Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
 Sep 2016 jane taylor
Ma Cherie
I love you onion
I'll tell you why
in part because
you make me sigh,
you are everything to me
the song my Mother sang...
a whimsical, sad
and poignant little tale
I hear you crooning
& the radio tuning
my Mother knew me better
than I'd like to think,
singing ...
Lonely 'Lil petunia in an onion patch
a bittersweet memory
of all the saddest words
that I have ever heard
the saddest is the story
told me by a bird
tears fall from a pungent smell
when I cannot forgive,
say you'll never tell
and in tears of laughter  
when I'm tickled
seeing the inchworm
in the shape of a finger
a moment comes,
  I stay
and linger
climbing like a spider
singing me a verse
Spent about an hour
chatting with a flower
and here's the tale he told
as you're peeling layers,
& hearing prayers
revealing honesty
and depth of flavor
intoxicating waifs
I sniff and savor
kept safe
by a sturdy skin
cooking you
I start, begin
chopped fresh
and finely diced
or maybe
even thinly sliced
for summertime
franks, not the
Ballpark kind
these I doubt
you'll ever find
homemade baked beans
that you adorn and grace
a smiling sweet,
lil' onion face
everything made
from scratch
gleaning my
lil' onion patch
in toasted rolls,
whole grain mustard
potato salad...
best I can recall
my Mother
took the time to make
in everything
she cooked and baked
you're in all my memories
though you're in so much more
I've never shared with you
this love I have before
Onions are adaptation at its finest
fresh, sauteed with butter
translucent sweetness
Elevating anything you touch
they cry, and laugh
and give so much
dried, grated..slightly dated...
even hated, chopped up..
or roasted, grilled...
so very skilled
any way you slice it
even if you dice it
differently delightful
and delicious
smart for recipes,
even onion haters
appreciate the graters
sometimes your in  disguise
a lovely found
& welcome surprise
must be
I have something
in my eyes
as the flower
continues to sing
a joyful gift
my onion brings
familiar sounds
songs I sing
petunia continues
who put me in this bed
I'll bet his face is red
I call him down
with every teardrop that I shed
  then she said
if only I had him here
I would take him by his ear
and make him share my misery
I'm cooking homemade
onion chips,
rewound on old-time family clips
recall the fresh-squeezed lemonade
while we're sittin' in
the cooling shade
a memory of you replayed
so very glad you came & stayed
  sippin' slow brewed iced tea
my lil' onion friend and me.

Cherie Nolan© 2016
For my Mother - used to sing me lonely little petunia inan onion patch https://youtu.be/PtMQa1sSW_g
Smile everyone! Beautiful here!
 Sep 2016 jane taylor
LeV3e
You don't make me cry anymore.
When my mind glides by your amorous glow,
Our past no longer slows my rhythm.
You struck a chord, and our light diminished.
A musicians sword, cuts like a prism.
This prison I've put us in,
Is no longer fitting,
For rainbows arch too far from tradition,
And a white dress only fits on a ******.
It's urgent that,
I spell check my wording, cause
My inner workings are always flirting with
The idea of falling for you again.
 Sep 2016 jane taylor
MJ Scholtz
Perfection stopped being what you spoke about on Saturday evenings.
Instead she walked around barefooted with her hair bewildered and her blue eyes dancing with your soul.
You found her in little strands on your pillowcases and car seats and floating around in your head.
She rolled you up, tucked you in, turned her back on you when it got rough.
She fell silent, just like you.
Sans peace in loneliness.
Fragility woven into her like she herself was woven into you.
She smiled.
Smiles that traced your skin lightly.
Smiles that dug their way through your flesh and made your chest feel bigger. Safer.
Perfection wasn't what you spoke about on Saturday evenings.
Perfection wasn't perfect.
Perfection was all you had needed all those Saturday evenings.
Her.
 Sep 2016 jane taylor
Lora Lee
Wherever you
may be -
be it in strife
or
in gladness
            know I am
              flinging out    
                   my heart
             to the stars
hoping
      that, like a
              boomerang,
                    you will
catch it
bless it
infuse it
with all
you can
even if in
pieces
peeking through
the cracks
of your being
and hurl it
over the blanket
of celestial
               reasoning
                   tossing it
                like a wish
        into the heavens
until it reaches
my hands
safe, sound
and ever expansive
Know
          that while I
              send my prayer
                          to receive
                   that the real
                reason is to
         have suffused
within you
a breath
         of freshness
                   recharging
the parts of you
that have become
too heavy
to bear
     imbuing you
with the sacred
forces of
winter strength
spring light
the balance of
autumnal winds
and the ripe
heady fruit
of summer
Now
            as my hands
catch that pulsing
mass of life
       and put safely
                   back into
                          my chest
I bless the winds
the you
within me
and
         fly
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tpv261r01Eg
Heilung - Krigsgaldr
Viking type of song that accompanied me on the writing :)
 Sep 2016 jane taylor
Lora Lee
Today I battle
my own negativity
the dark side of
my moon
glowing cold
in the sear
of burns
those little
inflamed live
scars receiving
the salt
of tears
that I gather
in opaque blue
and indigo-hues
in the privacy
of the soft spaces
in the drawers
of my heart
little aches
that grow
as the hours
get smaller
little quakes
on low
in emotions'
faded squalor
and as I plunge
over that
spiritual abyss
draw in my
knees, let the
winds brush
my lips
in a mocking
lovers'  kiss
and try to catch
that beating mass
as it bursts
right through
my chest,
in broken slips
of shattered
glass
I tell myself
in whispers
"No, warrioress!
This time
you will not
be destroyed"
and I fling
my heart,
so bruised
into the
burning,
golden
void
This too shall pass
 Sep 2016 jane taylor
Lora Lee
Poetry is a mask in reverse
created from just a mere spark
bringing to light
who we really are
out of the depths of the dark
       Despite ourselves      
we try to hide
in the realms of our daily lives
and then poetry's
visceral therapy
weaves magic spells
from our fingers
     right out
                 of our minds
Suddenly, there is no choice
but to allow those masks
to be dropped
like a sudden change of fancy
at a medieval ball:
Naked eyes for coverings
are swapped
Yes…the command is given
ornate masks slip
with a splat upon
the floor
Suddenly, all dancers look
upon each other's faces
discovering treasures
they knew not before
Pregnant silence reigns
and only then
does the true dance begin
in bransles' or corantos' countered moves,
a new quiet
drowns out the din
Let it commence!
in festive air,
all attempts to hide
are in vain
Subtextual glances
and heady music
create sensual tension
profane
      The wine is flowing
smiles glowing
and soon release will
bear fruit
as the dance is danced
without inhibition
and all pretenses
start to uproot
And so it is
in poetry…
All those masks
are thrown down
the words just
                        trip
                              from beyond our lips
making magic
from adjectives and nouns
Now, our words drip upon the paper
revealing the secrets divine
our souls are coaxed out from the layers
melting your
sparkling poets' hearts
into mine
BTW a bransle and coranto are examples of traditional medieval line dances
Next page