<![CDATA[Cora Thomas Writes - Poetry/Prose]]>

<![CDATA[Cora Thomas Writes - Poetry/Prose]]>Mon, 06 Jul 2026 18:13:09 -0700Weebly<![CDATA[Roots of Diesel]]>Wed, 12 Nov 2025 04:56:40 GMThttp://www.corathomaswrites.com/poetryprose/roots-of-diesel

Originally featured in an outdoor art exhibit, "Connection to Land," hosted by Agroforestry Northwest, at Raising Cane Ranch in Snohomish, WA (Sep. 2025). It is also the newest version of my poem originally entitled, My Roots Smell Like Diesel.

Roots of Diesel

the diesel engine rumbles awake
disturbs the dew
on leaves of pasture

wakes me
roots me

this start is expected early
6 sometimes 7
days a week

the engine idles and warms
prepares

for a day of hard work
down the logging roads
up the clear cuts ablaze with
sunrises and sunsets

the weight of first gear on the gravel drive
his boot heavy on the gas pedal

the log truck jerks and starts
as it grumbles towards the road

“Another day at the salt mines,”
dad mutters to himself with a sarcastic grin
pulling on another Hickory

another day working
to warm the home
to stoke the fire

not just a job
but a way of life

to this day
the smell of diesel
takes me back

to my roots
that lumber and wakes me
reminds me reminds me

]]><![CDATA[Skagit Rubies]]>Wed, 12 Nov 2025 04:48:36 GMThttp://www.corathomaswrites.com/poetryprose/skagit-rubiesSkagit Valley strawberry fields sweetened by the Salish sun. Study prep and experiment. Stained fingertips apron and spoon. Pare bubble simmer the tune. Muscles argue and tendons confer push and stir. Steam saps the water from the loam. Strawberry stains the countertop and seines of memory. Flame and flavor pucker the palate. Wound the wrist lick the fist. Mark me. Make me. Save me for pots and pancakes. Warm the stove thresh the fruit. Cradle the jars hot glass cools ladle too far. Fingertips burn and earn. Lids and lips seal drop and pop. 12 hours pass at the morning break. Rows of jars tinny ring all ours dip the knife strike the jelly slakes the belly. Backbone aches cut soil and crown. Strawberry moon begins.

This labor my love runs root deep. A taste experiment a love testament.

Let’s repeat.

This poem was originally published as a postcard and copies distributed at a local Redmond business (Spark Pizza) as part of Read Local Eat Local, a poetry project by the City of Redmond's Poet Laureate, Ching-In Chen. (Sep. 2025)
]]><![CDATA[Raspberry Rain]]>Wed, 12 Nov 2025 04:38:46 GMThttp://www.corathomaswrites.com/poetryprose/raspberry-rainThe rain pelted the leaves as we picked pink raspberries at a nursery out on the
Skagit flats
only a few minutes west sits the Salish Sea salt and blue and islands of San Juan
to the northeast you’ll run up against a volcano of ice and jutting peaks and to the west rainforest and hills river green
it was warm as I plucked and popped a few raspberries in my mouth
I couldn’t help but think of miniature roses peeling off the white bulb
I’ve always thought roses smelled like raspberries, they are in fact kin
these pink translucent beauties definitely look the part
with a nice light flavor and color, these were my first
the bushes and my clothes heavy with water drupelets droplets
we keep picking – daydreaming about jam and compote and berries atop mountains of oatmeal and crisps and cobblers and summitting peaks and dessert at the top
standing eye height, I nuzzle into the bushes and breathe in earth and breathe out
my prayer for bees – already thinking about next year’s raspberry rain

This poem was originally published as a postcard and copies distributed at a local Redmond business (Hoffman's Fine Cakes and Pastries) as part of Read Local Eat Local, a poetry project by the City of Redmond's Poet Laureate, Ching-In Chen. (Sep. 2024)]]><![CDATA[Notes of Sea and Sky]]>Tue, 10 Jun 2025 00:24:04 GMThttp://www.corathomaswrites.com/poetryprose/notes-of-sea-and-skyKukutali Preserve, near La Conner, WA
by Cora Thomas and Adam Lafayette
C = Cora A = Adam

