Naive and impulsive,
bewitchment reserved for youth-
passion during our salad days.
stroke me easy
like a delicate bloom.
that seems not to end.
If only we knew,
experience is fundamental.
“Baobab Tree And Fruit Watercolor” by vectorolie via http://freedigitalphotos.net
The Baobab Tree
She pressed her palms against the ancient oak.
Spanish moss hung down
grey and curly, like the hair of an elder woman she once knew.
Rivulets of blood stained the bark,
hundreds of stains mingled,
the essences of a hundred men and women.
She remembered the baobab tree in her village,
the one where the children prayed.
The community matriarch told tales of ghouls,
white, snatching their people up,
violating their women and girls.
Their men were roped like the beasts
that stalked the edges of their village in the night.
The baobab tree witnessed it all-
the ghouls with their explosive weapons shouting.
The ancient oak wept blood.
The baobab wept, too.
Donnell Creppel 2016
Photo by nirots http://freedigitalphotos.net
Ode to a Microwave
Why, oh Microwave,
Is my platter so hot?
My food’s edge is smoldering,
Yet the center is not.
Your micro wave power,
Is impressive indeed.
But fully warmed chowder
Is what my mouth needs.
My fingers are seared
From touching this bowl,
My flesh you left blistered,
And my dinner, left cold.
Donnell Creppel 2015
“Palette Oil Painting” by ponsulak via Freedigitalphotos.net
Countervails the dismal firmament.
Avian wanderlust cannot be pent.
Yet, she is grounded to her perch
by the intemperate winds.
She is equally independent and imprisoned.