Bits of crinkled purple
somersault
doubling the downfall
of faster falling rain
The hummingbird shows me
her green side
moon myrtle
a honeybee takes
the sweet bait
The bark peels back like old skin—
Mine, yours, the cinnamon scrolls
Of what we shed to live. August
Bleaches the world to bone, the bark’s faint spice
Rising in the noon glare,
Heat tasting of salt and sand. And still this Crape crowns
Itself with Myrtle fire. Still—
I cannot explain what breaks in me. Still I press my cheek
Against its flaking flesh, feel
The pulse beneath—magenta,
White, pink, the deep red
Of what I've never
Bled for anyone.
Each blossom a small fist
Opening with the muted pop
Of summer rain on dry earth. Each petal, tissue-thin
As the lies I've told myself
About enduring. The Eastern Shore sun
Has made this tree what survival
Looks like: stubborn—
Beautiful, built for the burning
Seasons that strip us
To what we are. Winter comes,
And I am learning
How to be naked—
These mottled limbs
My teachers, conductors' hands
Mid-gesture, never finished
With their fierce music
Of staying alive. Of reaching
Up through the killing
Cold, brittle air ringing
With the clink of frozen twigs toward something
Green promises I cannot fathom—yet still I know
Lives in the light returning.
The Last Leaf at Myrtle Beach
All alone he holds
on for who knows what.
Others like him have all gone.
The sand is his only friend.
He is unattached with no
commitments. Red with
embarrassment about his
predicament.
Waiting for the last wave
to carry him to his final grave.
He leaves a shadow in the sand,
does the last leaf at Myrtle Beach.
The Myrtle sits
single, lonely
at the crossroads
adorned
with one hundred
cobalt bottles;
waiting.
Evening soon comes
and gentle winds
blow softly
that Aphrodite
sings
her sweet, enticing song.
Weak, evil spirits;
guileless souls,
will, helpless,
answer, her siren call.
Then trapped
Inside the bottle blue
'till dawn.
When morning sun will
seal their fate.
The Myrtle sits single alone
at a crossroads, somewhere unknown
adorned with bottles; cobalt blue
now, waiting as cool evening drew
soft winds across the tree are blown.
In time, Aphrodite's dulcet tone;
a sweet, enticing siren drone
will lure the guileless souls, where to
the Myrtle sits.
She trapped them all, the fools: that crone.
Fore early dawns, sun's rays were shown
their fate was sealed, and then anew
at some crossroad, where calm winds blew
waiting for mooncalves to dethrone;
the Myrtle sits
Myrtle Beach has reflective sand the seagulls reported
We had to see for ourselves, for it did not make sense.
With our naked eye, we could not see it, in any way.
However, there it was when the photos were developed.
Do seagulls see better than we do?
Apparently so.
I remember the high arc of your line
casting into horse-maned waves,
strong hands as yet untroubled
by trembling, easily reeling smaller fish
to throw back in, again and again, a circle
of give and take, and how after searching
salt-surf, the jolt of fierce life banging
the rod down almost to breaking cut
a smile across your face, the frenzy
to impose death on the unwilling fish,
the satisfaction of almost losing shining
in your eyes like light reflects off scales.
I remember this, an emotional fish
wriggling in my mind’s hands as I search
my own churning waters, before it slips
my grasp, too slick to pin down:
red snapper-joy of fireworks, cherry soda;
hagfish-hate spewing slime of racist jokes.
I tried to deny them, bury them all at sea,
but your barbs are hooked too deep in me.
The grief, the love, the anger, the relief
all cling to me like barnacles
no lime can ever remove.
As the garden grows…
This one is For Sythia
Rose may not agree
She’s the one who seems to think
That “Everything’s for me!”
Their beauty is so petty
Tulips speak with ease
“Let’s hope this doesn’t Croc us”
This late Spring eager freeze
Yes, Daisy is so worried
She knows she’s getting old
How will she support herself
“Not all can Mari gold”
Lily is in Lavender
Seen heading to the Station
She worries the environment
“We are still a Car nation”
Though Sythia is fragile
She’s grieving recent death
Mums the word when she’s around
She eyeing Baby’s Breath
She’s dating that Sweet William
And that’s why Rose is sore
At last Spring’s garden party,
Will and Rose had known L’Amour
I guess they all have problems
Just ask that Prickly Pear
Won't even say Hi Biscus
With his nose up in the air
I wish they’d chill, relax and eat
The ground has been so fertile
Just then Azalea shouted out
“Hey, hand me a Crepe, Myrtle”
sad thoughts began to calm down
divorce had seemed like the end of her world
but there is something vastly calming about the sea
Myrtle Beach was healing her gladly
Myrtle, the sea turtle
Wore a sports girdle.
With green sneakers shoes.
She ran a fast race
Won for style first place.
Went viral, millions of views.
The Myrtle sits
single, lonely
at the crossroads
adorned
with one hundred
cobalt bottles;
waiting.
Evening soon comes
and gentle winds
blow softly
that Aphrodite
sings
her sweet, enticing song.
Weak, evil spirits;
guileless souls,
will, helpless,
answer, her siren call.
Then trapped
Inside the bottle blue
'till dawn.
When morning sun will
seal their fate.
A Note In The Wind Poetry Contest; placed 3rd
Sponsored by: Charles Messina
Date written: 29th October 2022
Prunella loved the color purple,
planting some lovely Crepe Myrtle’s;
they had a humongous growth spurt,
all due to her nitro-rich dirt,
now her yard’s a Myrtle hurdle.
6-11-2022
Contest / A Funny Limerick - Any Theme Contest
Tania kitchen
head was potato
now a member of nato
cats with tomato
(catsup)
hurrah we just won
the greater glory of God
were Peter's peacocks
an operation
which had been called by putin
special military
will catch a big bass
instead of cutting grass
think that we will pass
with comfort and care
plane took off into midair
with some room to spare
terrible turtle
had found her to be fertile
whose name was myrtle
willing and able
to get elbows off table
by both mike and mable
Balms
saunters
besides deep
on a brisk breeze
through her nest of blond acacia saplings
their closeness is kept through striking senses
at scarlet dusk
starry day
fairness
times
Written: February 13, 2022
Camping on the sandy shore of the beach
Getting bored by the waves and their screech
Sitting around the camp after cooking out
It was so much fun just talking at our hangout
Soon, we noticed a couple who were fighting
Across the beach in a house we were sighting
They were making trip after trip up the stairs
We all knew this battle wasn’t one of our affairs
Still we watched from our place in our lawn chairs
Not much caring that it was darkening their tears
We watched for hours and heard their angry shouts
When we finally hit the sack it was midnight or thereabouts
While we laughed and hooted at the wife’s victory
That husband was bellowing that this was contradictory
Never would we forget that vacation with its entertainment
During our monotony on the beach this was our sustainment
Favorite Vacation Contest
Sponsored by: L MILTON HANKINS
February 3, 2022
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