"Scattered leaved with poetic imprints." My new collection of poetry.
Well, it's now mid- 2018 and this is still the only book I use to house part of my new poetry.
I began using it years ago due to a lack of storage space in my over-700 item WDC portfolio.
I really need to do some spring, summer, fall and winter cleaning.
There are still lots of static items which have never received any mention by other members here.
But that's part of the problem of being a write ( musician, artist, actor ... ).
I do not know how to network.
Thanks for discovering this link. Please leave a comment.
Bookmark it, please....
This is a writing site and not FarceBrook where it's so easy just to press the button "LIKE."
(( And I am not a fan of the fact that WDC has added it. ))
|I couldn't not write this poem this evening.
she is yellow as gold
not a modern creature
touched by Midas, but the
purity he sought
hammers of loss try so hard
to unvarnish, to perish
to harness her in pale muteness
during the darkish drowsy days
accumulating like ghosts
she forgets her glow
doubts and hates
but these ghosts
a mother, a brother
need the polish of her golden armor
a torch to go beyond in their new paths
and once again help her
even the twisted alleyways
left by death's dull light
the one gold flower in my garden
|another magic hour
this one says 22:22
how much happened then?
because love stories end
in the loneliness of midnight
the four zeros of start and stop
that allow memories
angels, fallen yet still trying to rise
wings broken, bruised inside
where the ache sews invisible scars
patterns we carry like death's dread
all of us suffer
following this unfair direction
when life drives through red lights
this wasn’t the right way
no, nor were any of the others
does this pain ever subside?
we drown in the slow tow of the tide
ripping us from ourselves
and crashing against our dreams
we submerge ourselves
in these waves emptied of empathy
can you tell me when this turns into the moment
we laugh during a Shakespearean tragedy?
it's the final moment we walk away from pain
we are still caught in its web
our embrace lingers
braving tear's threshold
stars and moon give homage
to the light in your eyes
have overcome my life
with the sudden intensity
of unexpected beauty
will the stars
in their eternal lasting
grant our humble love
( alba, 4 )
|Second text based on the Merton quote yesterday:
it belongs to all of us -- peace
will mesmerize verbs and illuminate
talk between strangers with silent poetic souls
as thunder recreates the shape of water.
long ago starlight alone guided the night.
as many children have died alone in darkness.
it belongs to all of us -- light
wants to conquer the shadows of words
the spaces between breath and heartbeat where
rain tumbles onto tree-lined plains
and fills the ground with wishes
as delicate as flowers, as
long as Amazon waters run deep,
as varied and astounding as life itself.
it belongs to all of us -- the moon
talks in revolving doorways and riddles, and me --
I’m a disappearing translator of day to night
going up and down, left to right, a cartographer
to pinpoint the wormholes of silence.
listen carefully. trees may fall.
|An "embedded word" poem using the line:
"It will talk as long as it wants, the rain. As long as it talks I'm going to listen." Thomas Merton
it keeps its lessons hidden and
will dole them out like gold coins
talk back, by all means, but humbly
as shouting arouses a silent response
long periods of salty ocean drought
as if the world exploded and left only you
it asks for little in return, decades perhaps
wants this peaceful hand-in-hand thing
the ability for true compassion counts and brings
rain that nourishes far beyond body and soul
and expect nothing, allow the unexpected to surprise
as a marvelous sunrise to herald each day
long hours of contemplation, waiting out its slowness
as long as it takes, decades even, don’t rush its flow
it speaks the same language in millions of variations
talks about not complicating simplicity, never says
I’m sure this is the right path, because there are many
going from to that first gasp to the last eternal breath
to lend an earnest ear and always
listen how to decorate the steady sameness of life
a simple lifeline
|you departed to the east
I took to the west
to remember yesterday
to not forget, ever
back to our lake
the weeping of our willows
water stilled from
breathless, less than earlier
I find only your shadow
still visible to my heart
and all my words
still left to be said
lover, look back
( alba, 3 )
|Not directly in the alba series. Almost its contrary ...