C           A swan of clouds stretch across the sun-streaked sky
A           Madrona blossoms crest and brim pebble and barnacle
C           Blackberry flowers and dips in the shadows
A           Is it the weight of light or darkness that holds us against the moss?
C           The cry of the eagle comes first and then wings of wind
A           Lost in the salal the roots strangle the spring
C           Worms rise with the sun and settle to the bumbles of bees
A           Lament, gulls scowl the horns of trembling tides
C           Do you live behind the fingernail moon?
C           White as clouds like your hair turned streaked and scattered the sky
A           From the shipwreck of sound the bard builds the isle, destroys his instrument, and worships the silence
C           Lupine on the shores of salt, dreams of alpine whispers
A           Clams pipe at my footsteps
]]><![CDATA[My Roots Smell Like Diesel]]>Thu, 18 Jan 2024 23:31:37 GMThttp://www.corathomaswrites.com/poetryprose/my-roots-smell-like-dieselthe rumbling of the diesel engine
wakes me
roots me

this sound is expected early
6 sometimes 7 days a week

in my daze I imagine the dew disturbed
perturbed
on the leaves of pasture

the engine idles
warming
in preparation

for a day of hard work

the heaviness of first gear on the gravel driveway
intentional in its labor

the log truck jerks and starts
as it grumbles towards the highway

“another day at the salt mines,”
dad mutters to himself with a sarcastic grin

another day working to warm the home
another day working to fill a need that satisfies

not just a job
but a way of life

to this day
the smell of diesel
takes me back
takes me back home

to my roots
that lumber and wake me
reminds me reminds me
]]><![CDATA[In the Lift]]>Fri, 18 Feb 2022 07:47:41 GMThttp://www.corathomaswrites.com/poetryprose/in-the-liftThe fog lifts
Just enough
To spot
2 coyotes
On the hillside

They follow
A Path
Well worn
Of blood and vein
As if their footsteps
Alone
Lifted the fog
Clearing the rain
to finally
See
to finally
Be
In a world that speaks
Back to
me

The cottontail ruminates
The Douglas squirrel
Launches from tree to tree
The red-tailed hawk beckons to the lee
And the towhee and chickadee spree

Coyotes trod
on mud and stone

In the lift
I am them
and

They
are
me
]]><![CDATA[Until What's Left]]>Fri, 18 Feb 2022 07:44:57 GMThttp://www.corathomaswrites.com/poetryprose/until-whats-leftMy dress is frayed at the ends
That’s what saltwater does to cotton
Wears it down
Like stone

Washes away the color
Smooths out the wrinkles

Until what’s left
Wants to start at the end
And feel its way back to the beginning
Over every rough over every silk
Where the threads are strong
and sure of themselves
Until what’s left

My scarf is frayed at the ends
That’s what wind and salt does to cotton
Wears it down
Like stone
Fades color
Pushes wrinkles
Smooth

Until what’s left
Is loosely wrapped around my neck
Failing to hold me together
So I don’t sail away

Until what’s left
]]><![CDATA[Cottonwood Imagination]]>Fri, 18 Feb 2022 05:39:02 GMThttp://www.corathomaswrites.com/poetryprose/cottonwood-imaginationI.
Her seeds float down from the canopy. Gives into grace and holds knowledge not quite hidden. Leap to the forest floor where the apathetic passersby dare to notice. Like debutantes their DNA is capable and untethered. Fly from mother to begin again. To sense the church of been.

In between pavement and moss, I bend over to touch the fibers. Absence matters on the skin. If you can’t feel something, does that mean it’s not there? Significant in its insignificance indeed. Attention proceeds.
As the hypnosis descends, I want to tip my head back and open my mouth to catch them. Like a child would at the fair. Individual bites of cotton candy or even snow. The way they float low. The way they let go. let go. and know.

Cottonwood seeds line the path where I walked this evening. Huddled beside the asphalt as if they knew that congregating in numbers would get them noticed. It worked.

