Five Cherries

@skyloverpoetry

Cradling five cherries
in my palm, I feel the weight
not of crimson fruit,
but of your fingertips
when I was mother to the child.



For Toni's inspiring prompt, Mono No Aware in the Imaginary Garden.

With a love poem, my thanks.

I love you more
than meat and bone, only the true
shape of you, belongs to me.
And if I say, I love your face,
I mean the face of you, behind
your eyes that touches
my eyes, my true face.

I love what is inside
your smile, and hold you
to be closer still to that dear part,
stronger, even, than heart
that beats, and with thanks,
my daily need, you
until the last breath I take.



For Karin's midweek challenge: Giving thanks with a love poem

Counting Days

A knife, a fork, a plate, a spoon
and muted chatter to be consumed
as meat, delicately sliced from the bone –
What did I not do, that found me here,
                                              so far from home?




For Kim's Weekend Challenge: And the days are not full enough.

A Bruised Sky

When your neighbour chops down an avenue of 100 year old trees..

I thought all the birds
would leave the sky
the day they cut down the trees –
I cannot forget the sound
a branch makes
as it tears away from trunk –
Gathering up
the flowers which fell like drops
of purple blood from a bruised sky
I heard the persistent call
of an olive thrush –
But, less forgiving
I have cursed
each man who laid axe to wood
into the next generation –



So this is what happened to rip my spirit to shreds this week - Monday to Friday, I watched as these trees which have been a part of my skyline for 18 years were chopped down one by one.. seven trees. My curse may be as ineffectual as Caliban's but I have said the words.

A late entry for Sanaa's November Challenge.

Epitaph

Dystopian Tarot Cards

© Kerry O'Connor

@skyloverpoetry

The Tuesday Platform is hosted by Vivian Zems.

Untitled (Little Bird)

There is a basin kept full


under my garden tap –

for the seed-eaters’ thirsty beaks


but yesterday, I found a sodden

mass of feathers, beak agape

and wondered how you drowned, little bird.



Marian invites us to write a Fussy Little Form: Cherita.

Blancmange

Photograph circa 19th Century

This blank mind
deserves better,
than a dab of mustard
and sautéed asparagus spears –

I had pursued a level
of detachment, a divorce,
one might say, from the rue
and inconvenience
of photographic memory –

but when one’s brain
is little more than a side of beef
one ceases to wander
in wakeful disbelief at all –


A brainless 55 for Camera FLASH! 55 in November