Poetry 026: Fruit Picking

They were the hot summer days,
The ones we favored for picking.

She smiled whenever the idea came up,
It was possibly the only thing that I saw
Would light up her demeanor.
Excited she would dance, almost glide
Her way to the car and wait beside
The passenger door.
Her strides small and quick,
Making her hips swing and hair float.
She’d never gloat but it seemed
It was gentleness she gleaned from me
As I slowly, as was my pace,
Walked toward the door and
With a smile, opened it for her.

Those were the hot summer days
The ones we favored for picking.

Radio four would carry us there,
Away from the care of a crumbling exhaust
Or the sticky clutch.
She’d sat in silence as the seconds flew
Alongside the cascading landscape.
For she had said and knew,
That in those moments the roots
She dug and tended would –
After winter had come and gone
And spring had rained
and sun had shone – bear fruit.
She watched the world without a care
Staring through opposite windows.

Those were the hot summer days
The ones we favored for picking.

The warning light flashed and the gate
To the farm, a local favorite,
Slowly swung open as the heat
poured in through my window.
She fanned her face with paper,
One of the ‘just in case cards’
She usually stashed in her glove-box.
We exchanged smiles,
Her hand resting on my thigh
I quickly pulled my trouser legs
Down over my socks and steered.
The car – a present from her dad –
Obeyed.

Those were the hot summer days
The ones we favored for picking

Her hands, whose touch I often feel
Even her absence, softly caressed
The rose red cherries that hung
From the upper branches of the tree.
With her small feet pointed
She tiptoed and stole for me
The fruits she thought were sweet.
Her lips, watered with desire,
Wrapped around a raspberry
Soft pink blushes washing
Across her happy face as she ate
Free from, work and worry,
And almost free from me.

Those were the hot summer days
The ones we favored for picking

Her eyes spoke of days without end
Fires without ash
Or burning heat: just warmth.
Her smile spoke of receding pain,
Eroded by the warm soft rain
That fell upon our faces and hands
As we stood entwined: and sold.
Her heart, like mine, sang of hope;
Our hymn of a happiness bespoke,
Spread upon the grasses,
Glistening as the evening sun
Sat in and glowed.
I couldn’t have loved her more.

Those were the hot summer days
The ones we favored for picking.

© Denis Adide 2011

 

Poetry 025: Seasons of Migration

Musing on the Exotic unknown

Looking down her naked body
I’m struck by the contours,
Rising and falling like dunes
On this, my beautiful desert.
Golden from the sunshine,
Smooth from the warm infrequent rain.
Like a precious jewel, her body glistens
In the candlelight.

My once lost love was found
In the distinct, yet fading, border
Between her skin and mine.
Like the etchings of time
Plastered on the cold concrete floor
On which our feet slowly danced,
My banner nature dissipated,
Flowering beneath it, an expansive
Array of colors – unseen but felt
In the subtle caress of navels.
With my fingers I forget the rocks,
The crowded hills, the voices of ancestry,
And with the chains of an inexplicable love
Embrace her.

I dine to die, die to rise, and rise a’new!

© Denis Adide 2010

Poetry 014: A thousand drums

A Thousand Drums

Sometimes, In the silence, very faintly
I hear the sound of a thousand drums.
As the rumble brews I remember;
the smell of the plains when it rains and the sun
Reaffirms his place in humbled sky –
making the supple grasses glitter in his rays,
The sound of crickets in the darkness,
singing to the jittering fireflies as the day
Slowly slumbers, the warmth of the fire
as it’s flames fly among the crackling piles,
The soft red earth – still harboring day –
calling out to all who hear…

‘dance’.

But the wind awakes me.
Saddened I cry out onto the concrete,
wailing as the sounds fade.

“oh fastidious time,
Tread softly,
For it is upon a dream you walk”.

© Denis Adide 2011

 

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Short Stories 008: excerpt from ‘The Crossing’

She always put freshly cut flowers on the dining table, it helped soothe his mood. Awake from the tremor of persistent nightmares, they always reminded him that there still was beauty in the world. She had become accustomed to hearing him speaking in his sleep, at times even barking orders and shouting for her – or the other inhabitants of that stormy world – to take cover. She had watched as his hair had grayed and his eyes slowly sunk, the spanning time being marked solely by the changing scents that occupied their breakfast. I suppose his increasing silence encouraged her. The tears in solitude, that he used to succumb to in the early days, had slowly vanished. Occasionally he’d smile when he noticed her soft hands as they spread out the blanket over his legs. She’d cry when she recalled how they used to go for walks, swim in the hidden rivers, and climb trees. His speed then, was mighty. It would not have been wise for him now to see her in those sorrowful moments so she chased the nights and let her books welcome the mornings. The sun would send her out again in hope of coaxing a smile; she knew he had an affinity for orange roses.

© Denis Adide 2011

Poetry 012:LONG LIVE THE QUEEN!

LONG LIVE THE QUEEN!

More and more, as the days sail quickly by
I catch my brisk and merry feet,
as they wonder into the deep that is
my ever-increasing happy-time dream.

The hope of an increasing heart
forever brim-full in incessant love,
cradled in the delicate strength of
uninhibited passion,
seems to power my feet further
into this happy-time home:

The King is dead!
LONG LIVE THE QUEEN!

© Denis Adide 2011

There are some decisions I am certain that I will never regret!