Michelle Smith

Watermelon hues

Shade and shape eating in pink

Green skin, black seeds, complete.

🍉🌱

Watermelon pot

Cook a savory and sweet stew

Bubbles, bowls, and sauce.

🍉

Wash my green into melding yellow skin

And cut the white fleshy rind too

Thump the  top of its belly for ripeness

Enough to carve and create with a knife

Ready to eat, red ready juiciness dripping down

Melon pretty in pink beauty quenches thirst

Enough to share and shape with a baller

Long & short cut into bite size pieces

Open my hand picking out the seediness 

No Jolly Rancher hard candy competition here

Yumminess  yields  youngness delectable too

🍉

Alicia Viguer-Espert

The Good Old Days

On the red clay of infancy

where each step was joyful,

new and could be the last,

where dry thistles now crunch underfoot

because without water, nothing else grows,

he used to cultivate a garden, 

its perfume more tangible than apples. 

Eve would have never abandoned it

because watermelons bloomed easily, 

balloons of green overalls, indecent inner

parts we cut into wedges and ate

without restrain.     

We cut down our palm tree 

the one flashing her hyperbolic beauty

eliciting smiles towards heavens’

highest clouds curving 

exactly like cherubins’ bottoms.

We cut down the palm tree’s

festive expression,

her strong arms of dancer

dancing the dance of fire.

We admired the hues of her green heart,

we kissed dates under her fronds,

we feared the wind spreading ambers. 

We cut down our hyperbolic beautiful palm tree. 

 

The Surprise (Haibun)

Since our braids no longer hang like wet mops on our backs and the service was slow, our mother agreed that we could do it, so, we dragged two see-saw tables, covered them with white linens and placed them under the shade of the arbor. 

Guests were already coming to our Summer’s End Celebration Party. Tresky kept an eye on the steaks, lamb chops, morcillas and longanizas* nicely arranged on platters, salads were still on the kitchen, drinks at the bar, while cold and hot appetizers were being served. I told my sister to watch Tresky’s unblinking eyes fixed on the meat. The cook placed a small medallion of 

all-i-oli on each plate and some people leaked their fingers discreetly. The marble of the patisserie’s table overflowed with desserts and fruits in addition to two halves of a fantastic watermelon resting at the center coloring the pale creams, custards and gelatos.

After the guest sat at the table the noise of conversation rose to a crescendo. Kataplum, plum! Backs turned to the bar’s direction where nothing appeared amiss. Forty minutes later, the first people walked to the dessert table to face Tresky’s muzzle inside the almost empty shell of half watermelon. 

now it is obvious

dogs prefer watermelon

to juicy lamb chops

• Both types of popular sausages in Spain

gia civerolo

summer haiku:  watermelon edition

Red watermelon

Juicy, dripping down my neck

Coolness sweats hot day

prompt poem

Dance anyway

It takes more than

the time has come

A letter from the future

Nowhere/hear this

Clear Rhythm

A Drafty forgiveness

For the Good TImes

Meet Me outside

Love me out loud or leave me alone

Heaven’s hues yes! Heaven's hues yes!

Show up anyway

Water lets you feel free

My skin is tan with freckles across my nose

Both my children will have them too 

in the exact same spots one day

A hue of past summers

I am nine years old and on the swim team

I am volunteering to help handicap kids

learn how to swim

*

We both relax once we glide into the water

His body takes shape outside of a wheelchair

I feel the stiffness flow out like an exhaled breath

We both know the moment he becomes

light as a feather, floating on his back

His smile is brighter than the New Mexico sun shining

In that moment I know it is all about energy and connection

Years later, swimming laps at the YMCA, remembering

a New Mexico’s sun shimmering on a blue pool

I know now that was the moment giving way to

my purposes, passions, professions and profoundness

I became the core of who I am

A poet, a teacher, a student, a mother, a special needs advocate

A human connecting with individuals and communities

Pauli Dutton

Cyan Blue 

Ever since I gazed at the sea

I’ve been enamored with you.

I saved for contacts to revise my eyes to you.

Glass frames from Zeny, I cradled 10 years

to be tethered by you.

 

A few times

I sanctioned other colors to brush my surface

unfastened locks for your brothers

Green and Navy.

But only you could bloom inside.

 

When I tiptoe amongst your soft layers

in heaven seeking you

visions of your spirit haze

themselves.

So, I imagine, paint, or sing your hue.

 

Your only weakness

continuing to associate with Cyanobacteria.

Certainly, she’s dazzling.

Still, you must know

she’s poisoning you.

