Vision of beauty. Down yonder, in bluebell woods, my chocolate dog. Love immortalised in paint, such sweet banishment of gloom.
Word Count: 100
BACK TO NATURE
The rising sun cut a crimson strip between the oak and ash. A well-sprung tuffet of moss by the stream picked up its positive vibes. Sun now. Rain later. Perfect.
All is well, called out a blackbird.
I’m the greatest, rasped the magpie.
Cawed blimey, croaked the crow.
The moss zinged from its rhizoids up through its iodine-rich gametophytes and sporophytes. It was well and truly among friends.
Or so it thought, in its elemental mossy way.
Until a humungous hairy human arse* descended like a shit-smeared moon out of nowhere, to wipe and disinfect its arse on yours truly.
[*The UK spelling. In the US, it is an ass, whether a human posterior or a domestic donkey, which presumably would make an ass’s nether region an ass ass!]
In twenty-twenty the pandemic killed my words and soothed me with art. Now it's twenty-twenty-one, who knows which muse will triumph?
Peppers and eggplants... dreaming of ratatouille. Solanaceae, a coat of many colours, some deadly, some nutritious.
A couple of weeks ago, I braved moving on from sketching to do my first acrylic painting. The subject was a humble freshly picked tomato from the family allotment. The painting isn’t perfect but I’m quite proud of my effort.
Mister suggested I accompany my picture with a saucy, gently humorous free verse poem that I wrote more than two decades ago and then posted on my blog in its early days. The verses heralded from a challenge I set one winter Sunday afternoon while visiting some dear friends. This followed on from a roast dinner and an unspecified number of glasses of red wine, so all present were feeling particularly merry. It involved us each writing a poem in five minutes on a given subject, the first subject being “tomato”.
Plump tomato you remind me of Maisie on a Sunday, scrubbed clean beneath a fresh bonnet, shiny red cheeks green eyes and lace frills, smiling, basket upon arm. Maisie loves the vicar and brings him freshly picked tomatoes matching her cheeks. She smells of compost and lavender soap. He asks her for lunch after church. Their eyes meet over large tomatoes eaten whole that squelch as the juice runs down their chins. She giggles into her lace handkerchief, he wipes his chin on the tablecloth, and over the crockery they kiss, all tasting of fresh tomatoes. She giggles some more. He squeezes Maisie the plump tomato and they disappear under the table beneath newly-pressed linen. Maisie's cheeks ripen until she shines with the shiny red plumpness of ready-to-eat fruit. The vicar praises God for tomatoes and descends upon Maisie for dessert. Copyright(c)Sarah Potter, 1997