Cold blue sky, salted
with clouds, the wind picks up leaves,
hurls them at winter.
filling hollows, creases, and
overflowing. Flooding thoroughfares with cloud wadding
lowered to earth this once, as if mist were sentient
and wanted a glimpse of life here,
making it as whim
Written for Poetic Asides Wednesday poetry, Prompt: Fog
Nice name for a town,
a quaint small town
in the Pacific Northwest’s
Columbia River Basin.
Annual precipitation averages only
eight inches, so it’s sunny and warm.
And the population only reaches
5,000 on the Fourth of July.
Cherry trees, music festivals,
and only one zip code.
I want to live in George, Washington.
I don’t pay attention to the commercials
I tell myself,
but somehow when they come on
I find myself humming along
to the annoying jingle.
It has inserted itself somehow
into my mind, a persistent
playing over and over and over
drowning out whatever other
thoughts I had before
it came along.
Light as a feather,
small and urgent and quick,
lithe and happy.
everyone called her Birdie.
She would be up and down
at the dinner table,
pecking a few bites,
then up to fetch something
or run to the other room
or flit from one person to the next
making sure everyone had
what they needed.
Speaking in twitters
caring diligently for her young,
the name was fitting.
Written for Poetic Asides November Poem-a-Day Challenge – prompt: Bird
Shopping local, eating lo
-cal, just a loco California
transplant in the desert.
Who would have thought
living local meant
eating food farmed in the
irrigated land once populated
by Tohono O’odham and Pima
and Apache and Ak-Chin and others.
The farmers still use the same canals.
The farmer’s market woman,
discreetly nursing her baby,
promises it’s all organic, but how does she know
pollution didn’t graze it once, accidentally,
on a heavy-particulate day?
Or does that count in organic food?
It couldn’t be worse than
GMOs produced by massive
factory-farms, the future-food fed chemicals
through water, soil, and science
invented, patent-protected, fiercely litigated
so that various bits of insect and
“other” DNA will change it at a molecular level.
Safely pre-poisoned with insect repellent and
ready-freddy, let’s feed the masses.
So I figure local must be better than that.
and take the oddly-shaped zucchini home,
remembering the chubby baby’s milky smile.
The tomatoes are sun-ripened, not yellow-green
and hard. The eggplant is shiny-purple, and
has an insect bite-mark on it.
Safe for insects probably means it’s
safe for people too.
Written for Poetic Asides November poem-a-day challenge, prompt, Local.