Dean Okamura

spitting seeds

 

I woke up this morning 

angry again 

from reading the news 

or better said 

angry hearing 

strong opinions 

from people 

with weak 

understanding 

they say most folks 

get their news 

off social media 

which can be 

like piping sewage 

into our homes 

so our neighbor's nasty 

starts stinking up our place 

... which doesn't happen 

with watermelon seeds 

we spit them out 

and they don’t come back 

too bad politicians 

ain’t watermelon seeds 

writing this on paper 

helps me spit out 

my anger 

but unlike eating watermelon 

nothing sweet 

stays in my mouth 

but sometimes 

fruit grows out of 

nothing 

PJ Swift

White-colored Pie

The entry that Swift would write today, if he could, would be primarily visual. It would look like a pie from above, basically like a circle with ever so slightly uneven lines.  The pie would be primarily in white color.  And it would be decorated, quite liberally, with a series of dark dots.  Each dark dot would be the tangible representation of an idea that Swift had while searching what to write for.  These would all be new ideas, emerging in the minutes before settling to write.  None of these ideas were substantial enough to lead to their own piece or story, but together on that vast slightly uneven white pie,  they did share in the creation of something new.

Jeffry Jensen

COMBINATION THAT MAKES WATERMELON SAFE

Ray Bradbury has me believing that if I do not

corner the hot dog market on Mars

then I should put my energy into watermelon on a stick.

I always keep my spare rocket ship

on lock and key until I can be ready

to blast off at a moments notice

and believe that I can leave

this Burning Man blubbering planet.

i do have worries that my subscriptions

will not be forwarded to Mars.

Someone from the suburbs demands

that pickleball courts are added to the tour.

They may have to hang out on Jupiter

to get a luxury court ready for competition.

In my spare time, I would look to keep

expanding my expertise in the realm of 3d printing

and more recently pour painting.

There seems to be a problem with the current hue.

Relatives are lining up at Forest Lawn

in order to find my remains.

Ray was amused at the length of the line

that pushed its way into a science fiction future.

Richard Dutton

Happiness comes as a watermelon 

Yum

Liquid cool

Breakfast lunch and dinner

and in between

 

Take a big one

cut into six chunks and chug

 

A big one can be hard to handle

drop out of your hands

and roll down the street

 

Once I chased one

Caught it and it was still perfect

But I wasn’t.

 

You have to warn yourself

and others to stop

Before you pop.

 

Some people get drunk on alcohol

I get drunk on watermelon.

Heather Romero-Kornblum

Mercury

Mercury was a fiery glowing watermelon slice

beautiful through the telescope

I uttered the word “miracle”

teary-eyed to the senior volunteers,

my son in tow

I still apologize for being sick

for giving my son an edited version of mothering

for the family he had that fell apart after I landed in the ICU

for other insanities that I cannot control

Though I explain that I cannot control all of these things

Oh, it’s beautiful

I say about Mercury

something I cannot control  

Beautiful

I say about my son

whose life and spirit I cannot control

Beautiful, I want to say about 

everything that has passed and could not control

but I am still lightyears away

Ann Taylor Is Your Friend

My skin caught on a hanger at Ann Taylor

leaving pools of blood on the dressing room floor 

My husband, disheveled, but back in our bed and off of the streets,

was confused that I still wanted to try on the clothes,

commenting that a yellow sweater dress looked like a bathrobe

He didn’t understand that in his disappearances,

and when I shrunk and bled,

Ann Taylor became my friend,

helping me place my body

into hues and shapes that fit the shell I turned into

In brief moments, I imagine that I am still a wife and mother who goes on vacation

in watermelon hues

eating slices by the pool

I remember brunches past

Mother’s Day surprises with Hawaiian short ribs and donuts 

romantic getaways and weekends

introducing my fast-food husband to wine-tastings and exotic culinary experiences

cocktails and dancing

hands held across the table

I laughed

took up space

offered myself up

basking in the juiciness of all watermelon layers

Before Ann Taylor,

my husband and son were the shirttails and skirts

that billowed behind me in multiple hues of our life lived

Now, the Weekend collection, 

Getaway Shop,

Showstoppers

are the realities that billow behind me

as the ruse becomes harder to keep up 

This Mother’s Day,

I walked around the mall with shopping bag and son – 

Ann Taylor for me, Chipotle, Beard Papa, and Legos for him

We sat on the steps as he ate his Chipotle

the peachy-watermelon contents of my bag brighter 

than any future I imagined in that moment

I’m sorry I’m the mom you have, I said to him

I know we used to go out and you would make a card with A for me,

I recalled aloud, my husband back to being a ghost

I didn’t know how to normalize any of it for him

if it even should be normalized 

I’m at least here and alive, I thought,

grateful for my imaginary friend

My son sighed 

and I wanted to adorn him in his own billowy watermelon-hued shirttails

to carry him far away from this reality

Watermelon Slice

My C-section scar was a watermelon slice

You’ll feel some pressure, the doctors said,

cutting my son out of me

Their hands deep inside my anesthetized belly,

I felt the slightest of tingles as they stretched the incision open

the curtain halving me fooled me into thinking this was happening to someone else 

My son’s bio dad cut the umbilical cord and I saw him for the first time 

slick, and like a tiger,

he cried laaaaa

With the watermelon slice,

I couldn’t lift him, 

keeping him on my lap on the nursing pillow

He just wants you to hold him,

my son’s bio dad said,

gesturing lifting and positioning over the shoulder

I was leaking everywhere

scared of having more than my son separated from me

Rebeca Thomas

Be the Watermelon

break ourselves open

share our sweetness

dropping seeds of kindness

along the way

speak in its language

of summertime memories

that cool the tongue

with a soothing aftertaste

seek and find joy 

even in difficult times

like sugared rinds 

transformed into candy 

let’s be the watermelon

so if tomorrow never comes

we can still share our essence

in the hues of every sunset 

Lida Parent Harris

Summer Bliss

The sunblock covers my skin

on this sweltering, July day.

