Sweet Peach

I no longer have to share my peach

not even this, large and ripe as a Red Sox baseball

ready to play

leather smooth and fine in my hand

Glowing yellow slips and drips

its plum red core

creamy across my tongue

but the pleasure is somewhat wanting

I should be happy

to have this fruit

all to myself

sitting on my shelf, no longer at risk

of succumbing to other hands

hands that would take it to mouth and bite into flesh

without even thinking of sharing

Those hands would quickly be empty of peach

and full of its satisfaction

while I, complaining, though only in fun

would go and buy another

I never really minded

His pleasure pleased me

as much as the peach

pleased him

Now I have my own peach

carefully pitted and sliced

placed on earthenware inside up

blushing towards the sun

waiting for me to enjoy all by myself, all to myself

with no one to claim the bigger half

~ * ~

Last week’s bowl of ripe Skagit cherries

departed, silent with the season

that I never noticed leaving

The bowl sits on my counter, a barren vessel

If only I’d tasted one more rich orb

before having to wait for next year’s crop

knowing this was the best we’ve ever had

realizing the miracle of ripened fruit

If only I’d enjoyed a little longer

spitting the pits across the garden

one more time

The only thought that hovers now

like an uninvited guest

is that no one is here to share the bowl

or to challenge me, seeing if I could spit the pit

further than him

~ * ~ * ~ *

Submitted with many thanks for their service to writers to the following:

Poetry Pantry at: http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2011/09/poetry-pantry-is-now-open-67.html#comment-form  AND

Poetry Picnic Week 5 – Jingle’s New Poetry Place!

http://gooseberrygoespoetic.blogspot.com/2011/09/poetry-picnic-wk-5-object-thing-form.html

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White Moon Rising

Spent the day with my grandson,

took him to the baseball game

and showed him how they play over here;

Here, where it’s not cricket and cream teas,

but hot dogs, coke and dusty diamonds.

Taught him all the words that frame the game

and that made him sound cool when he spoke them,

and the other kids looked at him and smiled

like they understood, like he was one of us.

We walked up the hillside, behind second base

where the grass is left to grow tall,

and I showed him how to pull a straw, suck on it

and chew the end, getting all the sweet goodness out,

letting the wispy fronds hang down like a half-woken flag,

too hot and too humid to raise itself and wave.

Bought him a piece of bubble gum and watched him chew, 

saying with a wink, it might be best not to tell your Mummy

about this, seeing as she pays the dentist bills,

and then I showed him how to blow a bubble

and slap that darned gum all over his face.

And we each took a blade of grassleaf and I showed him

how to hold it – real taut – between his thumbs

and keep them stood straight together, side by side,

and we blew until the screeching whistles made us jump,

and then his sounded like one of his Daddy’s farts.

Boy, you should ha’ seen his smile.

I could have canned his giggle and kept it

for cheering me up on lonely days.

When he stood up, leaned over and spit,

just like the pitcher and the other big boys,

I suggested that was one habit he might not want

to bring home to England from America.

They wouldn’t think it was too cool over there,

and he could even get arrested for doing it in public.

His eyes grew big and round, wondering if I was just

‘pulling his leg,’ another american turn of phrase,

but I didn’t see him spit anymore, and he sort of stared

under heavy, shaded brows every time he saw

one of those boys lean over and spit, as if

he was trying to figure out for himself why

they kept committing crimes in public.

I hoped I wasn’t confusing him too much.

After the long, hot day that passed in record time,

and after he turned the bath water brown,

I wrapped him up in a fluffy big towel,

held him on my lap, sitting on the porch rocker

and we sang the take me out to the ballgame song,

and his eyelids started to hang heavy, and I thought

I’d better get him inside and put his pj’s on,

before he’s too heavy with sleep to carry.

But then his eyes opened wide; he squirmed

and pulled his clean arm out of the towel wrappings.

He looked up into the sky, a sky that wasn’t quite sure

if it was finished for the day, cause it was still hanging on to the blue,

and the moon was rising up like it had places to go tonight,

and my grandson pointed to it, and he said,

“Look, Grannie Cindy, there’s a fly ball!”

Submitted to:

Thursday Poets Rally http://thursdaypoetsrallypoetry.blogspot.com/

Mushroom Miles

She calls to say “Go get the mushroom book, Mum!”

Hunting through the old bookshelf emigrants,

I notice most the ‘thing’ that is no longer there.

Missing the smell of damp and mold seems odd to me

especially since I tried so hard, when living in England,

to keep the books dry, but always, I failed.

Roger Phillips’ “Mushrooms” opens to a page where adventures began,

where small hands let go of mine and wool-clad legs,

wearing green wellie boots ran ahead, searching beneath oak

and beech for strange fruits of the ancient copse,

taking the edible home and avoiding those fungi 

of mysteriously poisonous nature.

“Find the ‘butter cap mushrooms,” she says.

The tone in her voice reaches across oceans of miles,

reminding me of her never-failing ability to instigate.

Her kitchen table creaks of old elm as she leans

against it, and her stories of the day’s adventures,

unravel the distance between us.

On page 56, I find a plump parasol of palomino fungus,

still attached to its mossy base of black Exmoor loam.  

“Got it!” I say. “Why do you ask?”

“Is it edible?” she wants to know as I study the botannical notes.

“The kids found a patch in Timberscombe Wood,

filled a basket and brought them home for tea,

but the smell is musty and rancid.” She reminds me

of the time I nearly poisoned her Dad with a similar

wooded offering. We remember and laugh.

“Edible – not good,” read the fading yellowed pages,

now crinkled and dull from years without use.

“I wish you were here today, Mum.”  

She describes the children’s antics, repeats innocent quotes,

while the forgotten fungus that sits drying on her table

is forgiven for not being the right kind,

and I try to forgive myself for not being there.