II.
Cottonwood seeds line the path where I once walked and led me down Candyland Lane. Led me to summer days. Backyard barbeques. Laughing for the ones I love. Warmer temperatures warm the heart. warm the heat. sleeveless tops and flips that flop.

Strands fly far on the wind and propagate in moist and mud….dry river bottoms….and lake shallows. These water searchers and thirst perchers grow long hair like Goldilocks – but conditions need not be just right. As saplings guzzle, months and years pace by. Their stature stretch shade and bring respite in the heat waves and picnic saves. When met with fire imagination ignites and destroys summer’s rage.

Tea bark heals. a stew that speaks. and taps into the shallow roots to rouse the past and watch the future sleep. Possibility simmers and conjures a canoe to steer the stars. Pen its paper to always know the mate of mars.

Cellulose led me to imagine my future as the last sow from the last pitch finds my crown contained. Warmth of scalp and skull. Roots grab hold and nerves interfold. Knowledge syncs through veins of conscious. into the vane of cosmos…..jagged leaves clatter a ballad…..sing a vision….pluck a song of dreams.

…..where cottonwoods imagine and I dive into the stream.
]]><![CDATA[a father and daughter | father’s day weekend]]>Fri, 18 Feb 2022 05:33:15 GMThttp://www.corathomaswrites.com/poetryprose/a-father-and-daughter-fathers-day-weekend2021 | big twin lakes | winthrop, wa
~ for dad ~

a campsite
              lakeside view                              hills that sail

a lake
              sunlight and shadow                              cat’s paws

a fishing pole
              flies and casts                             damselfly nymphs

a kite
              wind and sky                               string fights

a boat
              pontoons and oars                                  muscle glides

a birdhouse
              acrylic paint and brush                           splinters blush

a game of rummy
              suits and faces                             laugh to win

a moon
              planets and meteor                  night-light licks

a sun
              burn and wakes                          the waterside

a sunset
              colors the scene                         eat the sky

the wildlife
              health and hunger                     instinct moves

a campfire
              spark and light                            smoke that binds

a birdhouse
              scenes of flight                           waxwing and flycatcher

a kite
              pontoon glides                           muscle that oars

a fishing pole
              clubs to spade                            then lose to win

a lake
              string the sky                              and wind the game

a moon
              paints and brushes                                  stroke the dark

a sun
              cats that paw                              and damsel flies

a campsite
              planets and meteor                   constellation prize

a campfire
              instinct stands                            and moves distinct

the wildlife
              the water wakes                        and tongues that burn

a sunset
              lakeside sail                                 and hills that view

a game of rummy
              fish that fly                                  and casts that dive

a love
             father and daughter                    cannot be caught nor released

]]><![CDATA[A Taste Testament]]>Fri, 18 Feb 2022 05:25:39 GMThttp://www.corathomaswrites.com/poetryprose/a-taste-testamentRaspberry jam
     learn prep
            and experiment

Each breath tales
              trust inhales and doubt exhales

Let’s begin –

Strained stained fingertips
     apron and spoon

Rubies bubble briar blood
     simmer the tune

Muscles soar push and stir
     boil toil and confer

Steam rising anticipation foils
     sap water soils

Stains splash counter tops
     and pops

Sticky signatures memory
     of sein and rain

Of flame and flavor mallet
     pucker the palate

Wound the wrist
     lick the fist

marked me made me saved me

Pans and pots root
     swarm the stove
          press the fruit

cradle in jars
     and ladle too far

hot glass cools
              as fingertips burn
and yearn
              as fingertips fool

it’s a waiting game
     lids and lips pop drop
          and seal
               tips dip and drop

the sound of success
     the mark of progress

12 hours pass
           as the morning breaks
                            the kitchen takes

Rows of jars
      tinny ring and pars

dip the knife
     strike the jelly
          slakes the belly

jeweled gold
     at summer’s
          end

gruel the bone
     as fortune’s grown

this labor my love
     stain for need
          runs fire deep

a taste experiment
     a love testament

               Let’s repeat –
]]>