Any misgivings or typed feelings of remorse enable us to sit back, and relax.

Ease the verbage in the brilliant win of finally tasting that first bite of watermelon ferver.

The kind that cuts like a crisp mound of lovely oasis.

All of your cares are brushed aside.

Life can be simpler this way,

taking everything one day at a time.

Pool Party

I went to a pool party with some friends. 

We had a wonderful time

sampling barbecue,  and pasta dishes on plastic plates.

I choose to remember the good times that remain.

This was when I met the lady with the watermelon hair.

It was right on and packed in

a lovely bun.

I could see the tendrils of curls

on the side of her face.

What struck me was that I woke up in this daydream

looking at her mane as if it were extinct. 

By rights I should appear even more appreciative. 

The answer was a gentler

person with a span of freckles

on her arms.

We stayed in conversation 

throughout the afternoon. 

I even learned a lesson or two:

That watermelon hair looks good on only a few.

Watermelon Kiss

I can remember watermelon more than ever before. 

Why do kisses remind me?

Why should I deny

this love when so many ties

go wrong?

At least watermelon leaves you feeling full.

Most lovers may never see your unique qualities. 

There won't be an excuse for sin,

but watermelon on a summer day

is always a win!

Take it from this girl

who looks forward to some more,

just what her heart is 

aching for.

Jack G Bowman

To the Rind

Beneath waves of sweet pink flesh

he breathes in the moisture 

tastes the salty sweet summer

of Southern California July

memories flood in from 

years ago

eating down to the rind

wanting every moment of the consumption 

even if it meant pain later on

life meant to be eaten

all the way to the edge

Radomir Vojtech Luza

Later than You Think

Roses bleeding

Cadillacs feeding on watermelon hues

Beaches needing alabaster cues

Time sowing doubt

Licking grout

Uneven bout

Rebellious lout

Please mother

Regret no rout

Soul spout

Water fount

Later than you think

Before you blink

Ice rink deeper than a sink

I love you

Need you

Like a drink

In society's smorgasbord of 

Bread and black ink

Bad Son

Before you spent your last moments, mother

Vomiting pieces of your lungs into that 

White ceramic toilet

In the bathroom

Next to the master bedroom

Of your expensive three-story home

30 miles North of Philadelphia

In exclusive Bucks County, PA

You found no friends anywhere

Not even among your husband, son and daughter

Not one director, talent agent or casting director 

Willing to give you and your once-in-a-generation classical actress' talent a break

I could have mattered more

But substance does not equal joy

Before the upchuck to end all upchucks

I wanted much but gave little

Before I could have put

You in Hospice Care

Where you desperately wanted to go

By dismantling my father's

24-hour three-nurse brigade

I should have found a spine 

An iota of interest in you

I should have located grace

Not another mirror with my face 

Before I forgot to love you

The way you loved me

And need you the way you needed me

I strayed from my faith completely

Tearing the bible in two

Blaming others for my rue

Molesting my marriage like overcooked stew

I could have been more selfless

And less egotistical like you

But in the end

I was a bad son

Because I lost track of what mattered

And chose the devil's watermelon hues

Of envy, lust and greed

I was a bad seed indeed

Who never took the lead or

Tried my soul to feed

On this Gibraltar of famine and need

Baby Boulders

Down by the river

Where the sky rips like cotton

Lie baby boulders

Heavier than trees

Skip children

All knees

Sprint teens

At different degrees

Meditating their jeans

With honest glee

Like falcons soaring

Atlas hanging like moss

Levee of lips

Under cardboard moon

Licking scarlet lagoon

Like watermelon hues

Coloring bipolar dunes

Very soon

David Fewster

COVER GIRLS

Sometimes I take my

vintage Dell paperbacks of

Richard B.'s off the shelves,

not to re-read them, 

but to place them on the table

and gaze at the iconic photos

of the author's girlfriends du jour:

Trout Fishing in America's

inscrutable granny-glassed wraith

straight out on an 1850's daguerreotype

the haughty hippie goddess of

The Pill Versus the Springfield Mine Disaster

the spunky Scandinavian beauty

playing in the sand adorning

Rommel Drives on Deep Into Egypt

and, most disturbingly, the young woman

(looking all the world like a teenage runaway)

posing for In Watermelon Sugar,

whose vapid expressionless stare suggests

horrors witnessed and/or endured

over the much-vaunted Summer of Love...

