Feet On Shifting Sand
At the edge, the endless edge
of surf, wind and sky
the womb of the world
How does this foam-trimmed blue
tan purple gray green pink-tint
place give birth to all color and life
Early light rises from night
then sudden, sharp flame
as if to rip open skin
source eye beaming
the shock of glory
through slits of tear-wet lashes
I see a wide, polished copper slide
I could clamber onto like a child
and ride into that generative fire
I place the tip of my tongue
to lips moist in salt air, taste
of bread and water of life
pulse that fills my need
You are wave
and I am breaking
I only ask to be
Little Cat Writes Poetry
She sprawls her bold title across the page
where I would read.
She hides her tale from strangers, shares all
with those who give her time and care.
Her energetic paws
print a chase-scene narrative
on the polished table.
After a nap, she stretches, meanders,
her lyrical lines loop and curve
on the wet tiles of my just-washed floor.
Her tidy steps turn where she arches,
strokes my leg, smiles into my face,
and her question-mark tail asks,
already so sure of the answer.
Still Life with Lemons
On a day when I have no sugar
I place my lemons in a cobalt blue
bowl and set them in bright light.
I take one, stroke its nubbly skin,
inhale the zesty scent bursting out
where a small dig bruises it.
Symmetric and whole but not round, I
push the small nipple of the flower end
into the center of my palm,
a firm, defined point of pressure.
I thumb the indentation where the stem
once held it to the tree like an umbilical cord
and then let go. Eyes closed, I contemplate
the tart, juicy sections encased within and then
release it back into the beautiful, deep blue.
Carol Bindel's poetry has appeared in Loch Raven Review, UU World, The Baltimore Sun, City Paper, Zelos and elsewhere. Her first collection, Inherited Estate: A Song Cycle, was published in 2012. She lives quietly in rural Maryland.