Sunflower, Sunflower

It’s been some time since I posted. Things have been pretty busy here, from trying to figure out a plan of action for marketing my forthcoming book (the release date is February 1st, 2015! More to come on this later), to joining a writing group, to starting work in one of the best bookstores in the city , my summer has been packed with books and reading and all things literary. But I want to post today about something totally separate from that.

As I walk down my street in Queens, there are lots of things growing–roses, vines, fig trees. But there is one sunflower that my partner and I walk past regularly that is at least seven feet tall. I never noticed this before seeing this particular flower, but sunflowers have, in their disks, a multitude of tiny flowers. The flower is just about the only living thing on the block that’s taller than my partner, who stands at about six and a half feet.

Since I read far too much Beat poetry when I was a teenager, and since I like reciting poetry, I’ll often, as we pass, say:

So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck
it at my side like a scepter,
and deliver my sermon to my soul and Jack’s soul
too, and anyone who’ll listen,
–We’re not our skin of grim, we’re not our dread
bleak dusty imageless locomotive, we’re all
beautiful golden sunflowers inside, we’re blessed
by our own seed & golden hairy naked
accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black
formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our
eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive
riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening
sitdown vision.
The other day, for the songwriters’ exchange we go to every Monday, my partner wrote the following song about the sunflower:
Fall is coming, two days ago, we walked by the sunflower. The flowers in its disk has begun to fall out, as had the petals in its ray. Jeremiah was sad for a moment.
“But it gets to live in that song forever,” I said.
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About thebaffledkingcomposing

Pamela DiFrancesco is a writer with a community college degree in journalism, a fancy art school degree in fiction and a penchant for community organizing. A native of Pennsylvania coal country, Pamela lives in Astoria, Queens, writes, and does whatever else it takes to pay the bills. In the past, Pamela has worked for newspapers and taught children journalism in an after-school program. Pamela's fiction can be found on the web at Cezanne's Carrot and Monkeybicycle, in print in The Carolina Quarterly (who nominated "The Chuck Berry Tape Massacre" for the Best American Mystery Writing anthology) and forthcoming in The New Ohio Review. When not writing, Pamela practices acts of love and kindness in hopes of a radically different world, and is preparing for the Zombie Apocalypse through acts of badassery.
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