And I find myself thinking of

Suze Rotolo, making hay

for her retirement with

her memoir of that

two-timing weasel Bobby D.

or even the 3 gals from

"Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!"

who, 40 years after the fact,

re-united for a "making-of" documentary

and sundry appearances at

fancy international retrospectives,

belatedly getting the love

they always deserved for

their shining moment of 

cinematic glory

And so, it seems a shame that,

considering all the Beat

literary conferences and festivals

proliferating around the globe,

the Brautigan girls couldn't have

gone on the road and

gotten some recompense for their years

of service as unpaid models

Maybe they should've unionized

R A Ruadh

melonic

I saw the doormat

at Jysk

summertime

with a message

it said Hello

inviting the visitor

to leave behind the dust

and be welcomed

so I bought two

one for me

and one for friends

sharing our traditions

both descended

from hot climates

where cool fruits

celebrate warm friendship

and now it is a

symbol of hope

I know Jysk

got the meaning

extending a hand

in solidarity

quietly opening the door

to friendship and peace

after all

how dangerous

can a simple

watermelon be

Jysk is a Danish retail chain specializing in home decor and linens.

Tammy Smith

How to Carry a Watermelon

You definitely look cooler than Baby did in the movie Dirty Dancing, and no one dares to say anything negative or threaten to put you in a corner. It's fascinating how specific phrases can evoke such vivid memories, much like old scripts.

I still remember the first time I saw Patrick Swayze balancing on a log while Jennifer Grey ran into his arms to practice their now-famous lift. Ah, I would carry a million watermelons for the chance to play such an iconic role and wear that little pink dress. But I digress.

Let’s go back to the summer I turned twelve when we first met. I was practicing how to undress behind a beach towel. I can still feel my lips quivering as your sticky thumb brushed against mine when we plunged our fingers deep into a bucket of buttered popcorn. I remember how our noses bumped together when we leaned in for a kiss in the dimly lit local theater. Every awkward moment from my adolescence comes rushing back like a waterfall whenever I watch a YouTube clip of Baby and Johnny dancing to "I've Had the Time of My Life" in the Catskills.

Do you remember that old television commercial for Big Red chewing gum, with the slogan, so kiss a little longer, and all those scratch-and-sniff stickers I had plastered across my Trapper Keeper? Perhaps nostalgia is the new hot pink, the summertime hue of vintage blues.

Carrying a watermelon—much like praying, dancing the tango, or playing a game of beach volleyball—symbolizes the moment when possibility and potential merge to take center stage.

Veronica Hosking

watermelon juice 

drips down little girl’s arm 

sticky, sweet…

chase after fireflies 

munching on watermelon 

summertime freedom 

children grow hungry 

playing outside all summer 

sweet watermelon 

Lynn White

The Melon Market

It was a small town,

Pec, in Kosovo now,

then in Yugoslavia.

It was 1966,

the year before watermelons became illegal 

in Palestine.

It was a small restaurant

with no menu

so communication wasn’t easy.

But the guy on the next table spoke French

opening up a channel of communication for us.

John wanted to eat melon

but there was no melon.

Our French speaking friend,

he was a friend by now,

Had a late night solution.

He took us to a large dry field,

a melon market, he said.

There were huge heaps of watermelons,

dark green globes waiting in heaps.

Each heap with its sleeping seller

resting on a bed of melons.

He shook one seller awake 

and carefully chose a melon.

We all went home with him,

he called the neighbours in

and there we had a melon party

eating great juicy slices 

with bright pink hues

off tin plates

in a small house in Pec in 1966,

the year before Israel banned watermelons in Palestine.

Watermelon Hues

Criminalised for a fruit,

for eating a fruit,

for growing a fruit 

for displaying its colours and hues

in a place where it should grow naturally.

Criminalised for a flag.

Criminalised for displaying its colours,

for wearing its colours,

for painting its colours

in the country where it arose from,

in the country where it belongs.

Criminalised by the occupation.

Criminalised.

But the seeds grew

and still they grow 

and spread

the seeds.

Seeding

The bomb blew up the water melon.

It exploded

shredding its pink flesh

and scattering its seeds.

The bombs blew up the water melons.

They exploded

shredding their pink flesh

and scattering their seeds.

Bombs

and more bombs

scattering seeds 

to make more water melons.

jf giraffe

EXQUISITE (Haiku) 

We flew in his plane

The view was like a painting

Such gorgeous colors

Ellyn Maybe

For Sure Happy Ending (Haiku) 

In New York at school

Hue Park met Will Aronson

Musical ensued

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

The Shopping List

I see your shopping list.

It makes me hungry

seeing all the things

you jotted down.  I

imagine eating some

pineapple slices or

chunks, some papaya

or a few strawberries.

