In the Garden

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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

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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/

Sign of Hope

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The Sign

a star appeared.
glowing evidence of love
brilliant radiance
from eons ago,
though nothing indicated
I was worthy.

a hope appeared.
dazzlement of mercy
gleaming possibility
dispelling the dark night sky
though nothing indicated
I deserved such generosity.

I spoke my dreams
hoping you would hear
and when you did
my hope became faith

©poem and photo by carole fults

The Pumpkins

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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

Saturday in Flint, 1963

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Saturday in Flint 1963

Saturday mornings
after we cleaned house,
washed clothes,
scrubbed the car,
mowed the grass,
watched Mr. Magic and The Three Stooges,
we would go to the bread factory (was it Tastee Bread?)
for a loaf of fresh baked bread
hot off the line
wrapped in a clear cellophane wrapper
made cloudy by the steaming of the loaf,
a twist tie around the opening.

If we got to the factory
at just the right time
we would get a loaf for free.
Otherwise it was 25 cents.

The thing smelled so good
we hardly got it home
without tasting it.

So soft it tore
when you pulled it from the wrapper,
so moist it was hard to cut
and stuck to our teeth when we chewed.

The bread factory is gone now
as is the half of Bennett Ave that ran into the river,
replaced by an expressway (I-475?)
bridging deserted neighborhoods
to the canyon where DuPont Paint and Buick once breathed
the fumes of industry and financial security
into Flint air.

This morning
I opened a loaf of fresh bread
And OH!!! JOY AND WONDEROUS BLISS!!!
My mouth remembered
Saturday mornings on Bennet Ave in Flint.

© photo and poem by carole fults