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Raw Honey

Raw Honey 

©Jo Hewitt The Teal Mango 2017
                                    

It has been a year.                                 

Shall we again meet?

Shall we gather

In your city

Or would you rather

Mine?

Choose.

Either is fine.

Shall I bring chocolate

And pastry sweet?

Truffles perhaps,

Rosemary, Cayenne, or Lime?

Name the date.

Name the time.

Shall we talk of then or now?

Shall we talk, compare each different path?

Shall we give voice

To the aftermath

Of the why and how

Of each one’s choice,

Of our each different path?

Do you want coffee, tea, espresso?

“Oh, the tea” you might say.

“I guess so.”

For me,

I might choose the coffee.

It is long since my life,

My surroundings,

Afforded me the civility

Of the fragrance of tea.

 

Please, say again

Where shall we meet,

We three

To savor old times

With coffee or tea.

Shall it be your condo?

Or shall it be your

Backyard and pond

Beyond

Your screened porch?

Shall you, or shall I pour?

How much sugar does it take

To sweeten your tea?

One lump,

Two, three,

Four?

How many more?

You stop at three?

Lumps in life come differently.

I will decline the sweetener,

Real or artificial

As may be your habit

or your ritual.

I now drink mine

Bitter, a bit.

As we sip,

As we sit,

Shall my thoughts lead my mind

To the calm of the pond

Or beyond

And leave my ears behind

With your shallow prate?

I have no patience of late.

Nor time.

I do not understand

The reason or rhyme

Of your need

for shallow discourse.

Of course,

If I offer topics deep,

Me, again, will you berate

And claim I condescend?

Why?

Will I again

Need to defend

To you

My view,

My stance

On the current social brew

And circumstance of

Injustice,

Ignorance,

Bigotry and hate?

Perhaps you cannot fathom it

From your city,

Or this pond.

Yet,

Shall I regret,

Shall I reflect

My lack of circumspect

In what words I proffer?

Perchance,

If I were to offer

You honey raw,

A chance for healing,

(In sugar coating

There is none,

None at all)

Perchance,

In my defense,

If I were to coat your cup

And stir with your delusion,

And seclusion,

A picket from your

White middle class fence,

Would you drink it up?

Would you drink it all?

Could you stomach it raw?

Or would you choke

In the coat

Of feeling?

Swallowing the rawness

Is the healing.

 

It has been a year.

Shall we again meet,

We three?

I think not.

I have not time to savor tea.

Time is short.

Barely time for coffee.

We stand at the shore,

The brim,

Of the rim

Of a blackened sea.

The waves of the old ways,

Cresting, crashing

Have come,

To swallow us,

Bitterly.

 

 

Portrait of Miss Sinclair by William Orpen

Portrait of Miss Sinclair by William Orpen

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Fox and E.’s E. Grapes

The Fox and E.’s E. Grapes

©Jo Hewitt The Teal Mango 2017
The Fox and E.'s E. Grapes © Jo Hewitt 2017

The Fox and E.’s E. Grapes
© Jo Hewitt 2017


 

The Fox and E.’s E. Grapes

You said you’d heard I had a change in heart,

Maybe I would feel better now.

You said you had heard it from the grapevine.

You said your heart was okay,

Your heart was fine.

Did you ask me about mine?

 

What did The Fox say?

As he lured you over the vineyard trestle

To expose your nakedness

To his rakishness

To begin your writhing,

To wrestle,

To twist your morals,

Churning out the inside.

The emperor has new clothes-

His flaccid ethics.

Did you both his bloated corpulence ride?

 

To measure truth, reality, justice and ethics,

What are your metrics?

 

And yet,

Do you have regrets

As he filled your cistern with rancid wine?

Churn, twist and turn

On your mottled bed under the grape vine.

Day and night, night and day.

Did you listen, really listen to

What The Fox did say?

 

With your legs and mouth agape,

Did you ruminate on each

Rotten grape?

Did you swallow it all,

Each little green ball

Proffered on his spear’s length and girth?

What did The Fox say?

