Other Five Image Poems

Morning Shoes

Fog
between me and the mountain,
light gray,
no edges except
the field below it.
When the world turned
toward the sun,
the light looked like
a sore bleeding under a band-aid.
On this morning of pain,
I put on my shoes of discipline
and ran up the hill of dedication
as the sweat of sacrifice ran
down my face.

Lasagna Lips

Lasagna
in the fridge
since last night:
the tomato sauce rough
with bits of sausage,
the white ricotta cheese
flecked with parsley,
and the noodles wavy like
a cartoon’s smile.

I smile back;
we would look like a mirror of anticipation
to anyone walking into the kitchen.
I love the taste of left-over lasagna,
the grease seeping through the pasta
from little oil slicks from the meat and
and parmesan cheese on top.

I smile at a slice,
and microwave it until its steam of desire
says, “yes, kiss me,
you hungry fool.”

Rain Paint

Rock,
painted rock
about as big as a refrigerator
on top of a peak so cold
that no refrigerator is needed.

This rock covered with lichen splotches
pointed to the December sky after rain.
The rock is a painting,
the splotches thrown there by moisture,
the sky is the artist,
its rain of beauty makes this mountain a museum
that needs no walls,
that has a glorious, ever changing ceiling.

Rockpaint,

lichenpeak,

rocksplotch.

The Fence Dogs 

Fence,
a chainlink fence between two yards,
on each side a dirt path worn by dogs. 
These dogs run back and forth barking in the mornings.
Some nights I hear them.        
Their fence is a tennis net,        
but these dogs have no racquets or tennis balls,  
so they play with their barks.   
They volley the barks through the fence— 
Each one runs and woofs, “I win” through the fence of joy.
Sometimes they play in the middle of the night.
Sometimes they play with fire engine sirens. 
No telling when they’ll feel like a game,   
those fence dogs,  
with their bow-wow racquets,  
they make me drowsily happy as
they volley joy on chainlink mornings.                                    

The image appeals to the imagination in a direct way. Grape's exercise, takes that directness and varies it into unusual experiences that retain the honesty of the impulse.