I would sprinkle the

lemon juice on my salad

or meat.  I would eat

grapes like the Romans

sitting down like a

king.  I’d try the melon

though it’s not my

favorite.  The oranges

and mandarins would

be so delicious.  I

would eat a banana

with my cereal.  I

would have some

watermelon, some

coleslaw, and squash.

The green beans with

carrots and corn would

be a good side dish.

The thought of eating

a baked potato with

steak and spinach

makes me hungry.

Trish Saunders

Watermelon Sky

Long days, back when the sun was benevolent,

my sister and I lie on our stomachs

reading Agatha Christie mysteries. 

We can’t imagine being

anything but 

seventeen

and slender, 

but just in case

to ward off aging

& thickening, 

we drink Tab, eat salads, 

smear Bain de Soleil 

over each other’s backs. 

The days are endless.

The days are exactly the same.

We lie in our fenced back yard, 

watching watermelon sky falls into grass,

desperate for something to happen. 

Neither of us knew yet how sunlight

can disappear, how we might spend

years, decades, trying to find a place

that would hold us, would say    

Now you can turn your backs.

Mark A Fisher

melon pains

summer fruits ripening sweet they say

long days in the humid heat they say

watermelon memories sprinkled with salt

juices flowing down chins, without conceit, they say

Oklahoma festival with all you can eat

whoever would balk at that treat they say

too many hours too sick to care

never has one suffered such a defeat they say

so the poet now abstains, recalling melon pains

after many years it’s choosy eating they say

Joe Grieco

Trader Joe’s Parking Lot

I was born

right after the War

the people were skinny

the cars were fat,

with great big watermelon fenders

and bulging rutabaga bumpers.

We all liked that.

When Lady Liberty

lifted her skirt

to show off 

her scallion gams,

the succotash soldiers jigged and sang,

“We Won, You Know, Uncle Sam”.

We all liked that.

Now here we are,

ignominy:

the people got fat,

the parking space skinny.

Nobody likes that.

Robert Fleming

 

Susan Tepper

Photo by Glenn Bowie

The Facts

The room went dark

we had to face

the facts

our time

of the bright yellow hue

bathing the floor

beyond the sheer curtain

bringing comfort in all storms

while we brewed the coffee

always the coffee

was simply an old illusion.

Chad Parenteau

Boycotting MAGA

Your family

now enjoys

non-woke 

watermelon.

Pink hue 

way too 

inclusive

even seedless.

Nothing but

flavorless

white rind

on green.

They now 

eat their 

watermelon

for vitamins.

They always

were in it 

for the 

vitamins. 

Uncle now

makes that

watermelon

based joke.

He always 

stiffled

when he 

saw you,

though you

always knew

what he 

yearned to say.

Andy Palasciano

Spray Poem

Like Gallagher had his mallet that

would crush watermelons

that would spray into the crowd,

We found a tool in my Dad’s garage called the

Hatchet Hammy.  It was a

hatchet on one side and a hammer

on the other side.  There was

a large plastic item in my

Brother’s yard that had been there

for years and was withered.

It was a base of a punching 

bag that you had to fill up with

water.  There was no water in it

and we weren’t boxers.  But this

old broken plastic item was perfect

for our exercise with the Hatchet Hammy.

We smashed it up with the hatchet

side and pulverized it with the hammer.

There was no watermelon to spray

into the crowd and barely any water,

but when we finished smashing,

the crowd went wild.

Fog

I awoke in my tent.

The floor was like vinyl

and I unzipped the door.

As I walked out,

I was encased by fog.

The ground had a hue of brown.

I was a child and our family’s friend

was a teenager.

This friend walked out by the lake,

in the mist.

He said, “Come on, let’s go.”

It was the last time I 

would ever see him in this world,

but when I dream

or am down and I see the fog,

I hear him revive me

as he says, “Come on, let’s go.”

Rivers

The clouds return the water

to the sea and land.  

And the land forms trees

and fruit from the water.

Watermelon is rightly named,

as it is namely water,

as is all of Earth Creation.

The taste evokes memories

of Earth and water,

unlike much of man-made food,

that seems to forget

the forest and its veins,

that are more like rivers,

that fill thirsty deserts

with life from the Giver.

Marieta Maglas

Cubic Words

There are hues of

blue embracing those of red

to vibrate in harmony.

There is a sense

of their movement above

the limits.

There is a feeling in the sense.

The feelings can be objects.

 

Conceivably, things have a beginning,

because we believe it,

and maybe

there is neither a beginning nor an end.

 

In the spring rain,

there are kissing statues.

In the lulled lodgings

emblazoned with

shadows of shabby objects

on the walls,

there are lonely people

meditating on their life.

There is a measure of vulnerability

For everything that is good

and for the starving birds

in searching for seeds everywhere

as for those cancerous youngsters

having unimaginable pains,

still yearning to be cured, not till experience.

