The Melon
like inhaling a part of memory
I slice into the net-like rind of a perfect melon
two halves separate and fall away
under the glistening canopy of the magnolia tree
pruning shears near chilled chablis glasses
we celebrate another summer harvest
in the closing moments of the waning light
a million crickets rub leathery wings
you cross your legs over mine
when suddenly our dog swoops in like a hungry kestrel
burrowing deep sniffing your sweat
her eyebrows twitch as if detecting an organic compound
growing and dividing
the blade brushes my finger
but so absorbed in my task and the melon’s geometry
I ignore the truth
scrape pits from its flesh and place the perfect cubes on a tray
a sea of red floods the cutting board
veins pulsate as tears swell cleansing my vision
a swarm of wasps land on the serving tray
the yield of our long hot summer
overripe and decaying
My Ever Changing Muse
As the morning sun brushes my face
I remember watching you on stage
white bandana woven through dark hair
swollen eyes behind spotted glasses
struggling with the measured cadence
you shade your eyes from the light
then just before the big reveal
a paralysis sets into your jaw
as the audience hangs on for the finish
an unbearable silence sets in
the DJ quickly spins Amy Winehouse
as you duck under the spotlight
you join us poets who preceded you at the bar
I ask if you’d like something special
as you untie the bandana open my book
feel your hair brush my cheek and whisper
Your work moved me
and thought how Amy must have felt
alone on stage under the spotlight
endlessly interrogated by her fans
as she floated away on scattered debris
cheating herself someone might throw a lifeline
instead they screamed for another song
about arrows piercing her heart
bloodstains on the bathroom floor
especially the endings
so when the sun on my face becomes too much
I set last night’s images in order for my next poem
head to the kitchen to make coffee
and find a scribbled note to wake you early
this one’s my favorite
and like I’ve been doing since the beginning
I heat the milk and blend the sugar
that special way you’ve always liked
sweetness inevitably rising to the top
Trapped
after days of torrential rains
I return to the perch of my adirondack chair
hundreds of perennials
of pink and orange
burst into glimmering clusters
tiny moles tunnel through chaos of colors
wrecking havoc
as I trap a memory
walking the perimeter of a desert crater
without water
under burning sun
I come across a single flower
pushing through sandstone
despite all odds
every detail of its purple petals
alive and vibrant
when a spectacular explosion of light
charges across the sky
voices in the distance
cry out
I run down the escarpment
tumbling over smoldering rocks
your face
caught in the firestorm
trapped in the wreckage
a small bird
lands on the arm of my adirondack chair
tilts its head
and hops into a puddle
cleaning its feathers
to ensure better flight
when a spectacular bolt of lighting
charges across the sky
wings flapping to generate lift
the tiny bird takes off
flies to another perch
protected from predators
under thick canopy
I look up beyond the spinning clouds
recount every detail of the desert flower
feel the warmth of a hand
as I let it go
and find you there
__________
Paul Rabinowitz is an author, screenwriter, photographer, and founder of ARTS By The People. He is the author of four books. Rabinowitz’s photography, prose and poetry appear in magazines and journals including The Sun Magazine, New World Writing, Arcturus-Chicago Review Of Books, Evening Street Press, The Montreal Review, Stone Poetry Quarterly, Burningword, and elsewhere. Rabinowitz was a featured artist in Nailed Magazine in 2020, Mud Season Review in 2022, Apricity Press in 2023, Rappahannock Review in 2024 and The Woven Tale Press in 2025. His photo series Limited Light was nominated for Best of the Net in 2021. Rabinowitz’s poems and fiction are the inspiration for 8 award winning experimental films, including Best Experimental Short at Cannes, Venice Independent Film Festival, and others.
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