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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. )) |
alone with the pain, engulfing everything precious, a malignant abrasive invasion that slowly rots her beauty and soul death would grant no evasion for its absolution cannot appease today's chaos and hate when she dares to close her eyes and braves the plight of darkness then wakes in voiceless pleading intrusion [2012.27.8...a] |
| Asemic writing. Or poetry. As is the case here. Words with no meaning. There is obviously a fine line between this and abstract poetry. The reader's object is like an archaeological site: uncover what (s)he may... invisibility alley unknown continent emerald postage day13 289lunarmonth since dearX:)(::)(:{eye-no-but-do-U?} ice core lov*eiss*till*ali*ve froZZZen snooZZZing evila¡llits¡si¡evol ring@wingsunwrangled.org|||||<WeFearNakedTreetops>||||| neverendingsentincircles sentinalwidsomUnfounded trombones&harps,connect\blast,thrummmmm chammmmmmmpionOfNothing riennadaniente !POTS¡braindeadPhonehome¡EMUSER! anglesdiewhenangelsabide "carottes de glace" ben&robbins meineliebschen endheatwave/frozenbloodstagnated weighted upstream unanchored BerlinerPhantom endGAME spectral soulflowchinesemapleforestCheckMate labyrinth thunderclouds&rainbows electricizecauterizerealize temptations upturnedFingerLightningRod lost/seasoninfinityFIND mikesnikeslikes°vibraphoniclips kisssessssessssessssesssssesssss[4tothe50°power] eter ni(nal) ty(ly) ]unkidnapmy)Heart([[[[ 1-yourmemoryfaded |
| wet cheeks salt quickly dries evening beer and cashews afternoon sweat fighting instead of expressing my need to remain at your side drenched after a shower to chase heat wave swelter alone with no silent sobs while you are away calming other fears turned tears still humid, my cheeks surely taste of lemon rare joys bring misty eyes we are less and less demonstrative though affection still swells in a glance, or swift embrace grief is a sudden choking to still nights into months emptiness possesses me and has turned my tears to sand, an itch in my eyes I dare to release once again only when thunder storms invite me to calm my ache running naked under the downfall of thick angry drops if I am lucky you will guess about my salty cheeks mixed with storm overflow and when I return, spent of my inner fire dry them with a tender kiss instead of a damp towel "chemistry of tears" [2012.20...a] |
I'll remember September, one particular day a few friends and family mingled on the porch watching the rain and gentle wind catching the salt of tears summer sky had changed, a softer hue after August's stark blinding heat the cold arrived earlier that year a soul-drenching, bone-penetrating shiver no sweater could cover on that particular day, early in September I chose to die among people best loved in a moment before white omens tackled my will, a moment of joy, passing the relay under grey skies of my abandoned youth... among people best loved [2012.16.8...a] A RAOP for Kåre |
We are all small and insignificant. As children. At certain moments when we bother our parents. We are as small as a single star in the sky, a blade of grass making up a valley, a grain of sand on the smallest beach. Yet we all belong. Placed along our own individual paths. Rocky or smooth. Short or long. Following the horizon, or a labyrinth through a dense forest. We amble throught adulthood trying to convince ourselves of our innate importance in our own private scheme of things so as not to become social wallflowers. I still wear my 70s peace-and-love flower-power look to almost any social gathering I attend. I love a nicely tended garden. The variety of colors and textures. The fact that everything seems so much more alive than I usually feel. I would like to know how to play poker, to experience just once the exhilaration of winning; my face is pliable with emotion. Sometimes I do not think I am a true survivor, but that somehow, somewhere, there is a huge quantity of luck at my disposal and I am using it poorly to survive instead of excell. And I know few people older than myself. Those who have bypassed the quest for excellence. As a child I surrounded myself with my oldest elders. They always made me feel worthy. I ramble, sign that my attention span is that of someone definitely much younger -- by several decades -- or much older than myself. Older means wiser, or should do. I do not know that I am wise yet. I still seek too much. I hate tan and brown clothes. They are so.... easy to miss. Wallflowers must be seen at least, in bright colors that scare away any future admirers, instead of enticing them, because bright is too visible. They bend and sway with the music, a sad sight. Wallflowers, not the admirers. I rarely dance in public. Unless enibriated on something other than life. I am a perpetual student in the fine art of being moderate. And being tactful. Both are necessary to overcome the solitude of sharing space on a life path. Sometimes I still feel like an invisible 16-year-old. I have somehow retained a youthful look. I rarely