Art Title: Vine Tomatoes © Abbey Ryan - Ryan StudioVisit her blog site to see additional artwork.
The artist lives in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and specializes in painting.
Poet, Pablo Neruda, wrote a collection of "odes" celebrating the "ordinary" things in life.
One of his best is his..
Ode to Tomatoes
The street
filled with tomatoes
midday,
summer,
light is
halved
like
a
tomato,
its juice
runs
through the streets.
To read the rest, click here.
Writing Prompt
Odes can be written to praise or celebrate an object, place, or person.
Write an ode to your computer; your cat; your favorite pen;
an ordinary object you just can't live without...
Artwork used with permission from Abbey Ryan.
10 comments:
Ha! I love tomatoes--just not airborne. Don't throw fruits at Clayrn Darrow. I wish I was poet Nancy--I could make a poem about tomatoes, but I must wait for the real poets to come and write to your prompt. I guess I am kinda like a vegetable rooted on this post. Darn.
in the garden -
organic tomatoes
grow brightly.
Oh I love tomatoes. We grow different varieties every year. Thx for sharing.
I just love this! Makes me feel like I am in the middle of summer. Lovely post :)
Hmmm, a poet I'm not, but:)
ODE TO A MICROWAVE
Small and compact
I can boil water
in under two minutes
and bake my potatoe
in five
You amaze me with your
power and consistency-
your buttons are easy
your timing is perfect
You are my savior
when my schedule
is daunting
What would I ever do
without you?
Ode to Instant Oatmeal
I tear flimsy brown paper,
the scent of cinnamon and apple
fills this cold, dark room.
My heart warms from the steam
as the oats form close clusters
under frothy, hot water.
Within seconds warmth spreads
throughout my shivering body
as this deliciously quick
breakfast treat slithers
into my empty stomach.
Without you
my tummy would surly grumble
from 6 till 12.
Ode to a Memory
Console me now memory that has not happened.
The back of your hand gracing my hair.
I know the tilt of your head
drawing me in, the hot sun rising off of me
with the scent of monarda and nepeta from all
day weeding the abandoned garden.
And you breathe me in. I remember this
sharpness caught in my own throat of longing.
Oh, this memory that
Restrains and binds.
Loving you.
I must
Not forget.
I gather the feathers fallen.
I gather the stones from the path.
I gather the small branch that held
the bird that flew from my heart.
Song after song. I recollect the notes
that led me here to this memory
that never ever happened.
Why is it I can feel this?
Your warmth. My head against your chest.
How is it possible that even the sound
of your heartbeat still echoes within me.
The summer is so far gone now.
Let me believe this moment happened
near the old fence, outside the grave yard
where I laid my grief down for a moment.
The vines twinning and the stones mossed
in the shade of old growth.
The stones unread. The berries found.
The sweetness on my lips. My fingers
stained from the juice, still touch
you. The corner of your mouth.
This memory I hold.
Did you say my name? Were your lips
just there for a moment
near my forehead whispering?
I could wait years and years tattered
and regretful. And never will this moment
happen, except here in my heart
determined to dwell for ever.
I love tomatoes , i eat them more than twice everyday for lycopene (with its anti-aging benefits) consumption andit gives a healthy glow...hi from philippines! :)
I wrote this one a couple of years ago:
An Ode to the Poncho
A genius that I'll never meet
Was likely walking down the street
Drenched head to foot in pouring rain
And wishing that (s)he could attain
A method to stay dry and warm
And comf'ter'ble amidst the storm.
And what should our geen-yus espy,
but a square of fabric laid nearby.
The fabric shed the water well.
(S)he thought, "Hey this could make a shell!"
The plan's one flaw (s)he could forsee.
"If I'm beneath, I cannot see!"
(S)he cut a hole then, for a head,
And sewed a hood on with some thread.
(S)he donned the garment, took a walk,
All the way around the block.
The sun came out, its rays quite strong.
(S)he grabbed a stick and leather thong,
And used it all to make a tent.
It didn't even cost a cent.
Years went by, and folks got hip.
With style and function they'd equip.
You don't see many any more,
They're hard to find now, in the store.
Most brilliant clothes are just for show.
But what's more brilliant than the ol' poncho?
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