Minced Fruit poem by Margaret Leora Workman; Warponie Art

Minced Fruit by Margaret Leora Workman; Warponie Art

Do you like pineapples?
Oh.. they are too round in their original form.
And he said that they conform
to the shape that is displeasurable.
Sir, do you like peaches?
Well, my peach
what don’t they leach?
I heard that they breach
and they are non-conformative.
Sir, thank you for that conversation
of love and understanding
because fruit should never be on a string.
Exactly, my dear
with my nose in the air
at your fruit on a string.
Sir, what is your j-o-b?
Well it is to be….
Understood.
Preoccupied?
Well dear, you wouldn’t understand.
Okay sir-how have I helped you to not be bland?
Well peach, once you played in that band
and then I took my own hand
and played that tune.
Then I took the other hand
and marched with it away from you
so that I could help myself
have complete disdain and marry
that woman on the shelf.
The one with the merry voice
unlike you and your choice
of words and dismay
always for me while I was in that hay.
Okay sir, please listen
I wasn’t a hen
on that farm
watching and calling you into harm.
Sir, you found me later
but did you recognize me when you used your charm?
And you crocheted an Afghan with yarn
but now I know it was for someone else
it was an accidental gift
left in the barn.
Today I will be moving on!
So you can keep using that blanket as a pawn!
I see over that hill
happiness and love
is not above me.
Once I get there it will be right at eye level;
not a bevel
or a concave
only convex and never complex
or full of perplex.
You will be left here
in this barn of cow cheer
and so much confusion.
So don’t feel threatened not to lurch and leer
at every one who comes near
to you.
You are free to chew and jaw and saw
all of those boreds
that I aways sawed
when I was around here.
Keep your fruit
of disapproval.
I don’t want that suit.
Really I never asked for it.
All I did was earn that right
for that flight,
but since you disapprove
I understand, I guess you get to choose?
Why?
You were never in charge before
and nothing seemed to have changed.
I guess your hood was threatened
and your spine was in question
and your looks deceiving
and your mouth became even more
open, big and wide.
Allowing that universe parasite to fly right in
because you forgot to close your jaw.
Now your throat is too large
and your head became deformed.
We all see that barge
on top of your throat.
But it has circled around
and became a mote
on that once large and stark bulwark.
How sad to see your decay and loss
and now you must think you are clever
and the boss.
But all I see is moss collecting
without any busts rolling
around on the once hard packed earth.
You must believe what the choir
says of you
and that it is somehow true.
But its only white and not blue
and definitely not red
in your closet of dread.
Like I said,
I have moved on
and I look forward to all of that bread
that I have made on my own.
I don’t just walk out and leave
but thanks for that heave
I have my hoe.
But I know
that you have your blanket
and you don’t care to know
about anything that I know.
Because you have only always wanted everyone to see
that you are the show
and the only one who is in the complete know.
I guess my fruit on the string
was never able to give you a thing!
But you let me know too late.
I could have minced the fruit
and put it on a plate.

Poem by Margaret Leora Workman; Warponie Art