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 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
The Visit
I imagine you to have perfect vision
that sees dirt in the grout,
on the floor,
cobwebs in corners,
spider web in the lampshade,
dust balls under sofas,
the disorderly garage,
cluttered studio.
I clean all day
yet intractable unacceptability
bends to no cleanser
no duster
no mop.
Finally I stop and sit
looking at my home.
I see no matter what I’ve cleaned, polished,
dusted or waxed
I’m here in the midst
of still more flaws,
my eyes eager to see you
voice ready to greet you
heart anxious to love you
arms impatient to hug you.
When you arrive in your road grimed car
I see lunch on your shirt,
nubby sweater,
lipstick smeared,
smiles stretched large around aging teeth,
saggy arms spread wide as you can get them,
and we laugh and say
how happy we are to be together
and how perfect it all is.
© photo and poem by caf
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
Joy and Suffering
In the afternoon butterflies gather on purple flowers for a meal.
Do they ponder death and the suffering of torn wings?
Maybe sometime they will know of painful things,
but not in this moment.
Right now they know only of the blissful sucking of nectar
from warm blossoms.
There are scores of tiny frogs joyfully jumping through the grass.
Do they understand about getting chopped up in a lawn mower or
stepped on by clumsy feet?
Maybe sometime they will know about cut off limbs and ensuing death,
but not in this moment.
Right now they know only the delight of sunshine, the wetness of leaves
and the safety of rocks.
The old woman sits among the flowers where her son’s ashes are strewn.
Does she think of death as she sits, back broken and bent?
Maybe sometimes she considers her mortality,
but not in this moment.
Right now she savors the fragrance and colors of the blooms, the whistling finches,
the softness of the afternoon sun and says she feels like Eve in Paradise.
Breezes blow, cease, and blow again.
Rivers flow, tides move in and out.
Coming and going, movement and stillness, breathing in and out, birth and death,
each is marked by a pause, a moment when the motion turns.
Maybe sometime I will consider all this,
but not in this moment.
Right now I am enjoying the clouds that partially cover the sun
and the unspoken love caressing my heart.
©photo and poem by caf
The Poisoning of a CityThe streets are lined with burnt out houses.
I found your old place looking as
vacant eyed as a crazy person’s mind.
(We are black, we are poor.
We are white,we are poor.)
Death – immediate and still forthcoming,
lives shattered
children living in despair ….
their relief ? … poison from a tap.
(We are black, we are poor.
We are white, we are poor.)
Chaos and violence rule the streets,
anarchy is master
and hopelessness grows
in the city that has never been loved.
© Photo and poem Carole Fults
Works 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
Beautiful Soul
Long ago the heart of God
like a cattail beside a pond or river
cracked and split
spreading its life over all that was.
The womb of God
like a milkweed in the meadow
burst open
bursting followed by birthing
as the silken spirits fell and grew
in the fertile fields of creation
recreating love
sending sprouts of joy
throughout the universe.
The sun discovered daffodils and sumac
as a Mourning Dove hunkered down
in the snow under a pine.
The icy snow that could destroy her is – for now –
her protector.
Her beautiful soul finds shelter within the breast
of the beast that threatens.
Isn’t that the path of a fearless heart?
4 Ponds and a Bog
One day the hiker came to kneel
by the bog
bury her face in the muck
and inhale the mud from which she had been created
to feel the spirit of the stuff
from which she had been distilled.
She smelled the gathering fragrance
of congregating beings
a scent elemental and familiar
like the smell of family and tribe.
Are there dragons in the forest?
Or monsters in the ponds? She wonders.
But no.
Only bugs kissing the waters for a drink.
She feels the earth recognize her as its own child
as she dissolves into her true home
where bees hum the song of the universe
and dragonflies are angels.
And she asks that when she lies down
for the last time –
when she comes to the end of herself
like the dead frog lying in the road –
may it be on the peace of home
by 4 ponds and a bog.
by caf
©photo and poem by caf
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
