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 |   "Scattered leaved with poetic imprints." My new collection of poetry. |
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P.(tree)Log ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Well, it's now mid- 2019 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 writer ( 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. )) |
| The Starting Point. A line from a TV show. One changes when no one is looking so alone, Saturday night blues no one notices I fade away into the background noise where my tears bleat against the silence without a glance the moon has risen higher than hope, higher than our memories higher than everything important and in that new light, discreet, filtered shadows grow and shrink, distorting what was previously reality contemplating, illuminating, allowing us to pray we don't of course but our wishes resound like thunder or childish tantrums when the chocolate dish was empty that take to the air like giant echoes, or twisting tornadoes refusing to indicate the cardinal points directing us home we err, lonely in this silver evening moment we touch nothing, no one afraid the spell will unbalance the peace and make us stumble towards the precipice we cannot fall, even in our imaginations, our dreams we awake and find our bodies enveloped in soft smelling sheets reminding us of our grandmothers pantry coconut, apple cider, raisins the first cloud appears, quarters the moon highlights loneliness with the hint of darkness we do not yet sleep although conversation has dwindled and our hands grasping this communion of pairs we dare not intensify this contact, speak not of love's power, its force to unite lost souls to create happiness or its illusion we are doomed to believe, remaining incredulous when the stray arrow hits our hearts and we dream finally of whispering night will shelter our secrets, like the most hermetic of golden boxes where our treasures lay invisible to all but our memories they become trinkets in a collection of life savings more precious than gold, as useless as cardboard they become who we were we forget who we are no one sees the change [2013.29.1...b] an unedited first daft of uncensored writing I was unable to take the first stanza anywhere |
across snow bound fields a single pair of red wings a unique statement of life death, this winter shroud this bleak hiatus follows sunless grays and greens a time for meditation on surreal warped time prayers haste no motion they fall in arctic windswells freeze as unseasonal frowns or unfounded stars lone wishes tarry fading like his forlorn chirp a relentless quest for warmth I saw him but once red wings [2013.19.1.,.b] For Cat |
I follow the wind its silent smear of blue grey leaving us alone [2013.7.1...a] ~~~~~~~ fog covered forest no bird song, deer do not graze winter's silent grip 2013.7.1...b ~~~~~ my tears will not quell they flow elsewhere from grey clouds and nourish sadness 2013.7.1...c ~~~~~~ my empty house begs in winter's hibernation for our walls of light 2013.7.1...d |
on the beach the waves escort him the old year, majestic, now abandoned winds carry firework sparkles of hope dispersing his ashes hour by hour as millions search a new horizon few think to thank him for his gifts discontent, they seek the perfect cycle of souvenir seasons and full moons and turn quickly to tomorrow's shimmer when today could have been so much brighter had it overflowed generously with smiles, laughter and love the old year [2012.17.12...a] |
| Today would have been my mother's 82nd birthday. The Asking Boy left a message on FarceBrook that got me thinking about going home. I have no home, no true one, because my parents are both dead now. I have no home but these three rooms all those before me have passed on to an elsewhere I do not yet imagine with the precision I live day to day I am the family elder now, I look upon this role as a youngster plays Hamlet pretending to understand death's grip or the inconsistencies in merely being yet I too mourn life so contained in my box called home, these four walls that wear the garments of my identity sifted through the eyes of those I once loved dearly and who now are as close -- or as far away -- as simple memories pretending to understand [2912.10.12...b] |
when the rain returns, I will sleep leaping between worlds where peace shoots like a falling star from wishes of one man to promises of another its doves touch every horizon, leaving a brief breath of hope in its wake thus men dream every night trying to sustain that ultimate state of grace, and as we return to the warmth of our homes we are not wet, though our tears tell us different -- and wondrous -- stories of our courage state of grace [2012.10.12...a] |
they listen and don't speak the sea keeps its secrets in brine spray and whale songs in the wailing wind, redwoods bend and whine in murmurs and in the crux of the waning moon where evening shadows refuse the music of words, sometimes men try to come close together and realize why solitude captures their fragile hearts for alone, no one need speak not to respond [2012.9.12...a] |
