Still Life November 12, 2o15

There are those rebellious poems that you write and before you get them tucked onto the page . . . they skip out on you, run about town, get lost somewhere on that strange highway where young poems love to roam. Still Life is one of those poems that I forgot about. No wonder he decided to go out on his own. But like every prodigal son, he reluctantly returned home. Good to see you, my boy.

Still Life

 

There are those rare moments when time begins to slow down,

the air circulating in the apartment becomes thick, a bit moist,
wet with an anticipation; something wonderful is about to happen.

 

Much like fruit, I sometimes feel. Just standing around waiting

for the mouth of God to take a healthy bite out of me, hoping that
He won’t take too long. Do it soon before my flesh begins to rot,
before the muscles in my arms and legs turn to juice and my
leaves begin to shrink and curdle into mush.

 

Disappearing might be nice. Disintegration, POOF! Just like that,

then blasted across the universe on the breath of ancient dragons.
It should be like that, departing on the same train that brought you
into this strangely wicked but beautiful mess.

 

Painters often paint still-lifes of fruit and coffee cups. There’s

something calming about it. Something wonderfully pleasing
about things that standstill long enough for someone to appreciate
them. Bananas are lovely in the right light as are pomegranates,
lemons, limes, but pears . . . pears I think are best. I’m sure Adam
and Eve would agree, pears are more tempting than apples.
Woodie o5-12-12 (rewrites 11-1o-15)