Kelly Flowers

writer


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Poem: Peaches

Outside, the peaches hang heavy in the wind,

their fresh skin, sunsets of color.

Until the fruit rots in piles on the lawn. 

After the winter we had

I was sure the tree was dead.

And I was enraged at the infertility of the world.

But this spring, buds split from the skeletal branches.

A thousand innocent questions.

Like they didn’t even know

The life they consume.

I was enraged at the imbalance of fertility in the world.

Peach trees are deciduous. 

Hiding from the cancer of snow 

But they revive, a Lazarus of fruit 

Their blooms sweeter for their pain

Last year, when the peaches hung in passels over the grass

I baked and canned and sauced

Sat on the porch and pressed

little moons of nail marks into the skin

I pushed my fingers through the flesh

To the heart of each

And piled the stones like a cairn on the top stair.

Peach cobbler, peach tarts, peach jam and chutney. 

Peach curry sauce for porkchops.

Peach schnapps for the late fall evenings. 

By then, you wouldn’t eat anything I cooked.

But I kept the house smelling like the living.

I kept the oven running so you wouldn’t feel the draft of autumn.

 

There were crates of peaches 

sitting on the porch

Rotting faster than I could save them.

I was enraged at the waste in the world.

Your eyes followed me in the kitchen.

The language of disapproval.

Come sit with me, you’d say.

Just as the timer stopped,

I’d run to the oven, 

Stand a moment too long in the heat of its open door

Wishing that intimacy didn’t make me uncomfortable 

That I had more time to learn how to love the right way

To not be enraged at the barrenness of the world.

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Remember College Poetry?

Ahhh college, a time of hubris and risk-taking and, in my case, poetry. From previous blogs Couldn’t Just Sign Your Name, Huh? and Skeletons (aka journals) In My Closet, you might have gathered that poetry has always been a pastime of mine but college was an especially prolific time.

And what is poetry tucked away in your college notebooks? Mummified. Dead. Kindling. Wasted Space. So I dug one out, for old time’s sake, because a tree that falls in the forest…

—–

It Dwells There Still

A house, patchwork doors and eaves

Curtains starving for wind and crumpled magazines

Where the bickering of flames was hot upon the snow

And a dark exhale set out against the brittle light

A house

Smoke snuffing at a noonday sun

Blankets to ash

I dwell there still

The fire I lit

It burned for days

A body opened up to the sky

Charred bones reaching up from snow

It dwells in me

Where tongues of flame licked threadbare walls

Till they were clean and sanctified

Feet washed in tears and dried in hair

A single spark would dance upon the empty shells

The house I dwell within

——–

Aaaaand scene!


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How Do I Stay Focused? No, Really. How?

From my Attention-Deficit brain to yours, a thoughtful Haiku for Monday…

Steaming coffee cup

A blank screen glows before me

Did I lock my car?

 

giphy2


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Skeletons (aka journals) In My Closet

If you asked my 11 year old self what I wanted to be when I grew up, I wouldn’t have wavered. I would have replied that I wanted to be a writer. And that never changed. I didn’t even major in something practical, as was suggested by those that love me.

I ended up studying literature and working in business writing, which, funny enough, turns out to be very practical.

Fast forward a couple decades and here I am, spending my weekend cleaning (because that is what all neurotically busy mothers do). While sorting boxes in a storage closet, I came across the roots of my ambition, my first journals dating back to that 11 year old self. I remember filling them over the years (there are at least 15) with what I imagined was pure genius, prodigy even. Continue reading