In the coverings,

there are riders of the history

dressed in armor

to enter the mind's imagination and

all that is not the mind's imagination.

 

On spring nights,

there is a moon becoming a curtain

for the great vaudeville

of the stars

formed from the other stars,

no two are alike,

and being

like charming women

wearing masks and

wide necklines, nor

like those ballerinas who like to costume

in lactate white to suggest

dandelions dancing to spread their seeds.

 

In the luxury shop windows,

there are gems that look like flowers

and flowers looking like gems.

 

In the Sisyphus dimension,

there are tired eyelids in abeyance.

Nothing bends from above, everything falls.

There are emerald northern lights.

 

In a puddle of sun,

There are emerald green, tattooed bodies

dancing tango.

 

There are cubic dragons,

and there are things that have been taken apart

to be put, then, back together in the wrong order.

 

So, it is self-loathing,

and there are feelings of worthlessness

in a life spent earning filthy lucre.

There are resentments to destroy lives.

There are the wrong things that fall apart and

the wrong things that fall together

with those that are right.

There are words

coming out with a wrong comprehension

to be incorporated into bad memories.

There are wrongly imagined riders of history.

Uprising dove feather and prying eyes

get at the meaning of the truths

in the uprights (there are many

truths left) .

All of these things exist, 

yet there will never be blue trees 

or everlasting corpses.

 

The Flamenco Dance

In a juerga, there's nothing around

But voices, flamenco guitars,

Dancing bodies in moonlight,

Vibrant gypsy dresses,

Passion, obsessions,

Bullfighter's blades,

Silky shawls,

Dancers,

Capes.

Old men have faces scorched and cracked,

Flamenco women to attract,

Like barks of olive trees at night.

Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.

 

Girls have boot heels and the roses,

Men clench their teeth, step opposes,

Hands clap and shout in a dance fight,

Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.

 

Guitars are beaten at high speeds,

Castanets scratch the music's seeds,

Rhythmic fingers snap air to bite,

Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.

 

Old men have faces scorched and cracked,

Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.

 

Hands becoming wings

In their shadows on the wall,

Red becoming black and

Black becoming white,

Motion vibrating the guitar's string,

Cubic movements of colors,

In their dance,

Shadowy wings becoming scarfs,

Flamenco woman arching her body,

Showing her passion…

 

From the soul to dissolve

The dancing sounds detach

From the soul to dissolve

 

When the movement they catch,

They may change all around,

The dancing sounds detach.

 

Drums and tambourines sound,

Exotic wrists and swirls,

They may change all around.

 

The weightless grace makes girls

Steal treasures from the air,

Exotic wrists and swirls.

 

With beautiful black hair,

Rise like birds, fall like leaves.

Steal treasures from the air,

 

Having tricked up their sleeves,

From the soul to dissolve,

Rise like birds, fall like leaves

From the soul to dissolve.

 

Spicy slippery steps

Waiting for a clue,

Picking up portions of pink hues

For the essence of womanhood,

Surging twisted melodies

In deep chromesthesia,

Transforming into dazzling,

Scarlet feminine gestures,

Every man resembles a living marble figure,

Seemingly cracking.

Gradually fading their rhythmic dance,

Steps cutting sweet sounds

To catch the echo of some lost happiness.

 

Note: This poem consists of a Nonet, a Kyrielle Sonnet, a section of Free verse, a Terzanelle, and an additional section of Free verse.

Jackie Chou

The Shattering 

A watermelon breaks,

thrown out of a truck's door

like a bowling ball.

Now a skull splits open,

splattering juice, flesh

onto the dark windshield.

Is it suicide, homicide

the bang of a head

against the hard glass?

The fibrous remains 

are then scraped off

by the squeaky wipers.

We move on not asking 

if it hurts in those 

final moments of impact.

Shih-Fang Wang

Summer Heat   

I remember 

those hot summer days

in the subtropical island

where I grew up

The sun was scorching                          

the air was always humid

perspiration could not evaporate

sweat soaked through my clothing   

Walking on the paved roads

after school in the afternoon

street tar half-melted                         

grasped at my shoes

my steps became heavy 

But it could not slow down my speed

as I was eager to go home 

to enjoy a plate of icy watermelon

my mother had prepared 

for me to beat the sultry heat 

Charlie Brice

Satan’s Season

Flies dapple dog doo-doo, 

eggs fry on asphalt, 

heat shimmers off highways, 

the world’s out of focus, 

out of kilter, 

primetime for killers. 

Over last night’s ribs and fries

happy magots creep, love that

restaurant backdoor dumpster reek,

slippery sidewalk

watermelon slush, 

garbage can splatter—

nothing seems to matter.

Who else would have invented mosquitos?

Sure, there’s bikinied blonds, blue jays,

butterflies, and barbecue, but also

body odor, armpit stains,

relentless blue-sky blare, 

the absence of care.  

Long I wait 

for that first 

wilted leaf, 

smell of earth-

crunch beneath

my feet. That

first blast

of air, crisp

against my hair,

that sings

winter’s almost here.