feel more alive than when I announce my age and observe genuine surprise. Soon I'll have age spots. They're brown. And cannot be erased, or bleached, nor tattooed. I have become an expert washing dishes in cold water. Lots of detergent for the grease, and of course, one must take great care to scrape off the sticky foodstuffs left after a meal if the washing up is postponed. There is no hot water in my kitchen. Fortunately I can still count on my electric kettle for rincing water.... And making a pot of tea to be shared on special occasions. Am I senseless to confide these silly details? Would a sound-of-mind person bother with personal trivia? Insignificent details do indeed have their importance; maybe that is the first step to becoming a philosopher. Or at best a wise man. But insiginificant details, Mother found them terribly boring. She never attained the rank of my oldest elders. Insignificant Vignette n*4 [2012.7-8.8...d] |
Morning comes again. One after another. They have that disturbing habit of ticking like clockwork. Mornings. Hangover mornings. Rare, like the night-before rainbow elephants. Aspirin or other decorative concoctions are useless. Cloudy mornings. Perhaps my favorite, as I still watch them shape-shift into forms that testify to my insanity. Rainy, sunny, invisible, boisterous National Holiday mornings. They come and go without being crossed off on my calendar. Nor earning a specific detail in my journal. Mornings filled by mourning. For which I open yet another bottle of wine before breakfast. And write pages of trauma which I usually erase. Mind you: these mournings have not made me dependent. Except on the emotional upheaval they will eventually ease. Migraine mornings happen too as unending moments when life rots as it clings to my limbs as I try to survive. Or blissfully ignore the discomfort with tiny blue pills. Incapable of movement, even sucking enough air in my lungs to feel whole and connected. Vision and hearing turn garish and blurred. My love of sunshine, of newness, of cheery birdsong, or even thunder and rain are all mixed in a noisy, moldy blender that churns out an overdose of pain into my life. The pins-and-needles throbbing unstoppable hurricane disruption is the exact opposite of the black hole of asleep. It's worse than a huge crater of boiling lava in violent eruption. Two mornings have now disappeared. I pull myself out of damp sheets and put on sunglasses. With no more pills to try and ease my suffering, no more bread to ease the memory of hunger in my stomach, I go out early to the pharmacy and the bakery. Cool air, a hint of a summer breeze, empty streets, as if the neighborhood had been snatched into my last overpopulated dream, I tell myself that all I really needed was to arise with the sun, go out to stretch my body and soul in mindfulness and come home refreshed with my batteries pumped full to begin another day. The mornings follow one after the other. Time to learn how to use this newness to thread a new awakening into my life. Morning's return Vignette n* 3 [2012.6-8.8...c] |
| A bit of fun. a joke, certainly about his dance-like sashaying after another love session: a word with thirty-six Ts a swif-tttttttttttttttttttttttt-ly spaced jolt that only furry paws can coax new words birthed between purring moments while he twists and turns to seek affection quickly we hit Save in case a spider falls from the open skylight above our workstation and a rapid feline -- but somehow clumsy -- swipe at the invisible thread adds? an unwarranted question to otherwise intelligent prose.... cat poetry, lesson one [212.5.8...a] |
| behind the white wall the men in black robes chant words of all our gods he paints a door in red running home, no one can cross this threshold between the lands he paints words in all their languages bloodshed, war dates of birth -- and death words of destitution leaving scarred souls to scream at the night they join their human hands in prayer hope is a dream shared by all sleeping under tents graced by the same stars that birthed all of our gods all of our gods [2012.15.7...a] |
| Five Tweets written one after the other. This is the first draft, but I have already changed the line breaks to make more sense than the original five tweets Twitter permitted. There has been no editing after the original posts on Twitter. All I worried about was maintaining the 140-character limit and a plausible line of poetry. hour after hour rainclouds and sun shadows played chase my heart too shed weariness for excitement in grey and yellow plaids I wear those colors well with a red scarf against the wind chill its factor unknown on my heart I have stories to tell listen now! before they are lost in the race upon tomorrow the north wind howls, a midnight wolf but the nightingale fears not her song is a treasure a lullaby to spark dreams between the magic moments when an artist's palette decorates the sky with tender love that brings a smile to loneliness when night and day fuse time into marble and a simple soul remembers the most fond moments about life the colors of the day [2012.11.6...a] |
