Tag Archives: missing

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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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.

 

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