This blog is for all who desire to create with words and images.
You are encouraged to participate in any way that is meaningful to you.

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All prompts beneath the photos are only suggestions.
You are free to use the photo to be inspired to write any way you desire.
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There is no deadline on posting,
you may offer your writing to any prompt anytime.
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Write and you are a writer.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Home Grown

Photo by Dani
visit her at at goldentearsofjoy.blogspot.com
and her gallery at DeviantArt ~ http://daniweewee.deviantart.com/gallery/
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Suggested prompt...
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As summer winds down, offer a poem, an ode, or story
to the glories of ripe, lush, home grown veggies.



_________________________

It is my 478th...no...my 479th day. I have seen through the missing mortar 479 sunsets and 479 sunrises. There are 74 cracks in the concrete floor...18 have shown up within the last 2 weeks. My daily walk of 280 steps....that is 20 times around the cell...keeps my mind clear. Not the walking but the counting over and over again. The spider web in the corner of the ceiling now has babies...and they are beginning to explore off the web. This is nothing new...I count them as they make their way to my rug where I sleep...then ...just before they reach the rug, I kill them...one by one.

Rice again today. I hear the television down the corridor. They don't think I can hear it...but I can and I tell everyone in the cell block the news of the war by tapping on the wooden crate. Nixon ended the war today...hold on just a bit more...keep counting...keep walking...

I miss my parents, my home town and Jill if she is still there...

It has been 479 sunsets and sunrises since I have bit into a fresh, red ripe tomato. I go through the complete process each day in my mind...holding it - just picked off the vine. Biting into it, the juice runs down my chin. The meat of the tomato has such solid texture, the slight acid catches in the back of my throat and I relish the taste...the smell...the smell only a tomato vine can give. That is the scent of home...summers in the garden when the first tomato is picked.

I must hold on a bit longer and i will again taste that tomato at home...we all will taste tomatoes...as many as we can eat. Handfuls of rice from the Hanoi Hilton do not compare to tomatoes raised in Indiana soil.

Another crack in the concrete...that makes 75...I pull out the piece of mortar and make another scratch on the wall.

Dan Felstead

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7 comments:

morganna said...

It's such a good feeling to make a dish full of veggies I grew myself. The onions are tiny and delicate -- simply dicing them makes them as small as onions I buy at the store after much mincing. I planted my carrots too close again, and the heavy clay soil stunts the already small 'baby' variety -- no peeling necessary, and they can be snipped into rounds with kitchen scissors.

Meili_Lo said...

hi there.... been awhile since I last visited your blog. ;D I don't know if you remember me but I sure hope you do.

Hope you can visit my blog and once again share your views and opinion in

http://www.shewritesyouwrite.com/

just like you did in the past.

and if it's OK, hope to exchange links with you.

thanks!

Meili
http://www.shewritesyouwrite.com/

Dani said...

OH! I'm so excited! Thanks so much for using my photo! I'm so pleased!

Dan Felstead said...

It is my 478th...no...my 479th day. I have seen through the missing mortar 479 sunsets and 479 sunrises. There are 74 cracks in the concrete floor...18 have shown up within the last 2 weeks. My daily walk of 280 steps....that is 20 times around the cell...keeps my mind clear. Not the walking but the counting over and over again. The spider web in the corner of the ceiling now has babies...and they are beginning to explore off the web. This is nothing new...I count them as they make their way to my rug where I sleep...then ...just before they reach the rug, I kill them...one by one.

Rice again today. I hear the television down the corridor. They don't think I can hear it...but I can and I tell everyone in the cell block the news of the war by tapping on the wooden crate. Nixon ended the war today...hold on just a bit more...keep counting...keep walking...

I miss my parents, my home town and Jill if she is still there...

It has been 479 sunsets and sunrises since I have bit into a fresh, red ripe tomato. I go through the complete process each day in my mind...holding it - just picked off the vine. Biting into it, the juice runs down my chin. The meat of the tomato has such solid texture, the slight acid catches in the back of my throat and I relish the taste...the smell...the smell only a tomato vine can give. That is the scent of home...summers in the garden when the first tomato is picked.

I must hold on a bit longer and i will again taste that tomato at home...we all will taste tomatoes...as many as we can eat. Handfuls of rice from the Hanoi Hilton do not compare to tomatoes raised in Indiana soil.

Another crack in the concrete...that makes 75...I pull out the piece of mortar and make another scratch on the wall.

Tin Kettle Inn said...

a tomato is a wound,
open and bleeding,
salted by a predator
to taste.

it's an ugly thing i do,
eat a tomato,
a beating heart screaming
in the skillet,
as it's bathed in olive oil.

cornered, cooked tomatoes
strung by spaghetti strands
like a beautiful garland.

to garnish,
fresh basil
is deliberately placed.

Dani said...

Fresh picked
Round and small-
It rolls around in my palm.
The color is shocking
Bright blood-red
Beckoning...mouth-watering
I slip the object between my teeth
Then biting down gently
Pop
The juices from within squirt
my friend in the eye
And we laugh
The bittersweet flavor washes over my tongue
My taste buds scream in delight
As I pick another

Kate said...

Things I remember about Grandpa:
The way he answered the phone.
The way he never kept kid-sized gloves, but still asked kids to clean off his apples.
The way he wrote which kind of apples they were on paper plates.
The way he always carried 3 bushels at a time.
The way he'd send me home with bags and bags of onions, potatoes, and asparagus from the garden.
The way he'd fry fish and serve it up on beds of green beans from the garden and then inquire: "I wonder what the Kennedy's are having?"