Did he promise The Garden’s rebirth,

Make new your own Gethsemane?

And what would that be?

It seems it’s a garden turned dark and gray.

But tell me, tell me,

What did the Fox say?

 

Were you complicit?

Were you complacent?

As the cross was broken for the Sacrament?

 

I call you out on your hypocrisy,

The modern world’s leprosy

Where the seekers of Truth

Are confined in the colony.

 

Did you choke on the soured green pearls you spewed

Askew,

In slouched protection from your

Paltry, pernicious pew?

 

You Pharisee,

Void of humane thought,

Vapid head.

Void.

Where years ago the Good Word fell

Screaming, silent, a knell

To a soul long dead.

 

What did The Fox say?

While, before, after

He mind-fucked your head

Fornicating, penetrating to

Your heart, your Soul,

Giving us all the shaft

 

All you say is:

“My heart is okay.

I worry about MY children, too.”

 

Yes,

Your blonde-haired, blue eyed babes

Who will never experience the

Bludgeoning hate of a bigot’s rage.

 

My heart is fine. My heart is okay.”

Again you nurse your whine

Blood letting whine of malice.

You drink from a long tarnished chalice,

Gloating, your spiritual body bloating,

Seeping, ooze of ignorance.

Dare I say, dare I pray for your temperance?

 

Cease and Desist

 

Resist

The call of The Fox

As he mocks

The Word, turned to bitter brine.

 

This is absurd.

 

Again your whine.

 

Would we be safer

With your Holy Wafer,

A thin stale slice.

Dried up infectious staph of death,

Not life.

Do we warrant a few crumbs

To ease the strife?

 

Do we have a choice?

Do you have and

Will you use your voice?

Do you even have your own thought?

 

I thought naught.

 

In this sordid play

Will you only believe and do

Whatever The Fox will say?

 

You laid your soul upon this perverted alter.

You did not falter

As YOU drained it of life.

What else has died,

What else is dead?

You lay back on your grape leaf bed,

Your legs wide

Spread.

 

This is not a game.

 

Do you think your leaf of fig

Will hide

your shame?

Your holy leaf,

Gold leaf,

Old,

Tattered,

Torn,

Is now our crown of thorns.

 

Your lips, lowered, spread wide,

A bloody smile,

Blood of my children, my friends.

With each thrust of The Fox

Another destructive beginning

Which never ends.

All the while

You writhe under The Fox and whine

My heart is okay. My heart is fine.”

 

Did you ask ME how I feel

Is my heart okay?

 

My heart may never heal

As I breathe

In the stench of your spiritual decay

And of your Judas vote.

 

One thing more I must note,

One thing more needs be said,

 

“Let the dead

Bury the dead.”

 

 

 

Lion Tree

© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2017

The SSB Drever and I caught a quick walk in Ellenberger Park under a shifting umbrella window of blue in a gray, rain ripening sky. I have watched the deterioration and transformation of felled and fallen trees. Today this one looked like a lion stretched out under a stand of young, watching trees in dandelion dotted grass.

 

Lion Tree

 
standing tall

 

and free

 

tree used to be.

 

how from fell or fall

 

now lyin’ tree.

 

i came upon thee.

 

from branch and bough

 

new to be

 

from death life endow

 

transforming-

 

inspiring,

 

lion tree,

 

dandy lion

 

in grassy sea

 

lyin’ lion tree.

 

Lyin' Lion Tree © Jo Hewitt 2017 Death and transformation in  a city park.

Lyin’ Lion Tree ©Jo Hewitt 2017
Death and transformation in a city park.

Pothole Season

© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2016

 

Winter is almost over and while we await the appearance of our illusions of spring, we have begun that annoying little in between time-pothole season. Anyone who successfully makes it through this season is ready to tackle any slalom competition. Some years, the city is better than others in dealing with this annual phenomenon of potholes popping up (or sinking in) like a rash of inverted mushrooms through the pavement, asphalt eating car killer spores. One year they were so bad at a major intersection near my home, I referred to them as a series of recreational finger lakes, the largest of which I named Lake ——–(insert the name of the mayor of your city here).

