Last Night’s Dream

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Last Night’s Dream

Moon shines on her dreams
lighting up the open closet
dust bunnies, memories stored
in bags of old clothing.

Waking, she hauls everything out
giving space for the burnished air
to wash the vacant corners
with a breath of freshening air –
Illuminated Emptiness!

© poem and photo by carole fults

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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

At the Ocean

P1030840 (2)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

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/

The Reluctant Cook

Burnt ToastThe 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