| when north winds sway past the full moon's silent shadows water seeps beyond the only window sill through cracked glass that perfectly traps the constant drip of coastal humidities and as time conjures a moment of peace the rivulets traverse the panes and leave a lake under the parched table where bread crumbs soften like tiny pieces of sponge, the fish-fat cat steps gingerly with dry paws waiting for his master to light a fire in the soot-lined chimney where rainfall echoes and cold dampness frazzles his thick black and white fur this scene goes unnoticed while it unfolds as does a bitter human drama at the lighthouse where a girl falls into the arms of an old man and sheds quiet tears no one will ever see -- but only imagine -- as they wet his striped sweater they return after storms calm, her cheeks salty his boat-worthy arms feeling useful at last their story of betrayal and forgiveness as old as the cat's ninth life, he, eager, purrs roughly for the cabinets still remain empty water waits with no taste in puddles, indoors and outside the moon retains its light its role as beacon for lost hearts has assured new beginnings, now the hearth is lit and human warmth seeps into the red brick walls who muffle their weary tales of an old man and an even older cat on a rainy night [2012.4.12...a] |
he dances with stars illuminating his soul I watch from afar his reign of beautiful tears that conquered the spotlight [2012.2.12...a] for emmanuel moire winner of the third french season walk sun-blinded starlight still dazzles my eyes I know my own path no tears, but deep memories tell me who I have become illuminated [2012.2.12...b] another tanka inspired by emmanuel moire |
| I was not present on that cold winter morning when she found eternal rest death is like a black nightmare gnawing at the gift of life to a humble woman [2012.30.11...a] I have never seen the hills and trees where she rests imagination defies her maternal love hope confronts eternity to look beyond [2012.30.11...b] |
a mandolin cloudburst an exotic tang of wind the colors of rain mutter, your eyes are everything, still forever, sometimes the music in our silence turns my soul back into a changeling muffles my desire my heart mute I want its words, its rhymes its rhythmic pulsing the spill of its ink to stain my solitude in every hue called love to exist and flutter on the wings of a firefly beyond the monsoon beneath a shooting star you caught with a song changeling [2012.19.11...a] |
| Have already posted poetry this morning, but The Asking Boy changed his FB profile picture with no comment and I wrote this for him: after all these years, I still believe trapped alone on the other side in its darkest moments nothing lights the way I am lost with only one heartbeat without the beam of your smile hope is colored in opposites love will not desert us but who can see the path without the starlight of your eyes? black light [2012.18.11…f] for The Asking Boy |
| faded yellow walls, smog-stained panes, dull tattered sheers in a drab paisley throw empty wine bottles rattle indifference [2012.14.11…c] forbidden zone where love and hate share tears complacent grey [2012.14.11…b] pearls of words swirl windward geraniums root quietly in water dust settles in the cold of dusk I fill the wine glass life episodes [2012.14.11…a] |
| once a blue lady quietly life tainted her purple then burst into a blustering that shadowed everything sunny and sweet... grey still clings, an old medallion hanging from her rear-view mirror a reminder to look ahead she is bound by shades of pink that color her life anew after the bluster [2012.5.11...a] A RAOP for Cat |
| a great abundance of nothing shrunk these four walls it went unnoticed, unlike the pain dwelling in the square rigidity of its timeless ebb and flow empty shelves, staples at all-time low levels sugar and noodles, flour and spices are ghosts to empty containers or the wing dust of dead moths no light shines here anymore the fridge hides crumbs the cat seeks it houses too many empty jars with mold staining the once clear glass impossible to clean to be properly placed in the recycling bin, and factory robots would be slowed by the crud so, of politically correct, I do not speak openly of what ails and closes my spirit weakened and clothed by solitary confinement I leave hints, decorating my windows with missives of sticky secrets, but even I am secluded within the mysteries on the city's streets where a magma of humanity accumulates towards explosion not one individual interests me beyond the external beauty covering the internal pleasantries for which excavation would take longer than my frittering patience allows nothing incites desire, I refuse all invitation I do not spurn them, but my gaze no longer follows the wake of their seductive meanderings with