Lorelei Kay

THOSE TANTALIZING REDS    

From grocery bins they beckon, plump

     in their ripe beauty, round and full

     of nature’s textured nectar, begging

     to be thumped, hefted, and carted home.

One now sits on my kitchen counter,

     reminiscent of home, long ago.

     And Mom.

     Oh, how she loved her watermelon.

In the heat of July, she’d buy three or four—

     one for now, the others to cool on the grass 

     under draped towels with hoses dripping cool 

     water down their smooth sides.

After she’d serve us our slices, we’d eat

     and laugh, as the red juice dribbled down

     our fingers and ran in sticky streams 

     down our arms. Juice the color of her hair.

Then came the summer the kitchen floor 

     wore through. These two cosmic events— 

     Mom’s love of melon and the worn linoleum 

     floor, lie ever entwined in my mind.

New floors cost money and Dad’s pockets 

     were bare. But Mom was an artist 

     and also, a redhead. These two facts 

     explained a lot.

First, everything she drug from the kitchen, 

     until an empty floor, her canvas, appeared. 

     Pale charcoal in hand, she sketched a half 

     melon, its rind radiating out to the edges

of the room. Then she gathered her artistic 

     supplies—palette, brushes, tubes of multi-hued

     paints. She’d paint over the worn out and old

     with fresh smelling and new.

Dawn found her mixing greens of emerald,

     spring leaf and thyme, blending just the right

     shades for the melon’s outer shell.

     The greens crept into each corner,

under the crevices by the sink,

     around the stove which refused to move,

     under the windows overlooking her garden.

     Then she edged with a circle of pale-mist,

which separated the rind from the empty

     center core. Now it must dry so she could

     kneel on the greens all around to paint the red

     center which would dominate the floor.

Then, like a goddess creating the earth,

     she moved round the orb applying loving

     strokes of red vermillion, bits of scarlet,

     touches of crimson. 

A day passed, then another, as she blended

     her colors to watermelon perfection. As dusk

     approached on the third day, she mixed final

     swirls of pale yellow with softest cloud white.

Pushing strands of auburn hair back from

     her freckles, she observed her creation.

     A few more black seeds needed there.

     Another here?  No. Just like that.

Looking over her work she beheld

     a melon worthy of Eden’s first garden.

     And she pronounced her artwork— 

     Good. 

Yes, Mom loved her watermelon. 

     Never was there a daughter more blessed

     than I, because I had a kitchen-

     floor-painting, red-headed Mom.

linda m. crate

still retain your distance 

rosefinch,

watermelon hue,

every shade 

of pink

whispers to me

of you;

and you've come back

yet still retain your

distance—

maybe you just 

wanted to see what

i've made of myself

or maybe you wanted 

me to see that you

don't need me

anymore,

but there's a part of me

that hopes and wishes you've

come back because there's

some part of you that misses me

and all of our adventures;

there's some piece of you

longing for a future for us

just as much as i am, too.

 

cold and impersonal 

i remember your 

watermelon shirt,

and our little adventure

to the park;

how we shared smiles

and laughter—

i miss those

moments,

where we could simply

be and feel comfortable

in our sureness of one another;

days where i didn't have to

question our sisterhood—

you were the first person

to fully accept me

as i am,

so it wounded me extra hard

when i got your letter;

it seemed so impersonal

and cold,

seemed like a different person

than the woman i have always

known to be so loving and compassionate—

i've got to be honest if the new you

doesn't value me then no 

i don't want to know her.

-linda m. crate 

i prefer purple or blue 

watermelon has never

tasted good to me

except when i am thirsty,

my dad loves it

always puts salt on 

it which i've

never understood;

but he says it's good—

i've never been much

of a melon person,

but the dark pink hue

is pretty;

not much one for pink i think

it's because as girls we are

told it's our color—

everyone says i look good

in pink,

but no one ever asks if pink

looks good to me;

i prefer purple or blue.

Mike Turner

Shimmering Star

Oh! Shimmering Star

Diamond speck in velvet night

I gaze upon thee

Hoping dank cold shall warm

And flowery petals open

With Spring’s bloom

Oh! Shimmering Star

Bright amongst constellations

I see you twinkle

And dream of pigmented canvas

Covering Nature’s framing

With budding hues

Oh! Shimmering Star

Guide me towards tomorrow

I watch you pass

And wait for gentle endings

And new beginnings

As life’s wheel turns anew

This poem appeared originally as “Winter Star” in Red Planet Magazine (hard-copy only, not on-line; out of print). Rights reverted to author.

(Untitled Haiku)

Gold-hued sunflowers

Visions of Nature’s wonders

In tabletop vase

After the Heat of the Day

After the heat of the day

Toils of fields complete

We tarry in verdant glade

Light breezes cool the air

We contemplate the sunset

Purple clouds and orange-hued rays

And in the gathering twilight

Find peace and comfort there

With silvery stars unveiling

Towards home we find our way

Our hearts renewed, unfolding

After the heat of the day

This poem was previously published in the anthology, Poetica #12, published by Clarendon House Books in the UK (hard-copy and digital book format only, not on-line). Rights reverted to author.

