Wednesday, July 19, 2017

The Language of Roses, The Fragrance of Apples

—Anonymous Photo
—Poems by Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA


"Attention, last call for the puppet show!"
I want to shout:

People everywhere, untangle
your strings, shake loose
your legs and arms,
where's your Pinocchio grin?
your button eyes?
those Rumpelstiltskin cheeks?
those Peter Panning feats?

Hey, brush off
your bright green suits,
polish your patent-leather boots.
Someone's waiting
to pull your strings.
Be limp, be ready,
the stage is only a few feet away.
And you will be almost floating
through the whole performance.

(first printed in In A Nutshell)


Apple ambrosia circles our planet's
blue circumference, reaches
grains of sand, constellations,
moon curves, our hands.
Storms shaking the trees stir
fiber and root, quicken the nectar.

We water the orchard, climb
mystical ladders, prune branches.
Leaves crown our heads, fresh fruits
nudge our cheeks. Our hands glisten
with juice. Even as we sleep, we inhale
the fragrance of apples.


Seekers of the exotic,
riders of water or wind,
shapers of jewels and images,
builders of bridges
and breakthroughs,
explorers of the psyche,
embryos this moment conceived,

whatever we are now,
tomorrow, in a hundred years
or on the last turn of earth—
whatever comes
under moonlight's incantations
let us lean toward
the language of roses.

(first printed on sfpeaceandhope website)



Lucia, all your life
you favored liquids far
more potent than water.
Today with love I place
in heaven's bourbon glass
a rosebud...Sip lightly,
the petals are loosened.


I don't know how to pray
but a few of my poems
fall humble on their knees

Or, without a camera
my eyes photograph ripples
on a San Rafael inlet
like an hour yesterday

And this: a dog greets me
outside a café
likewise I greet the dog
both wag tails, both smile
If that isn't prayer, tell me.

 "Peace" Rose


Though bent over medical books
pressing for a test,
try not to miss tonight's
harvest moon climbing west
toward your window.
Take a break, leave
physiology pages, breathe
deeply like the lungs of night.

Consider the anatomy of wonder,
arteries of outer space,
capillaries of care,
tendons of tenderness,
primal DNA, the pulsating
blood of expectation.
May crowded stars ring all
at once, like childhood bells.


Today’s LittleNip:

—Claire J. Baker

Hunger nibbles
from the core
to outer curves
in lambent light, ah,
takes all night.

One is duly nourished
by doing nothing else
and nothing more.


—Medusa, with thanks to Pinole Poet Claire J. Baker for today’s fragrant rose-and-apple poetry and for those seductive moonlight incantations!

 Celebrate Poetry!

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