Autumn Field

 

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 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

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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

Comes The Night

star 2

Darkness, you bring  rich deepness
tantalizing mystery
blessing and fear
stealing blankets of warmth
from our comfortable resting place.
You show us stars, planets and galaxies not visible
when you withdraw.

You clothe our world in a blanket of cold,
a womb sheltering  seeds of dramatic sunrise.
You are our Mother as much as Earth.

When light appears over the curvature
bathing our faces with tender regard
you take only partial leave,
lingering in shadows and making a home
under our own hats,
hiding in our marrow
a kernel of corn in a field
awaiting the sun
to stir its birth.

You bring us dreams –
relief from ordinary life,
an existence outside of sometimes banal days.

I would not give you up
nor ask you to stop returning,
for you help me see the substance
gleaming daylight often hides
behind her skirts.
Truth hidden by the bright light of the sun.

©Photo and poem by caf

The Pumpkins

the-great-pumpkin

The Great Pumpkins

I think of you now
the farmer and the gardener
working in a field
heavily laden with bright orange melons,
loading them on wagons one by one
backs bending
many hands
careful not to break the stems.

I heard the gardener say to no one in particular
Peter, Peter Pumpkin eater
had a wife and couldn’t keep her

She cleaned off a small pumpkin and continued
put her in a pumpkin shell
and there he kept her very well

Hundreds of people came to see
what you had grown
arranged small, medium, large
the farmer stood among the magical gourds
chatting and smiling
while the gardener helped children pick just the right one,
I watched – so proud to be there –
knowing everything in the world was good.

© photo and poem by caf

Works of Clay

clay potWorks of Clay

She bends the clay around emptiness
creating a vacancy for utility,
defining function,
vesting it in vitality.

The coolness of moist mud
sticks to her hands as she coaxes shape
from a formless heap of thickened slip,
while the wheel turns the pot,

and heaven spins the earth
and morning and evening
caress the shape of a day.

©photo and poem by Carole Fults

 

To All Terrorists

 

To All Those Who Love Terror

Did you think we would give up because you were scary,
because you have guns, bombs and can kill us?

There is something worse than losing a life –
losing a soul to fear,
a heart to suspicion,
a love to dreams of revenge.

You will not massacre my peace.
You will not exterminate my hope.
You will not eradicate my joy.

I have this whole earth as my love,
my defense and my strength,
and you have only guns
while I have a pen and camera.

by caf

©photo and poem by carole fults