Maybe a local radio station could host a contest to find the largest pothole in the city, offering a huge $$$ prize. But since this is one of the places in Murica that hasn’t had a booming financial recovery yet, and if you happened to have had a mayor that diverted municipal funds to frivolous projects constructed by his campaign contributing cronies instead of spending it on neighborhood improvement and educational and real economic and job creation opportunities, some of the good citizens might just make the holes bigger in order to win the prize. Well, there you go. Anyway, I wrote a little song, sung to the tune of “Springtime in the Rockies”.

Pothole Season

 

Well, it’s springtime in my city, 

 

Potholes dot every road again. 

 

I tried to steer around them,

 

But I think my car fell in. 

 

The axle’s bent, broken, and mangled.

 

And so is every rim.

 

Yes, it’s spring time in my city. 

 

I need to be towed, again.
 
 
 
 
 
Pothole Sign

 

Uzbeki Traveling Band

© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2016

My  neighbor is in and out. I keep an eye on her house for her. Sometimes she tells me when she will be gone, and sometimes she forgets. One time I kidded her, in a most random fashion, that I was concerned she had been kidnapped by a band of Uzbekis.  She was out again and this word play came to mind.

The Uzbeki Traveling Band 

 
She left the ole’ homestead land
To take up, so they say, as I understand,
To ramble with an Uzbeki balalaika,
Tanbur, an’ tambour traveling band.

 

Each member wore a matching cumber band,
Rosey cheeks and skin well tanned.
With dancing feet and waving hands,
They whirled and twirled; the music outward fanned .

 

To the music both humble and grand, 
She danced with her heart on worn out rands,
On rock and sand and village meadowland.
Such their music journey spanned.

 

Watchers watched, drinking tea with gha’nd.
And when hearts melted by music strands,
Singing souls began to understand,
Why she traveled with the Uzbeki band.
 

 

They traveled the earth,-silk, sea, and sand.
Then, the day was done; it was time to disband.
They loaded the caravan well manned.
And she returned again to the ole’ homestead land.
 
 
 
 
Klavdy Lebedev Plyaska 1916

Klavdy Lebedev Plyaska 1916

Redolent D’or

© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2015

An historic vibrant neighborhood is precious, glittering golden in autumn light. It is not just the sights, the sounds, but the smells. The SSB Drever and I walked in such a neighborhood today, the arms of the changing air wrapping around us, the falling leaves flitting down, waving before our eyes, flirting before dancing with our feet. The dusty, musty smells, fingers of earthy musk reaching up to us, inviting us into Autumn’s spell. Even the remains of vibrant Summer’s green succumb to the heady musk, numb to that which is to come.

 Redolent D’or

 

Woodruff in Autumn-© Jo Hewitt 2015

Woodruff in Autumn-© Jo Hewitt 2015

 
 
 
Delectable                                          
 
D’or Redolent 
 
Delicious Scent
 
Detritus
 
Days Diminish to
 
Dusty Debris
 
 

March Observation.

© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2015

 

I took the SSB Drever for a short walk while it was warm and there was daylight. A pair of sandals and a paradox or two.

 

 

 March Observation

 
Ice Patch Melting in March Sun by Jo Hewitt

Ice Patch Melting in March Sun by Jo Hewitt

Scarf around my neck.
 
 
Sandals on my feet.
 
 
Sixty two degrees.
 
 
Walking around an old ice sheet.
 
 
Remnants of February
 
 
But it feels like May.
 
 
Must be March,
 
 
Wouldn’t you say?
 

 

 

Megalomaniac

© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2015

 

Looking at news headlines this morning and actually all week and beyond, I was inspired to write this verse, this little ditty sung to a variation of There’s a Place For Us from Westside Story. You can choose your own head of state-past or present, or head of a boardroom to envision while you sing.

Come on. Everybody sing!

Megalomaniac

 
ronald_reagan-620x412Megalomaniac, 
That’s where it is really at. 

 

Power here. Power there.
Power, power everywhere,

 

All the power I can find
Even if it is only
In my mind.

 

 

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