Carl Stilwell AKA CaLokie

WATERMELON SONG 

Hey ya hey ya hey ya heh 

Hey ya hey ya hey ya ho * 

A baby’s born in

WATER

Two-thirds of body

WATER

Two-thirds of Mother Earth

WATER

Watermelon fruit is nine-tenths 

WATER

MNI WICONI

Mary Mayer Shapiro

BELIEVE IT OR NOT 

Heat waves dance 

Above the ground 

Each wavelength 

A different hue 

Causing images to appear 

Not real 

Doesn't exist 

Watery pond 

Consist of fresh water 

Surrounded by 

Fertile area 

With plant life 

Habitat for animals 

Atmospheric conditions 

Be careful 

May be an  

Optical illusion 

Is it an 

Oasis 

Or a mirage 

 

 

GARDEN PATCH 

Painted the ground 

With different 

Hues 

Variety of melons 

Grew from beneath  

The earth 

Attached by vines 

Intermingled among 

Garden crowd 

Bigger Watermelons 

Push smaller aside 

Larger ones  

First to go 

Smaller ones 

Survived 

Bullies never 

Prosper 

 

DECORATED DESIGNS 

Watermelons cut into 

Baskets 

Filled with fruit 

Or pieces 

Cut into designs 

Squares made  

Buildings 

Slices a roof 

Rectangle cuts 

For doors 

And windows 

Squares for a chimney 

Pits pile up 

Vertically  

Created a  

Picket fence 

Dog with rectangle 

Feet 

Square body 

With face and tail 

Still attached 

Person with 

Rounded back 

Take a picture 

It won't last 

Then dig in 

Connie Johnson

 

Don Kingfisher Campbell

Dream Rooms

 

(1)

Darkness arrives,

we take off our eyes,

lock mouths,

wrap limbs,

 

become two

puzzle pieces

on the bed.

 

(2)

Hamsters in the box

with a cut-out window,

huddling close

 

impressing love

on each other's body.

 

(3)

I hug

my decade-long duende.

She strokes the hair

of her incubus

 

wishing

nine lives.

 

(4)

Trucks pass,

phantoms

down the street.

 

We might as well be

on a coupon vacation

at a Dana Point Super 8.

(5)

We breathe in waves

under seaweed sheets,

mussles undulating

on percale beach.

 

We toss and turn

in the flotsam and jetsam

of separate but equal

dream worlds.

 

(6)

Lying at this moment,

other apartments

do what we have done,

 

moan exercise as people

imitate sleep.

 

(7)

If an earthquake comes,

we won't watermelon mind.

 

We'll just hold on

ready for evaluation

preferring mutual breakage.

 

(8)

But the sun rises.

Our minds return

to conscious light,

 

twitter

conversation relay,

door departure.

 

(9)

Until we meet

again in the night,

the nocturnal creatures,

yin and yang,

 

two familiar

with being endangered.

Dog Months

 

First party of summer

better be by June

August is the best,

those longest days

 

A pool is the accessory

for tanning in the sun

 

Sunbathe yourself to match

the watermelon you'll eat

Grill them steaks,

warm that chair

  

Hot dogs

and lemonade

 

Sprinklers on the lawn,

sun visor on your head

 

Mosquito buzz

around croquet mallets

 

Play badminton to the smell

of insect spray

Loud as thunderstorms,

lawnmowers roll on

  

Flowers leap open

as if to scuba dive in blue air

Time to take a volleyball

vacation 

 

After all, why does a lifeguard

wear a swimsuit

 

Except for the wet suit

getting full of sand

 

Fishing in the fall,

but for now, windsurfing season

 

Boating is especially splendid

with iced tea

Miniature golf is easier

than surfing, isn’t it

The real question is, campfire

or picnic

Nothing like road trip

hamburgers

Never forget to let your throat

ride the high tide of soda pop

 

Man + Melon = 

It's definitely not winter

even though my white mug

has blue snowflakes on it

I use a curved spoon to scoop

what could be considered

miniature models of melons

The red pieces are cold

and refreshing as water

only sweeter like kisses

Each bite brings me to

look across at my wife

who also enjoys its texture

Dissolving in our warm mouths

as she empties so quickly her

porcelain now like December

Meanwhile I mentally relish

the technology of seedlessness

while I am pleasantly refreshed

Like a kid ingesting a summer

slip and slide internally--such fun

to feel moist chunks fall down

On a day hot enough to justify

taking a full grown two-handed

weight out of the refrigerator

That lightens my mind spirit to

realize the purpose of this fruit

has been domestically fulfilled

We should all be so lucky to

end up sitting in a stomach

waiting to be reseeded