Advice
by Elsa Pla
They say eyes are windows to the soul,
but your windows are boarded up,
nailed shut because of that
category five hurricane of long ago,
the one with a man’s name.
You’ve refused to take down those boards,
and now the summer breeze
can’t get in.
From experience I know this:
the air inside has grown
stale
and the darkness has
solidified.
A wedge or a pair of pliers
will do.
GOYA
by Elsa Pla
This
morning’s
mountain view
surprised
me
with a vision of
a Goya: a reclining sensuous
woman dressed in pink translucent
gauze; her body posed in
a rapturous swoon;
her profile
and golden ample curves
haloed by the morning moon.
So lovely and provocative that
for the briefest instant
I was tempted
to take off
my cozy
pajamas.
The Pencil
by Elsa Pla
Solitude is a variable thing.
Sometimes it stings
like iodine on a cut
or a preventive flu shot.
Sometimes it soothes
like a balm on a burn
or a fuzzy comforter.
Sometimes it sizzles
like a frying pan full of yellow onions,
steamy and juicy and fragrant,
all ready for that yummy fish.
Solitude is a variable thing.
It awakens or lulls the senses
depending on the season
or the moon phase
or the color of my pencil.
by Elsa Pla
They say eyes are windows to the soul,
but your windows are boarded up,
nailed shut because of that
category five hurricane of long ago,
the one with a man’s name.
You’ve refused to take down those boards,
and now the summer breeze
can’t get in.
From experience I know this:
the air inside has grown
stale
and the darkness has
solidified.
A wedge or a pair of pliers
will do.
GOYA
by Elsa Pla
This
morning’s
mountain view
surprised
me
with a vision of
a Goya: a reclining sensuous
woman dressed in pink translucent
gauze; her body posed in
a rapturous swoon;
her profile
and golden ample curves
haloed by the morning moon.
So lovely and provocative that
for the briefest instant
I was tempted
to take off
my cozy
pajamas.
The Pencil
by Elsa Pla
Solitude is a variable thing.
Sometimes it stings
like iodine on a cut
or a preventive flu shot.
Sometimes it soothes
like a balm on a burn
or a fuzzy comforter.
Sometimes it sizzles
like a frying pan full of yellow onions,
steamy and juicy and fragrant,
all ready for that yummy fish.
Solitude is a variable thing.
It awakens or lulls the senses
depending on the season
or the moon phase
or the color of my pencil.