bruised ardor, indifference outweighs any symptom of my suffering more and more impossible to dissimulate my ego prefers to mold the youthful clay of unmotivated students despite hours of clumsy attempts they rarely grasp the concept of perfection I impose on their tiny, fragile yet unbaked beings, behind us is the skeleton of a crater where instead we should all sparkle like newborn stars caught in the joyfulness of learning… books closed long before midnight I sleep well, the redemption of Morpheus is my only friend, a solace overwhelming and omnipresent his dream weaver, however, avoids night fantasies and tangos, reveals a sense of emptiness that rises in chaotic disorder from my personal depths I refuse to invent reasons to evolve towards the light, this not-so-calm interior like ever-boiling lava waiting the overflow moment the earth cracks and shatters broken by an unprecedented massive spillage the sky is a horizon-filled storm breaking and unfurling upon everything and everyone in its path, the rain inundates every surface, leaking over roof tiles and under bug-eaten eaves dripping along walls where safe behind misty bricks, thousands of poor lonely souls vie to stay dry in between obsessive crying spells thus cleansed and parched, caught at the one point of stillness, we cower before a path where dark and dank once hovered covered in a thick layer of human humus here begins a new generation coveting mysterious notions of wellness success and how to swell with pride before that single moment when time unfolds and ultimately ends as quietly as the slightness of butterfly wings announce death's imminent visit... ailments of the aged man [2012.7.10...a] |
| As a surprise, my sister sent me the four paintings so cherished from my mother's home. I had told her I feared they would be too heavy to send, and to keep them safe for one day in the future. They arrived this afternoon and have a home on the wall above my piano. solitary country roads, tree lined horse and buggy, travels going west remnants of other times masterpieces because they portray coming home, even their gold-leaf frames signed oils bought decades ago in a high-class department store four visions of my childhood calm after a long absence, their power has invigorated my home with unspoken memories of those dear years I chose an eastbound journey of solitary discovery and now the security of coming home once again and gazing upon their calm countenances, horse and man hints of fresh air recalling the folds of my mother's apron and odors of hot apple pie, and all those private things I had carefully tucked away until the day these pictures would come home to my hermit's house and add a touch of hearth to its heart a journey's end [2012.1.10...a] |
rain fell somehow I needed to get drenched to wash away the city grime so I left the umbrella folded in my backpack the walk was not recreational the truest purpose of love is to peer into a soul and create small points of clarity from the turmoil in its depths what I didn’t see then was the light shadows shimmered, trying not to fester I still felt the rain's tang eyes wide open, I beheld no dream those were thoughts like a laser through darkness truth beamed at me while fluffy grey continents and bruise-mottled stripes highlighted a temporary truce between rain and sunset I fell into slumber after the rain, color and bluster amazement a showcase of a billion scenes from life's heavens as many stars, as many men rainfall [2012.26.9…f] |
melancholy twists past, present and future prints life now forgotten static memories like dust in the attic air form a pact with tears time is motionless since death visited his soul and won his love's wings [2012.23.9...a] In response to an excellent Twitter poet, author of MyHaikuProject. Poem n° 303 http://www.facebook.com/MyHaikuProject |
late last night, before the rain wet the quiet shimmer of moonlight and clouds waltzed slowly, my love unfolded as a delicate litany an exotic flower to close at dawn's prayer I am free under starlight’s gaze to escape my destiny an ambassador of frivolity the twinkle in my eye a ray of hope from Venus' unchartered desire I am muse, I am inspiration I am a sweet chaste kiss because passion dwindles after the swell of your hymn this sad droopy sky shied into a less sombre shade — it was late, last night when I wanted to tell you my love... after the swell of your hymn [2012.12.9...f] |
the vessel is empty blow on the bottle top no melody comes whistling only a dull humming, a wordless song an echo of the hunger formerly present and waiting for the smallest tickling fill it with the jargon of junk and hope that falsehoods will shatter should the genie awaken I rub my hands together for warmth beauty is not necessary to survive this desert in darkness, I seek a guiding light of tonight's last blue moon, hidden behind a thousand messages cast away into the sea to survive [2012.31.8...a] |
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