so, love doesn't freeze well, its duvet ices over -- not
that we can't walk in a hefty Canadian blizzard hand (glove)
in hand (gloved) -- but love, honeyed and bouncy, tends
to crack like the chocolate icing on a Magnum, consumed
quickly, like tinder on a poorly stacked bonfire, marshmallows
melting into a gooey slop like adolescent first kisses that still
augment the sensation of heat [i.e. heartthrob (aching but
to avoid attacks)] although later it will take much more
to extinguish the passion, lust and Wunderbar flames that
nurture love, and in (throughout, beyond) love, frozen or
overcooked, two hearts never fully touch, their embrace
is imaginary, fleeting, phantasmagorical, life-sustaining
and every other word-paint poets invent to give sustenance
to that which sustains the unsustainableness of life -- love --
and we pray (how we pray) that it sticks like the first snowfall
before we squander it mushy and stomped upon and we give
anything reasonable not to damn ourselves (the beloved?)
when it turns up white-dulled and mulch-like in a post-office
lost-and-found bin without a proper return-to-sender label
legibly written and pre-stamped, yes love gets forgotten
after e.e. cummings "the snow doesn’t give a soft white damn whom it touches"
|night empties itself
moonlight wanes, stars
fade into a larger blue
shimmering that breaks against
can this be true?
lovers tear themselves
from grips of ecstasy
and trip on tear-fall
into a world haunted
by one word
when the night bleeds
( alba, 2 )
This is a first draft; I'm content with its length, but not the title.
I've decided to write a series of alba poems, and numbering them does not seem
like the proper way to go about it. Suggestions are welcome!
the end of moonlight
until the next eve
brings us together
again, we must say
kiss me again
the tips of my fingers
mourn your touch
the last star
your magic stays
to play with my heart
( alba, 1 )
An alba poem. A poem of lover's separation before dawn; think Romeo and Juliet balcony scene.
For more information:
an inchworm who
dreams of becoming
a butterfly. Except
that I know it will transform
into something beautiful, a
gift to mankind or a special friend
or a wind chime to find the proper rhyme.
Trees, great masters of change, spring forth buds, flowers
and leaves from greens to autumn hues. Their branches stretch
upwards, safe havens for those able to seek their height.
Below, their life
speak to us of
and hushed voices.
why we want to fly
A tree of life poem.
Information on this form can be found in today's Poetry Newsletter.
"Poetry Newsletter (May 9, 2018)"
|So, this is my reality show. It has always been you,
you alone, who centers me, you alone
keep my two feet ballerina balanced
going forward against my typical shuffle.
You push when I try backward steps and
don’t remember left from right, up or down.
Give me smile-dowsed anxiety pills to counter my
up-and-down, swelling-in-retaliation moods.
You accept, love, coddle, protect,
stand up against those fools who belittle.
Tall, so tall. Shoulders wide as mountains.
You become my daily dilemmas and push back to
fight my windmills alongside my wobbly swords.
You cheer like an entire stadium the days I succeed
always armored with sunshine banners and gentle words.
Show me where to place my heart. It is so big and so lost.
Up at the top shelf where my imagination wanders, I coast
to safety like birds escape the wind. Is it possible to
save me from myself? A battle that will outlive you beyond
the span of your own lifetime. I think about that moment every
day, wondering if I can’t come with you. Who will grant that wish?
When watching television is less distracting
Another poem after the following text:
"So, you keep going. You don’t give up. You stand tall. You fight.
You always show up to save the day."
Meredith Grey; season 13 Jukebox Hero
|just please remember, don’t back down now.
promise, not a bathtub big enough for you and
me but the comfort I need right now
one simple set of fancy heart words, not a
thing, but that intangibleness of love. let's
build it higher than the clouds, tell
me we will fly higher than desire beyond
a lifetime of nesting like lovebirds in a
tree where life and death pass us by, a
house to become a home where you and
I capture harmony and harvest it into a tiny
can like peaches or applesauce. Yeah, like I
read thumbing through the waiting room magazine
in the funeral place where you left before me
Same exercise as my last entry. Taking a phrase and using each word as the first word of each line in a new poem.
Miranda Bailey. From her heart attack episode.
