Tributaries flow into lakes and rivers, are forever
caught in this rush. Such sweet confluence
makes its own music, mellifluous, fluid,
a delicate melding of piano and cello
rising, cascading to a crescendo
you could feel in your toes
if you stood on the bank
where this occurs,
and heard what
I bloom with verse—these are your wildflowers
that take root in me, riotous!
I am your dark earth, soaking the rain to quench
your yield, dizzily rife with life,
all rambunctious flower—Candytuft, Shasta Daisy—
bending gently into haiku or free verse,
wet with dew. A vast expanse of poppies
sway like hearts, deepen their hue
at the thought of you—graceful hands
gentling the tulip bulbs.
Nightly, I lie down in a patch of lavender,
only to open like a morning glory
when you rise like the sun and make me real.
This Poem Should be a Chimichanga
This poem should be a chimichanga
sizzling on a bed of rice you could devour
and savor with an icy cerveza
from a bottle with a lime wedge
to soothe your throat, slake your fire.
If only this poem was whole wheat
masa harina folded in a wooden bowl, ready
for me to roll around in my palms, flatten
to bake in the fiery sun on a hot, flat stone.
This poem floats, a rose petal in a finger bowl,
dreaming of being a siesta on an endless beach
by an ocean that holds you buoyant where I can see you,
a slung hammock of silk, green palm leaf fanning
your brow. If only this poem knew how
to be a chimichanga, you could have eaten it by now!
This poem tiptoes
so as to not tip things over.
It’s a paper origami cuckoo bird piñata
shimmying down a conga line…
the whole enchilada—
though it really should be a chimichanga!
Sheila Tartaglia (She/Her) is a writer, PR professional, and former teacher and stage actor. Early in her career, she starred in Off-Off Broadway productions in New York City, notably: Letters Home, and Does a Tiger Wear a Necktie? Sheila writes poetry, short stories and is currently working on her memoir. A special point of pride in Sheila's life is that her second cousin, Dr. Charles H. Flowers, was a Tuskegee Airman, and has a high school named after him in Springdale, MD.