Portuguese man-of-war (Photo by Laura Purdie Salas)
Pink seam
held teal together
so beautifully
till black
oozed out.
Now everyone knows.
***********
This poem is in response to the photo of the Portuguese man-of-war that poet Laura Purdie Salas posted on her blog as a Thursday prompt. The challenge is to come up with a poem of 15 words or less (not counting the title).
Check out other poems here (in the comments) and poem along if you like!
“Does a clay pot argue with its maker?” – Isaiah 45:9 (NLT)
A clay cup put to the lips
of a Dalit, Harijan, slumdog
is not rinsed, washed or reused.
The drinker is to break it
crush it, ground it into dirt
a reminder
he is below, worthless
untouchable. Would I
be willing to be such a pot?
From the Dalit Freedom Network
“In 70% of India’s villages, non-Dalits will not eat or drink with Dalits. It is this societal distinction, and the discrimination that accompanies it, that has led us to adopt the Clay Cup™ as our symbol.
Traditionally, when Dalits enter a tea shop and request a cup of tea, they are served in a clay cup rather than a glass or metal cup that others receive. After drinking their tea, they are expected to crush the cup on the ground so that no other person risks being polluted by their cup.”
Worn out from all the push and bluster
trees lean wearily northeast
or lie broken and surrendered
across limb-strewn streets.
Drains are clogged with stubble of pine
hair of cedar. Curbs catch
once nubile catkins, fugitive leaves,
pink drifts of downed petals.
My poor crocuses
who faithfully held high
fistfuls of closed buds
hoping one day soon to pay
bright homage to the sun
conquered and crushed on soggy ground.
Enough already!
Family Table - Christmas 2011
A handsome board in 1944
in clan of furniture they called a suite
our walnut table opened up to more
than eight, the matching chairs had padded seats.
In youthful days it served mountains of food
chicken, potatoes, bread, puddings with cream
then listened to us add and sound out words
cut crafts, and doodle pictures of the farm.
At thirty years it wandered from that place
a vagabond to circumstance it roamed.
It’s old and squeaky now, masks age with lace
lives near sis china cupboard in our home.
Content, I hope, though it has parted ways
with most of clan — like families these days.
