Applecore Mandala
cassia
Posts: 277
APPLECORE MANDALA
Slicing a midsize New Zealand green,
note the hues of its sheened and high glossed skin,
a glaze which on examination yields
the barely perceptible trace of fine lacquered wax.
Green--a color subtler than lime, vibrant
as the chartreuse underbelly of an orchid
or the tiny peridot feet of mosses just being born.
A study of surfaces reveals
lemon feathered freckles
and watercolor deepenings
where the crown curves in.
The apple is beautiful, perfect.
A wash of soft golds on its left side,
muted into a delicate camouflage,
concealing mysteries.
You roll her on her side, stem
facing west. How unusual, you think,
not to conform to the standard norm
of slicing apples from above. But
something impels you on, coaxes
the knife to enter at the jeweled
center of life at 10 o'clock
on an April Monday, the kitchen
window full of sun and outside
a mourning dove coos.
This is not irrelevant. It all
belongs to this perfect day
of you and the apple and
the song of apples
forming in your heart.
What you see is dazzling, and
at that instant you know you are
witnessing the everything
of the universe
conflating splendidly in one
small drop of time
we choose to call now. You
hold up the central slice,
a piece no wider than a sheet
of papyrus.
Up to the slant of sun.
Marveling.
Marveling.
Isn't it marvelous the way
the universe reveals herself,
her secret belly up to the lion sun,
relishing her each intricate design,
articulating
patterns and symbols,
the breathtaking artistry of
shape, fragrance, texture, sketches
of India--an ivory hibiscus with
five seeds, five essences. Glory.
Glory. And your heart is an apple,
beating glory. Look into that
five-seeded star. See the soft-
furred flower of a young sand dollar
echoed back. See the apple blossom
where bloom became the knowing gift
she is, now,
a spectacular shimmering presence in your hand.
In your hand. You are containing mysteries
at core, at the bright green center inside
the heart
of all things, you've become a deep-flamed
being fully formed,
a five-fingered circle,
a
star.
Slicing a midsize New Zealand green,
note the hues of its sheened and high glossed skin,
a glaze which on examination yields
the barely perceptible trace of fine lacquered wax.
Green--a color subtler than lime, vibrant
as the chartreuse underbelly of an orchid
or the tiny peridot feet of mosses just being born.
A study of surfaces reveals
lemon feathered freckles
and watercolor deepenings
where the crown curves in.
The apple is beautiful, perfect.
A wash of soft golds on its left side,
muted into a delicate camouflage,
concealing mysteries.
You roll her on her side, stem
facing west. How unusual, you think,
not to conform to the standard norm
of slicing apples from above. But
something impels you on, coaxes
the knife to enter at the jeweled
center of life at 10 o'clock
on an April Monday, the kitchen
window full of sun and outside
a mourning dove coos.
This is not irrelevant. It all
belongs to this perfect day
of you and the apple and
the song of apples
forming in your heart.
What you see is dazzling, and
at that instant you know you are
witnessing the everything
of the universe
conflating splendidly in one
small drop of time
we choose to call now. You
hold up the central slice,
a piece no wider than a sheet
of papyrus.
Up to the slant of sun.
Marveling.
Marveling.
Isn't it marvelous the way
the universe reveals herself,
her secret belly up to the lion sun,
relishing her each intricate design,
articulating
patterns and symbols,
the breathtaking artistry of
shape, fragrance, texture, sketches
of India--an ivory hibiscus with
five seeds, five essences. Glory.
Glory. And your heart is an apple,
beating glory. Look into that
five-seeded star. See the soft-
furred flower of a young sand dollar
echoed back. See the apple blossom
where bloom became the knowing gift
she is, now,
a spectacular shimmering presence in your hand.
In your hand. You are containing mysteries
at core, at the bright green center inside
the heart
of all things, you've become a deep-flamed
being fully formed,
a five-fingered circle,
a
star.
