Original Poetry: Portobello Market

The silent corner reveals the makeshift booths and carts huddling
             close along the distance of cobbled road.
Old wrinkled clothes practical for a theatrical costume shop and crates
             of shoes which survived their use and mates.
Wire jewelry bent around buffed stones; scarves, some silken,
             some hand-decorated.
Antique wooden stamps; clocks; dishes, chipped and gold-leafed;
             paintings and prints.
Sweaters thick with Welsh wool.
Boxes of clementines, apples, pears, onions, carrots, potatoes, fresh
             breads and biscuits; piles of cockles and fish wafting a fresh odor;
             spicy curried aromas atop the doner and tikka kebabs; greasy chips;
             fresh Ethiopian and Peruvian coffees.
Socialist fliers; anti-Nazi fliers; newspapers; magazines; cabaret
             advertisements.
Tobacco—fresh, flavored, rolled/piped; American/Dutch.
 
 
 
 
 
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Original Poetry: The Airing Out

Shoes and a boot
conceal the old, odd suitcase.
It is coaxed out
and emptied of wools,
plush wide-waled corduroys,
flannels, and leather. Everything
musky with suede-scent
and desiccants.

I’ve freed my bedside
window from a corpulent A/C
and sealed the panes.
Static electricity bristles the air;
the airing-out is over.
October’s leaves have turned—
an elapsed calendar page
ripped out.

And I return to the weathered
suitcase, refilling it
with folded and hand-smoothed
linens, flimsy silks,
and madras. Under the bed,
my cache is restored
like bulbs split and reburied
before the frost.

[This poem was published by The Eunoia Review.]

[Check out other original poems here.]