Caroline Gerardo

Thursday, May 31, 2018

The Last Vanilla Orchid

Where is the last wild rose?

Democrats aren't Nazis her T-shirt says.

Where are Scripps College sweatshirts?

the one from varsity swimming

the one of my son's LAX teams

the one dress worn for dancing

the one year all the dead teens

the one red notebook of 2008

the one time look from a road

the one bra I had to feel great

the one brilliant HTML code

the one wild rose outwits fate

the one remaining pot vanilla

the one Nonie left in the Villa

vanilla plants face devastation this year

Tuesday, May 22, 2018

La Maison de Vaiselle Cassé

Deer Together

La Maison de vaiselle cassé

The house of broken dishes

Two deer tonight bow on the road to home eyes a dazzle

grazing on seeds stirred fodder from the plow mosaic

aggregate stone covers miles of dirt winding my oasis.

It is not from a quarry; it's ground up houses and concrete.

Does don't worry over mud, calcium chloride, or regrading.

Get out of the car, and take a picture or video, the deer run,

leave me in high heels, I did not change to boots in the fun.

Which is the go left button for video, slow-mo, live or still?

The buck looks over his shoulder, "left of the photo button,"

he doesn't say dumb ass, and thank him with a smile sweet.

Go root for apple chips in the Subaru, where are the treats?

I find dog biscuits, then climb out in the golden hour light

sparkles on the ground, shards of a medicine cabinet mirrior,

blue and white crockery, a curved Etruscan vase, well sorter,

bits of avocado porcelain tile and salmon slick with mortar

pieces of passé like stars on the ground jumble speaking a

memory message surely the deer saw the glitter and yearned

to lick a totem and know coffee brewing on the spitfire grille

all I have for you is a clip of video to prove I find magic still,

believe me or not; come see my love, it's been a long silence

two deer tonight bow on the road praying for peace and joy.

Friday, May 18, 2018

In the Woods Refresh

I'm fatigued by sad news.

Does your brain need it?

Resist to turn to booze,

hike, 30 seconds a bit.

Images build kindness and joy.

Thursday, May 10, 2018

Mustard Fields

Jessica McClintock's grandmother taught sewing,

I own a romantic Victorian dress,

grow poor, I worked for what I wore,

Google search: Gunny Sax is still with us.

Search Etsy, used clothing, no flowery perfume,

they carries ghosts of divorces,

arm pit sweat of dances,

and lonely afternoons in mustard fields.

Laura Ashley died young,

like my Dad at sixty in a sad spill on stairs,

the doctors missed pieces of wallpaper with

sparrows perching on heirloom roses.

Bugs with four legs are okay to eat,

bodies recall melodies of spring,

locusts, beetles, and grasshoppers sing

dipped in sunshine and chalcanthites.

Caroline Gerardo Mustard Poem

Crime

Crime Poem

Sunday night the dogs escape to the wood.

baseball bat in the back, radio sings loud,

fingers burning fear warnings of childhood,

hours hunting, spy a tail in a cloud.

The trail ahead blocked by granite boulders.

Mountain lion serial murderer,

lurks hidden evil over my shoulder,

in the dark ahead is a torturer.

Flashlight fires courage with each imprint.

Upon the sagebrush the injured dog rests,

not a whimper when my shirt makes a splint,

carry back to the car without protests.

Wound appears to be torn by barbed wire.

Three in the morning, where may find a Vet?

Bottled club soda and Betadine dire,

carry an eighty pound dog works a sweat.

Dixie doesn't cry as I unload her

my arms wrap as I whisper, "found help."

Techs run with a stretcher as we enter

in their hands a muzzle to stop a yelp.

Carmel eyes gaze touching my heart in trust.

"I'll hold her head, she's a gentle lady."

Shave, clean, and xray reveals what it must,

the dog's been shot by evil upper crust.

Spot in hell for a man who tries to kill.

Easy to recover from lack of sleep.

This story is not ended I know it will

Find this criminal, a promise I keep.

This poem is a true story

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