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Flee From the Kitchen

Flee from the kitchen, live on the porch;
August is glowing hot as a torch.
Cover yourself with rags or with strips,
Drink from a bucket, smacking your lips.
Dream of crisp apples, cinnamon toast,
A knife too dull to carve Sunday’s roast.
As the Earth turns and takes you along,
Make up a ditty, sing a new song!

Poem © 2020 by Magical Mystical Teacher
More The Whirligig #280
More Writers’ Pantry #34 at Poets and Storytellers United




authentic outbursts—
sometimes babbling to apples
or cooing to plums
~~ ~~ ~~
Enlist the dull knife
to hack the runes from apples
on your vision quest.
~~ ~~ ~~
apple phobia—
nine druids drinking at dusk
poteen stains their breath

© 2014 by Magical Mystical Teacher
More Three Word Wednesday: “Authentic, Enlist, Phobia”

Apples: A Baker’s Dozen



three apple blossoms
fragrant as a baby’s breath—
such milky sweetness
~~ ~~ ~~
To trade your language
for sounds that have no substance—
babbling to apples!
~~ ~~ ~~
dense with leaves and fruit—
apple orchard shuddering
as the pickers come
~~ ~~ ~~
seven apple trees
their limbs burdened and groaning
with ripe crimson fruit
~~ ~~ ~~
in apple harvest
agile pickers in the trees
plucking crimson fruit
~~ ~~ ~~
trees laden with fruit
the apples plummet earthward—
lashing autumn winds
~~ ~~ ~~
fall’s apple madness—
Courtland, Macintosh and York
gracing my table
~~ ~~ ~~
reading apple peels
by flickering candlelight—
ancient malic runes
~~ ~~ ~~
gifts from the orchards—
crisp apples and tender plums
placed in a blue bowl
~~ ~~ ~~
Why is it singing,
the apple crisp and golden,
to the rising moon?
~~ ~~ ~~
In the photograph
three apple trees are blooming,
never bearing fruit.
~~ ~~ ~~
a bright confusion—
gear engages gear, grinding
apples into wine
~~ ~~ ~~
Near the apple tree
nine druids gather at dusk—
poteen stains their breath.

© 2014 by Magical Mystical Teacher
More The Sunday Whirl, Wordle 152
More Postcards from Paradise at Recuerda Mi Corazon