Fruitflesh
What would you call this fruit
if you did not know its name?
You might remember
the night the moon turned
a shade of Spanish red
from the total eclipse, how
that dark globe resembled the small gem
you hold in your hand,
or does the thin veneer of its skin
hide its name like clothing
disguises your flesh?
Is the branch from which it ripens
more truthful than the sweet liquid
that floods your tongue
when you bite into one tempting orb
you've plucked from among
a cluster of offerings?
Will you taste the warmth
that altered its color late on the vine
that grows over the trellis,
name it anticipation
for the wine it may become?
Published - Song of The San Joaquin
Fall 2015 issue.
Seeing Things
Sometimes I see things no one else sees.
No explanation necessary
for such a claim
to extra-sensory moments.
It doesn’t matter if you believe me
or if you respond with your own proclamation.
This is not a challenge for you to outshine.
No need for me to rationalize or prove
what occurs at rare junctures in time.
For a gift such as this, it comes as surprise:
the lucky penny found
in the gutter of life’s trials,
blue feather that appears
at a terminal departure,
an inch and a half of glory.
Published - Nomad's Choir 2017
Beverly At the Garden of Memories
One cold and windy morning in April
my cousin comes home from Arizona
in a glossy cedar casket
to the bleak cemetery
across the street from the truck stop.
Only four of us come that day.
No one sits on the three benches
under the green canvas tent
meant to shelter a dozen mourners.
After we murmur a few
awkward words of goodbye,
the groundskeeper pulls away
the imitation grasscloth,
reveals the concrete-lined pit.
We stand, watch solemnly
while the coffin is lowered slowly,
tipping slightly, then straightening,
as if my cousin has turned over
in her sleep, a subtle thump
marking the end of her descent.
I pluck a white tulip from my bouquet
tied with white lace ribbon,
toss it onto the polished wood lid,
alongside the three white carnations
the others have already offered.
Across this cement-bordered sector
of the Garden of Memories
with its few trees and flat markers.
I locate the grave of my cousin’s mother,
the aunt I most closely resemble,
imagine who will come someday
to cast a white flower in my name.
Published - Homestead Review 2011
In addition to writing poetry, Laura Bayless explores creativity through collage, photography, and absurdity. Formerly shy, she now delights in requests to read her poems to strangers.
What would you call this fruit
if you did not know its name?
You might remember
the night the moon turned
a shade of Spanish red
from the total eclipse, how
that dark globe resembled the small gem
you hold in your hand,
or does the thin veneer of its skin
hide its name like clothing
disguises your flesh?
Is the branch from which it ripens
more truthful than the sweet liquid
that floods your tongue
when you bite into one tempting orb
you've plucked from among
a cluster of offerings?
Will you taste the warmth
that altered its color late on the vine
that grows over the trellis,
name it anticipation
for the wine it may become?
Published - Song of The San Joaquin
Fall 2015 issue.
Seeing Things
Sometimes I see things no one else sees.
No explanation necessary
for such a claim
to extra-sensory moments.
It doesn’t matter if you believe me
or if you respond with your own proclamation.
This is not a challenge for you to outshine.
No need for me to rationalize or prove
what occurs at rare junctures in time.
For a gift such as this, it comes as surprise:
the lucky penny found
in the gutter of life’s trials,
blue feather that appears
at a terminal departure,
an inch and a half of glory.
Published - Nomad's Choir 2017
Beverly At the Garden of Memories
One cold and windy morning in April
my cousin comes home from Arizona
in a glossy cedar casket
to the bleak cemetery
across the street from the truck stop.
Only four of us come that day.
No one sits on the three benches
under the green canvas tent
meant to shelter a dozen mourners.
After we murmur a few
awkward words of goodbye,
the groundskeeper pulls away
the imitation grasscloth,
reveals the concrete-lined pit.
We stand, watch solemnly
while the coffin is lowered slowly,
tipping slightly, then straightening,
as if my cousin has turned over
in her sleep, a subtle thump
marking the end of her descent.
I pluck a white tulip from my bouquet
tied with white lace ribbon,
toss it onto the polished wood lid,
alongside the three white carnations
the others have already offered.
Across this cement-bordered sector
of the Garden of Memories
with its few trees and flat markers.
I locate the grave of my cousin’s mother,
the aunt I most closely resemble,
imagine who will come someday
to cast a white flower in my name.
Published - Homestead Review 2011
In addition to writing poetry, Laura Bayless explores creativity through collage, photography, and absurdity. Formerly shy, she now delights in requests to read her poems to strangers.