Confluence

 

     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 

     a mermaid

     or poet

     feels.

   Wildflower Heart

 

     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. 

Twitter: @SheilaTartaglia

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