Just promise me one thing. Build me a tree house.
stars prick memory from my eyes
hide nothing even moonlessness
your supernova consumes us both
fires that cannot tame lust to love and
let no mundaneness seep through the cracks
not to breath in its fury stifles my heart
light must wane and wax, even ache, it must
see beyond the filters of day and night
my love is a night flower blooming not in
black blindness, but the dew of cool
and its gentle breezes, can you not resist the
deep nest in my arms, content with my ordinary
the bright burn of fire
The origin of this poem is from the following line by Shakespeare:
“Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires.”
Each word of the phrase becomes the first word of each line of the new poem.
It's a great exercise.
|After family matters and multiplication leads to (in)division,
any (in)complete answers must remain greater than one.
The curling iron coiled out of existence, his only sister chose over-sized,
mint-green rollers from their late grandmother’s commode,
elected this week to create a new fashion statement.
The pout on her lips was still painted too red, with matching polka-dot
dresses tight enough for whistles.
Father locked himself in the study penning pages after pages, calculating
the decimal points of pi,
an existential therapy of numerical mantras.
More mysteries hovered in the two-hundred-year-old house.
"My God, I have come with the seeds of questions.
I planted them, and they never flowered."
The kitchen smelled of apples stewed in lemon juice, honey-lined porcelain
tea cups, the flu season well on its way. The oven added extra heat
behind the north-facing windows.
This technicolor tapestry was far more than its cardboard cutout
collage for middle school graduation, and every flat surface
had been painted with stripes, turquoise and pink, moss green and rust,
each family album showed elders with curtains and sofa
upholstery with identically colored patterns.
They were bohemians
and it had been their first (and only) togetherness project.
His mother had sought unity, much like a clown
on a unicycle juggling for asylum
in a magician’s disappearing
After her eighth child, a second girl who broke her heart,
she died mourning.
Tears and flowers broke the cemetery.
Her name centered in marble, Rose.
A tiny unmarked grave lay close.
They had a tacit agreement that no one pronounced the name Magdalena.
He thought and fret — they all did — because death stood by the empty chair
in the cold dining room.
On the radio Bette Midler sang
about Otto Titsling and Aïda’s oversized unsupported melons;
the younger boys blushed,
trying to admit they’d seen such huge ones, and fondled them greatly
like an infamous, rich man on TV.
Motivation was to learn to believe, how much of Google
was fact, fiction, falsehood and could they say the same about the Bible
and Father MacMichaels’ brimstone?
“… the wounds were burning like suns at five in the afternoon”
… did it hurt to burn in hell?
Timothy wasn’t delirious about melons, boys only had walnuts in their pants.
He searched the library for a book about those family jewels,
always hiding behind huge, movie-star sunglasses so no one
vwould see his eyes follow the men he secretly admired.
Behind dark lenses he ogled, desired, pined for, fantasized
to make him scream all the words from every book.
He wanted lips to kiss, a story beyond fables and romantic poetry.
he scribbled on the bedroom walls
lines from Federico del Sagrado Corazón de Jesús Garcia Lorca
God, what a name! to be called Jesús.
"The one thing life has taught me is that most people spend their lives bottled up
inside their houses doing the things they hate."
The postman brought him a letter.
Addressed in his mother's hand.
Special dates father perpetuated.
Yes he had a paper route each morning.
No he would not devote his life to the clergy,
he wanted to fall in love with a Mexican boy, dark and sultry,
with an accent like hot chocolate.
"The still pool of your mouth under a thicket of kisses."
He could not fathom what might one day oppose love. Purity
was for water filters and a fool's path.
Perhaps the hand of God has always been the Flower Aunts: Violet, Tulip, and Iris.
“To burn with desire and keep quiet about it is the greatest punishment
we can bring on ourselves.”
His heart was an unset mosaic missing one piece. It was still
but he knew what shape it would take.
