In the Garden
Butterfly –
from egg and caterpillar to cocoon of silk
to orange and black smear of summer
and quivering wings on Bee Balm – do you mark your age?
or do you think only of your assignment
to dance in the flowers
while we, the more evolved, fight our own metamorphosis
from cocoon of flesh to angel
arguing and resisting all the way home
to the garden.
©photo and poem by caf
Words and Photos
… words …
In an old trunk
amid papers saved and rotting
a letter from you never seen before.
Where, I wonder, did this come from?
The words shine like moon rise
Still – I let it go.
…and photos…
small faces
unmoving lips give the script a voice
“Here is Ali by the Great Rock Here is Ali by the Great Rock!”
cried the lost boy under a full desert moon.
Wooden camels scraped across the stage
How I loved you!
Still – I let it go.
© photo and poem by caf
Sea gulls strut in rolling breakers
brilliant on sandy shore
uninformed of noisy war.
Here death occurs when it should, as it should.
She watches waving beach grasses
while arranging her response
to the anguished caught in wild fires and raging floods.
She says a prayer but can’t think on it for long.
The gulls are flying off
beach grass waves at clouds
crabs burrow in for the night,
Sunset flares as day travels on.
© photo and poem by caf
The shore lies in stillness
a palette for the work of water.
Rocks live free from concern.
Pounding surf or soft caress
of gentle waves –
all the same to rock and shore.
What appears destruction
is only rearrangement –
shocking to brittle minds.
Rock will crumble to sand,
sand will dissolve in water,
and the ocean is all there is.
© poem and photo by caf
Autumn Field
We are autumn fruit
lying in a field
gazing at sky through lacy grasses.
Rain or sun – no matter.
Do I know you?
hidden as you are between bone and skin?
When we are done
this field will be our home
and summer fruits our children.
© photo and poem by carole fults
NOTE: This poem was first published in the Aurorean, New England’s Premier Independent Poetry Journal.Please check out their website at http://encirclepub.com/aurorean/
Curt
I thought I heard your voice
but the whispers must have missed my ears
for now, only thick foggy silence sits on my shoulder
as I walk by a stream
through trees and Forget Me Nots.
Where are you? I miss you.
A bamboo flute calls through gray rain
heard only by turtles and herons
and me, as I wander through the mists
looking for a face lost long ago.
You must know, I have not forgotten.
© by carole fults
By Way of Explanation
The turkey in the field
wears shades of brown feathers
in simplicity as beautiful
as a peacock’s blue iridescence,
Oh, but you say Can’t you borrow just a bit of bling
for the day?
Sure, I reply, but then my poetry might not sparkle.
©poem and photo by carole fults
The Reluctant Cook
She cooks everything on high
no patience for process –
warming, browning, crisping.
must all happen at once
else time’s a-wastin’.
Toast cooked as intensely
as an egg is fried,
unfortunate vegetables whacked into bits
drowned in boiling olive oil.
She doesn’t mind the charred toast
soggy veggies or burnt garlic.
She just goes for it
and cooks everything on high
all the while savoring
the scent of a percolating poem
and moments sewn into life
by unexpected muses.
© photo and poem by carole fults
The Orchid
Even in winter
when fields sleep
awaiting spring
and arrival of simple seed
Even in winter
when cattle stand
chewing their hay
awaiting the fresh grass of spring
Even in winter
when rooms shrink
and knotted energy
awaits returning warmth
The orchid uses the quiet
to flower
her beauty assumed
even in winter.
©photo and poem by carole fults
Children of Aleppo
bulls eye on a target
schools, playgrounds, homes
cold weather, no food
flying barrel bombs
evacuation
cluster bombs
lucky ones stand
on top of rubble
the unlucky …… well
politicians shake their heads
it’s complicated
negotiators stall
no simple solutions
mass homicide is mundane.
Children of Flint
waifs playing in potholed streets
fresh water from taps a memory
bathing can be corrosive
drive by shootings
burnt out homes
murders everywhere
every day
politicians shake their heads
it’s complicated
investigators report
no simple solutions
poisoning a prosaic possibility.
These are plain facts.
What more is there to say?
Children of Aleppo
Children of Flint.
©photo and poem by caf
