Ode to Cantaloupe by Julie Rinard

My mother grew up in a farming household in the Midwest and her family grew much of the food they ate. She loved cantaloupe. But with four children and farmworkers staying with them every summer, there was never enough for her to eat to her heart’s content. So when she had kids, my mom was bound and determined that her offspring would never want for more. This poem is a nod to that feeling of abundance she instilled in us by promising we could always indulge in as much as our hearts desired of this luscious summertime fruit.

ODE TO CANTALOUPE (and the abundance my mother brought to me)

In the store We smell the fruit Thump the skin Select our loot

Ripe and juicy Sweet and dense Cut the fruit With great intent

We open it With a knife Down the middle And what a sight!

Oblong seeds Creamy white Spilling out Juicy delight

Offering abundance Baring its soul Shades of orange I want no more

Breakfast table Early morn With cantaloupe It’s rinds galore

Quarter melon Half melon Whole melon More?

Grapefruit spoons Jagged Tips Puncturing flesh Heaven to lips

Life’s complete My mom declares As juices trickle Down her chin

Fresh In My Body by Julie Rinard

When it was fresh in my body

I felt certain I did not belong

When it was fresh in my body

My intuition mastered my mind

When it was fresh in my body

I knew I could not stay

But

Then

It hardened like a lemon left too long

Its rind, stone-stiff, with putrid spots, and mold, yet hollow at its core

It went stale like a guest who overstays her welcome

Its air, stultified, unable to sustain the smell

Its touch became too rough

Its fingers scratching my skin down to the bone

It soured like a vinegar

Its vintage passed its prime

If only it had stayed fresh in my body

I could have won the war

Beyond Conversation by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer is an amazing poet whose piece, Beyond Conversation, expresses with precision the safety to express authentically I hope people feel when they join my Writing Circles. There is a deep reverence in this poem that drew me in on this grey Sunday August morning when, as I type, my ears are slowly attuning to the unexpected sound of raindrops gently pattering on my patio roof.

You can also hear a gorgeous reading of this poem by Michael Justice here.

Beyond Conversation by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

There was a time I believed we need to tell each other who we are so you can know me, so I can know you. Now, I see how words, too, can be like little masks, little disguises we can use to hide. I don’t want to hide anymore. I want to find the most naked words— words with no ribbons, no sparkle, no paint—and speak in the barest of tongues. I want to speak with you blood to blood, breath to breath, grief to grief, fear to fear. I want to know you and be known by whatever it is that resonates inside the words— a raw and vibrant IS, IS, IS that pulses between us like a common heartbeat— the way two living heart cells from two different people, when placed together in a petri dish, will find a shared rhythm and sustain it. This is how I want to meet you— two silences becoming one silence, two dancers becoming one dance.