Serving House: A Journal of Literary Arts
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SHJ Issue 4
Fall 2011

[Two Poems]

Tiffany Brooke Martin

Pear-Ripe Memories

It has been lying on my desk for several days now,
yellowy-green skin darkening into small bruises,
ripeness coming on as I wait.
Today I felt it again, 
as I had several times 
since selecting it from a basket and taking it home,
curving it into my palm,
feeling the firmness slowly change into softness.

Today it is ready for eating.
I take a knife, peeling the skin over the trashcan,
ribbons of green quickly loosening and falling,
juice trickling through my hand, down my fingers, 
finding its way into the places between my skin and gold rings.

I bite, savoring the soft melting whiteness, 
sweet burst in my mouth.
I smile, remembering the box from Harry and David I would get from the fridge 
in the garage on spring mornings
and take it into the kitchen 
where we three would sit and chat and enjoy our pears with breakfast, 
as Duncan’s aged, golden head nudged into us, blindly searching for handouts, 
his heavy, wagging tail banging our chairs and legs,
with The Today Show running in the background.

Now I throw away the fruity remains of another summer gone and wash my hands,
glad to have one more taste to revisit those mornings.


St. Stephen’s Green Images

Autumn leaves on the ground, on the Green.
Some women are blowing, brooming, raking them;
the wind is swirling, whirling, taking them.
There are the madding crowds,
school children in green uniforms,
business men and women, purposeful heels hitting the pavement,
the gardaí in their fluorescent vests, watching a wedding party, 
all smiles and cameras, posing with a fountain of cattails and lilies,
street artists and buskers, filling the air with colors and sounds, 
shoppers and tourists walking by busy with bags or iPods in ears, 
a man videotaping, couples together, couples apart.
Behind a screen of foliage
there is peace on a park bench,
a memorial to a woman 
for her sympathy and love that knew no boundaries.
Swans in ponds, one white, the rest grey,
waiting for the offerings of girls throwing crumbs.
Pigeons flapping wildly ’round, then settling on the ground 
like heavy, dark leaves.


“...we have been born here to witness and celebrate. We wonder at our purpose for living. Our purpose
is to perceive the fantastic. Why have a universe if there is no audience?” — Ray Bradbury