Adding from subtraction after family matters, nothing
else will be real
until you become my square root …
Today he is the only member of his tribe
Author’s note: all quotes are from Federico Garcia Lorca
Here's the link for the inspiring photo.
|a branding of emptiness
the sting of tears heals so little
speak not of time
once again it stands still
who gave me more life
now tipped dangerously
words and emotions
a new taint on sleepless nights
today I have offered you
my last peaceful words
I must somehow learn to believe
the moment life stands still
As I write, I remember The Metamorphoses of Richard Strauss. I am lost in your world of love. Capsizing the entire Mississippi with emotion. I can reach the banks. Haul myself towards sunlight. Totter into the calm of your arms. In the illumination of A Great Love — I wanted it, more than my own life — I was too young. I fled its intensity. Perhaps I was blind. Blinded. I have since lost its trail. I have unwrapped the package. Unknotted the delicate ribbon surrounding your letters. Even with my voice hoarse and feeble, I read each one aloud, sometimes pausing to weep. Then I began once more. They are my Bible, my livre de chevet, my raison d'être. The Exodus, the Revelations. Both contained in such gentle Psalms. Through their Trinity of visions, I fell in love with you. Over and over. Ultimately. There. I have no more secrets. You have woven your magic. Delicate prayer, uplifted arms, joie de vivre. Your gift is miraculous: song words outlined with bittersweet chords that brighten the Milky Way. One day they will outshine Der Rosenkavalier. Now, my dear, is the hour to darken my lamps. The hour of sleep beckons. To dream of dreaming. Dying in the embrace of such devotion. Become the phoenix. In the morning I will begin quilting a patchwork. King sized for princes and their jesters. To shield its brightness from the night. Your letters are yellow bricks, a clear path to lead me there and back again; and I, mellow and humbled, rouged from my blues, see a true destination for the first time. Yes. I was blind.
Will you flow with me to the delta of life?
le souris bleu
|her feet float like sails between Greek islands
curiosity her guide, captivated
she holds a stylish fountain pen
with fine blue ink, one color
of inspiration, in her satchel
sheets of contemporary parchment
rolled and readied for her offerings
thus inebriated for worship
she sublimates the already perfect
::::: a bronze statue, a woven basket
::::: a watercolour globe, a box of folded flowers
in words humbled like prayers
to gods of all artistry, she writes
a new hymnal of uncharted winds
homing her beach to beach
she follows those who soon
become disciples of her visions
and, graceful piper, leads
them to a life of Bacchanal feasting
where she replaces wine with verse
how shards of glass gain their beauty
a slow processional walk
in a dew-filled forest
or a late night's empty street
dance a jig, a tango, a waltz
a weekend with friends and folly
to feel alive in a crowd
perhaps you're fine alone
with a library of good books
and the discovery
that pills or cigarettes or booze
are useless stimulation
which does not push you harder
to get up in the morning
from one place to another
that desire comes from somewhere else
and becomes a new mantra
one with a gentle lilt
you only have two feet
"les vies dansent"
|The weight is lifted. My shoulders sag. They are fragile glass rods, breakable, not meant for this task. I do not envy Atlas. He was a God. My mortal watch over sleep outweighs wakefulness. To disappear into the former state. It's precious depths. I wait for both states to overcome me each in their given moments. They crisscross my intentions. The electric fan whirls making me cold enough to slip into the warmth of flannel pajamas. Wakefulness dreams. When I walk my legs ache for rest. Bedridden they twitch a winning marathon. Sunlight is the great darkness of midnight. Squinting to make shapes indefinite. Dreamlike. Misty and mysterious. I hover with conscious. I seek that opposite. The weight of ten billion synapses in my mind waiting to spin new tales. In the force of tonight's wind, my body would not resist. I would fly. Away. Weightless. Lost with a million leaves in a few months time.
another full moon
From a night journal
save them quickly, before they sink
to depths wetter than a century of wailing
before sea ridges claim their flesh
as breeding grounds for new coral reefs
before we forget them
they are nameless with families
and friends who did not see this tragedy
although dolphins will understand
it is not for fish to mourn
cannot be returned to their homelands
in anonymous boxes
the Mediterranean has no grace to offer
as eternity afloat in remembrance
let us set aside verdant hills
on dry foreign soils
where humanity still mourns the dead
give them crosses that touch the heavens
a white star for the pure quest of freedom
bury the dead
Prompt: Bury the ( blank )