Steep in age, slat face
whey as moonlight,
she claps-to her eyes
to concentrate and
mumbles at her potato.
I’ll bet there was a time when the godess Luna was waxing full, bright, and beautiful … and there was no potato.
There has always been a potato.
Perhaps you are correct.
I didn’t think anyone saw me…
did the potato spill the beans?😉
No, only the coleslaw.
The things people notice. I think it’s beautiful.
It’s all about noticing.
I had a boss once who used to do that her desk….
Sorry… meant to write who used to do that AT her desk…
It was more poetic the first time.
This brought tears to my eyes~a majestic verse! Thank you dear
I am very glad you enjoyed it.
digging out eyes, my
potato weeps musky tears –
tears which I ignore
You moved me…
so much so that I wrote more:
gouging out eyes, musk-wept hands
scrape-scrape-scrape dark skins
or maybe it was the potato thoughts😉
budded eyes pried loose,
gouged, and fresh scraped skin cries out – I
I grab the next top one.
The natural state of the potato is the communal pyramid, from which they rumble, bass and baritone, onto the wooden floorboards. They strike equilibrium in arcane patterns; not for nothing are they styled earth-apples.
mmmm. great imagery. I’ve read it several times over.I keep seeing them fall. I see an old kitchen and randomness and maybe something by Andrew Wyeth.
“whey as moonlight”
I’m reinventing my native language as I go along.
It’s the only way to fly.
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