Post edited by Unknown User on
0
Comments
ok
i get on and there is a post from Cazz
from dig this New Zealander
and i just just just
finished transcribing "applecore" poem i wrote....
with dig--NZ apple reference
so im totally mindblown
confused and amused
and whoa
ok i am fully tripped cause ghost newbie
like cass-ia here
and my name is like Cassia, the cinnamon tree
and short for Cassiopeia
and so wazzzzzzzz up Jamily with the synchronicities
have been
off the chart deep foresty since i arrived
like a horse-driven butterfly several days ago.
it's all good, right, creepy and all, but good.
yeah, simmer, simmer down, my tremulous soul.
wow.
Oh yeah, creepy IS good!
thank you for your presence, BEing
love-chowder royalty
yes
my deadhead roomie would
quote
'what a long strange trip it's been...'
this hobbit hole is always warm and welcoming.
beautiful words!
INTER-FUCKING-MISSION!!!
Newcastle-Riverside 02/22/92!!!
E.rutherford New Jersey 01/06/06
Athens -Greece.survived !barely-
Wembley 18/06/07- no words- just smiles!
thanks for the warm jammy welcome, sultrykins
Slicing a midsize New Zealand green,
note the hues of its sheened and high glossed skin,
a glaze which on examination yields
the barely perceptible trace of fine lacquered wax.
Green--a color subtler than lime, vibrant
as the chartreuse underbelly of an orchid
or the tiny peridot feet of mosses just being born.
A study of surfaces reveals lemon feathered freckles
and watercolor deepenings where the crown curves in.
You hold up the central slice,
a piece no wider than a sheet
of papyrus.
Look into that
five-seeded star. See the soft-
furred flower of a young sand dollar
echoed back,
a spectacular shimmering presence in your hand.
In your hand. You are containing mysteries
at core, at the bright green center inside
the heart
of all things, you've become a deep-flamed
being fully formed,
a five-fingered circle,
a
star.
haha, note to self, good one. what was that line in ninja turtles, like when shredder made a funny...alas i prolly only amuseth meself
okay, so if you've endured, this is sorta my "process"--i freestyle out a rhythmic thought (this image, like most, sorta congeals for years, sitting on the windowsill and hoping for a form...)
then, as often happens, i get up wayyyyyy too early with a creative buzz about my ankles.
fumbling for a stenopad, and the jotting down begins.
Hours later, oops, i see the flaws--faus pax--and clip clip
haha clip-art
earlier, i'd written "to not conform..." and to my chagrin
A SPLIT INFINITIVE eegads a fission right in the part
where i want to talk solar terrestrial physics and metaphysics and we must all wear heat-sensitive verbsuits
i try to cull,
get pared down to 31 lines or less (some editors only review new work if it's short/ a page)--
gleeful otter whisks to all---
looks a lot like
walrus
~~~
ok so im hyperimpulsive, duh, right stating the Obvious ...
and whoa in my email there's trivia-facts forwarded
and
this one halfway down says, are you so ready???
that APPLES are better for waking up in the morning than
caffeine
what a bizarre and twirly day so Far
~it is a twilightish zone,
about 11 pm last night
"sow a feast, in damning fruits"
thinking of Eve
red
green
red
green
green
red
green
Orange
is
more
tis that which makes our rich lives glow
the smelling of the flowery paths
the eating dirt from which they grow
and focusing on God's great plan
that everything should patterened be
under my tongue, you're like a tab
that taken makes me say "trippyyyyyy"
cassia, you are soo Alive
(yella's a whackjob!)
Good stuff,rock on!!
Cassia did indeed write that one! She's the board's poet laureate...she's ANYONE's poet laureate!
And where the heck is that lovely little lady???
{{{cassia}}} where are YOOOOUUUUU?????
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
I held an apple in a pinion
put down to flood a dappled day
the apple caught her and she swayed
with growing waves of apple mania
the apple brought the whole dominion
through it's fevered ruptured skin
the apple is the core within
Cassia....that was a brilliant peom
thanks for bumping this one.
it is excellent!
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
Yes, Fins, thank you for the bump!