Christine Phillips | + Follow Poet |
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Under the Apple Tree

The little stall stands behind the black dilapidated wall whose bricks have been showing years of stained motion welled up inside the folly of man. The destiny of the wall speaks to the nature of them all, electric current in their tongue and bag juice swelling up their gums. And if you look closely you will see snacks hanging on its corner and a mature woman hiding behind with a fixed predetermined smile.

The men lay bare on the wall with courage looking timid and small hoping for a miracle, but retribution is slowly creeping up their sleeves and destiny is waiting at their altar. That very spot is loaded with memory whose shoes were hard to wear and tongues that are evil to bear. They criss cross from politics to business and from prostitutes holding their corners, and angry men doing honor killings for their fathers.

This is the second apple season one that comes without reason. The first one ended high and dry while the crowd hangs around and waited for the midnight cry. And men are walking around in long gown stands on top of the pulpit with sticks resembling the crucifix, devouring the apple before they are mature.

There is something about that spot, that will make you walk about and chat, the beaver and the weaver, the alter and redeemer but to trade one for another will cause dishonor to  the other for pitching their tents too high when the rainbow is lining the sky. It is the reason that comes with the season and on top of the tales you will bear a new name.

The apple tree has many stories, they tell the tales of the ancient glory. It watches the flood come and goes and it hold its grounds towards the end of the show. If the tree could speak, it would pour out its soul before it grows old. What destiny awaits mankind? What passion fills the heart with the divine, the gossip, the tales, and the disinformation is bound up with the woman disguising behind the apple tree.

Here I am standing behind the wall trying to get the logic of them all. They form groups underneath the tree, while the earth is perishing in the first degree. I watch the sky melting with the clouds and the irony is dancing in a boat, hard headed, stiff headed non compliance people gather to listen to gossip underneath the tree and the mystical woman who is keeping the dead show alive is feeding the mercenaries   with sweet buns, box juice and dry biscuits with news.

The ground is littered with dry leaves and crime is running up their prosthetic sleeves; the hens are dancing around in the pen and the earth is getting dry with signs of rain clouds hanging in the skies.

Deceptions began underneath the apple tree when Adam and eve fell on their knees. And couples munching on cheese sandwich and honey buns are victims of this  endless bubble .They wait patiently underneath the apple tree to tear away their troubles but I saw the mountain standing in their midst’s  with a ladder and a saddle and a message mounted on top saying. “The apple tree is where it all begins, the woman the serpent and the headless man.”

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