- Dimke: ‘I’m not going to retire’
- IMRF responds: Pay spiking against the rules
- Bill limits automated license plate readers
- Private uni’s subject to FOIA says House
- Guest Commentary: Earth Day or April Fools Day?
- State Roundup: Concerns raised about proposed change in DUI pot standard
- Bill would decrease pot penalties; small amounts would draw only ticket, fine
- Senate votes to restore human service cuts; bill moves to House for consideration
- Bill to restrict red light cameras passes House
- State Roundup: Budget fix in current FY not yet done
Literary Hook: Hot, dry summer great for tomatoes!
By Christine Swanberg
Author and Poet
Although it has been a terribly hot, dry summer that was hard on humans and other creatures, it has been great for tomatoes!
With all the wonderful farmers’ markets around here, it has been a treat to see all the heirloom tomatoes ripened and ready for slicing.
This poem starts out with a lofty tone, detours for the heirloom tomatoes and detours yet again by satirizing the famous plum poem by William Carlos Williams. Then, it ends with levity. Savor with salt, please.
Instead of Destiny
Destiny is the seed deep within the secret
revealed when colors and textures can be discerned
through the speckled lens of time’s wide aperture.
Of seeds, shapes, and textures:
how about those heirloom tomatoes?
Cheyenne blacks, golden pineapple,
fuzzy peach, green-striped —
the bulbous and beautiful aborigines
of the farmers’ market.
Destiny arrives in slices,
succulent, juicy glimpses
of patterned purpose,
metered messages from whatever
Mercury you tango with.
This is just to say
I have sliced the heirloom tomatoes
that you bought at the farmers’ market today.
No need to forgive me.
There’s plenty left for you.
So sweet with just a little salt.
Destiny is like a secret heirloom
that hides in plain sight
in the dark attic you climb to one winter day.
You say, Oh my. What’s this?
I have the prefect place for you.
Oh my. I set out to write a poem
all about destiny. The urgent
heirloom tomatoes slivered in instead.
This poem was published in The Alleluia Tree by Puddin’head Press as well as Minotaur, a literary magazine based in Port Townsend, Wash.
Christine Swanberg is a local author and poet.
From the Sept. 5-11, 2012, issue