As children, we used to pick tart green apples from the lone fruit tree in our city backyard and peel using a paring knife…slow, careful, deliberate and then slice into chunks by hand to cook. Mom filled glass quart jars and vacuum sealed them in the pressure canner.
As adults, we pick ripe red apples from tree of choice in farm orchard and use a mechanical peeler…set apple on spikes to hold in place, turn handle quickly to create curls of peelings, then remove naked fruit, already sliced. We cut, cook, cool, and spoon into freezer containers.
Family comes together to make applesauce memories in season…working to process the produce, we’ll savor the flavor the rest of the year. Counting filled jars or quart containers is pure satisfaction.
my box was antique blue with a heart-shaped lock, tiny key and gold filigree- patterned lid, lifted fragilely on two hinges to reveal tray of velvety divided squares
my box held real jewelry, leftovers from my mother and grandmother which i imagined in woke-dreams they’d worn to royal teas and exotic travels overseas
my box was old, well-used; velvet rubbed bare in spots till hinges broke irreparably and i left childhood dreams behind, discarded with box but kept jeweled memories
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Patterned after Gillian Clarke’s poem, “My Box” and shared with Kim at dVerse poetsOLN.
lagoon in my memories fills dormant volcano crater; nicaraguan vendors encircle tourists as mountains surround deep blue pocket of aquatic life.
lagoon of my memories fills crevices of heart and mind; as faces from childhood encircle present experience, surrounding deeply personal perspective on life.
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Quadrille (44 words) linked to Melissa’s prompt at dVersepoets on “lagoon”.
my father has been gone exactly a year today and the memories of his dying taste like chalk on a parched tongue… but the memories of his living smell like mountain trout, burnt cream puffs, chlorine of pool where he saved me from drowning.
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A quadrille of forty-four words linked to dVerse poets.
Challenge at CDHK to create an original “fusion” haiku from two classics and then use each line to write a “troiku” series of three more haiku. Here’s my attempt…
crystal brook
reflects the willow trees
birds sing their song
sweet perfume
memories of a loved one
Jasmine blossom
Christmas is a season of surprises. It began with virgin birth of a king in a cave, marked by a magnificent star. An angel choir sent musical birth announcements. Visitors included local shepherds fresh from the fields and, later, foreign scholars bearing tokens of wealth. The gifts were unusual for a baby shower but signified the child’s future rule, life’s sacrifice, and atoning death.
We celebrate Christmas with surprises hung in stockings, wrapped in packages under trees, bright lights to see and sweet treats to eat. It’s fun to delight someone we love with a gift that “fits” them perfectly. Guests may appear unexpectedly like changeable weather that alternates between merry and dreadful. Mistletoe, moods and mayhem can take us by surprise during the holy (holly) days.
The best surprises are little moments of unanticipated kindness during this season of good cheer. “Adopted” grandparents (now deceased) give children candy advent calendars with a window treat for each day of December. A busy mom who delivers a plate of homemade goodies with her children. A hearty hug and teary smile from an elderly relative in a senior center. A neighbor boy who leaves greeting card and his artwork in a mailbox.
a poem in my pocket 
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