubble-wrap pops
copper-blue eggs
nut-brown arms
cornflower silks
twitterings of little tits
snatches of salt-sharp winds
silver pepper-pot twists
dapples of yellow apples
white-linen billows
black-chocolate pebbles
thick-cream envelopes
effervescent-cobalt soaps
ecetera eceteras
sent to my infinite heart
insistent persistent gift
oh, joy — you know who
you are
.
not a haiku
.
NaPoWriMo day 13.-
….in honour of the potential luckiness of the number 13, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that, like the example poem here, joyfully states that “Everything is Going to Be Amazing.” Sometimes, good fortune can seem impossibly distant, but even if you can’t drum up the enthusiasm to write yourself a riotous pep-talk, perhaps you can muse on the possibility of good things coming down the track. As they say, “the sun will come up tomorrow,” and if nothing else, this world offers us the persistent possibility of surprise.
distance
‘you’ve spoiled the way the tree hangs’, he muttered in passing, the man i’d watched from across the orchard with admiration, imagining some future passion. His torso glowed in the low summer sun. Sweat over taunt muscles, golden fuzz glued, caught in highlights, his face averted, his shorts short and tight.
When he approached me, i’d gasped at the intense scent rising from his body, that eclipsed the perfume of the apples dangling from the branches and fermenting in the grass. I’d felt quite dizzy from it, perched as i was, dangerously high on my ladder.
‘is that a fact?’ i’d offered to his back.
A beautiful, rippling study of manly motion and determination, he attacked the tree next to me with his secateurs. ‘yep’ he said, under his breath, ‘get some perspective’.
i climbed down from the ladder, took a few steps away and surveyed my own tree, glistening with rosy fruit, littered with severed branches and foliage, listing slightly.
He’d made no bones of it. I laughed. He was probably right.
In this tender light, this splendid afternoon spoiled, i removed my ladder to a further tree and began again.
i left my thoughts hanging
.
not a haiku
.
The prompt is based on Robert Hass’s remarkable prose poem, “A Story About the Body.” The idea is to write your own prose poem that, whatever title you choose to give it, is a story about the body. The poem should contain an encounter between two people, some spoken language, and at least one crisp visual image.
derelict
small sharp apples knock
against shattered window glass
there’s no answer back
.
haiku
apricots &
amethyst minutes
minted moments distilled drifts
delicate apples
.
haiku
after snow
warmed fresh apple cake
eaten off blue and white plate
forgotten home – come
.
haiku
going extinct
Haiku
.
Grotesque hawkers call
Picturesque veg, fruit, fish, meat
Roses, violets, sweets
.
n.b
The raucous noise of market callers used to fill the streets of London and other large towns in England. Each one distinct; gratingly musical calls to buy the fare on offer. Sadly, it’s all going silent as other ways of marketing vie for our attention.
giggle-stained
Haiku
push-bike speeds pin-wheels
down tree-lined lanes apple-dapply
in crocus light. Speeeeeed!
would you Adam&Eve it!!
Haiku
he sits on the tip
of my tongue poised to upset
my whole apple cart
barbaraturneywielandpoetess 