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
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
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 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
At 89 she still wears high heels
with skinny straps and rhinestones,
she clicks right along in them
while holding onto my arm for balance.
I’m gonna wear high heels and big earrings
until I die, she declares.
Noticing the oncoming traffic she asks
if I’ll help her write her obituary.
I know she sees her future and it hurts me,
but I agree, knowing that even when
the final road is crossed
things will not be finished between us,
for love doesn’t understand
red lights, stop signs, or death.
©photo and poem by carole fults
Honeysuckle in the Evening
The sweet scent of
wild honeysuckle
and a gaggle of newborn geese
plodding back to their home in the pond.
Deep throated croaks.
My relations,
some flying,
others singing in my ears,
some blessing my nose
with sweet smells,
or tormenting my skin,
a dense thicket of mosquitoes.
A barking goose,
a carpet of red pine needles.
Forget me nots
not seen,
still there,
things pulled too soon
or not soon enough.
I ask what makes the oak leaves red in the fall?
I see you standing on a hill
waving, smiling,
I call to you, “Put out the lights so I can see the stars”.
The sun out shown a little star until the clouds
eclipsed the sun,
and when the earth eclipsed the moon, the sun again
ascended until new moon darkness
when the little star again shown brightly.
I felt the sun stroking the earth
as he set behind the mountains
and the moon rose over the trees,
her touch the cooler and softer.
lover of day (sun)
mistress of night (moon)
exploring (finding) you on the hill.
© Poem and photo by caf
Inside-out Art and Writing 