| Both are good, and quite possibly the tweet is better than the hurried version I wrote this morning with little editing... The original Tweet (140 characters…) in this sleeplessness I shiver death hovers he has seen the shadows that close upon my soul the path between us is a narrowing precipice [2012.22.6...b] caught by sleeplessness I shiver fear touches me like a cloud death hovers soundlessly I hear the whisper of his ominous wish he caresses the flaws in the reckless shadows that close upon my soul — I know this path between us and the borders of its narrowing precipice borders [2012.22.6...b] |
| Friday, I received an e-mail from my DC cousin announcing the hospitalization of my great-Aunt, the last elder in my family; there is a pneumonia complicating her leukemia and the prognosis is not good. This morning, Cindy sent yet another e-mail, with news that Aunt Eleanor has refused treatment, even an IV drip, and will only have another week or so before her body gives out. This is my poem for her. Death is a marvellous wish, an inauguration, a celebration. Its soft stained-glass hymns herald a secret reward filled with wisdom; for the angel’s arms bring new hues of comfort, something only faith can appease. Time unfolds quietly within this peace. You touch its silent threshold where turmoil will soon cease, a final release for all sadness. From the joyous gifts you made of your life, your days are a garden of great love, and still, in these hours where doubt briefly reigns, you blossom with its goodness. Your unwavering calm has steered us, like a terrestrial beacon, towards enlightenment. Death is a new awakening, a haven where this last pain floats away, conquered by rainbows and human prayer, its eternal rays shine brightly, softer than sunlight, more perfect than starlight. Like a buoyant cloud, it is time to be captured by the angel’s wings. He is your guide through these embers of darkness. His promised gift is not a better place but the wonder of a million tomorrows. You have dreamed of waterfalls foaming with the white beauty of innocence, the wells of truth that brim with white purity. Now is the time to close your eyes and allow the last images of suffering to disappear. But not for farewells or tear stained words, for your grace has touched even the angels. Now is the time to fly away in peace, to become one with the divine love that will always transcend your heart. A poet’s final wish [2012.11.6…a] |
| That is, this morning's three late-night tweets (remember the 140-character max) combined into one poem this morning when I finally accepted Life would let me sleep no longer. I thought I would need to construct bridges between the original texts, but they didn't need it. The first and third were elaborated where Twitter permits only the essentialising of ideas. sudden assault on sleep my bedside glass is empty no sense of calm persists I avoid with aimless wandering through the dark rooms below, black asphalt shimmers with silent wetness my heart is silent as is the rainfall why do tears come now? saturday night silence conquers this fear the rainfall splatters quietly perhaps sleep will return and I will dream of thunder to accompany the strange flashing lights of blackness in the silence [2012.3.6...d] |
1) end of day, end of time both have now arrived we must believe love will outlast us somehow, mysteriously cast beyond what we have always understood, in the ethereal spheres, in the chaos of a million heartbeats rhyming here and now with a splash of eternity’s wish and in the single moment everything stops to change irrevocably, will you stifle a tear as my hand grows cold and my fears fade into your solitude? beyond [2012.31.5…a] 2) we cannot speculate about dreams between the sun and moon starlight’s secrets or the depths of a single human soul life is a tiny frozen fragment of an iceberg what remains invisible coerces our faith into a destiny called beyond we hear our heartbeat articulate its incessant pumping red emotion recalling the flush of today’s triumph or yesterday’s merciless failure we puff our lungs with stale air, and mask a fleeting wish for a hermit’s habitation a place where dreams stimulate us, and spin desire into a worldly orbit like a crazy laughing merry-go-round — will we never learn to calculate the distance between two words of love? beyond words [2012.31.5…b] |
capturing this last day, I depart in sympathy with rapture once again, a joy mixed with the final ticking of then and its end my eyes and heart thrilled by its beauty an eternity to replay the video once, twice or a thousand times as the whim greets me freedom from the confines of life without you the last day [2012.30.5…a] |
like a watchmaker wielding tiny wheels that control time I peel off the pieces of my soul one by one carefully, in penitence, for many are twisted distorted or frayed around the edges like a facial uplift, their order changes as I adjust each object to attain a more versatile version the shards fall to the floor, fragile like eggshells numerous as a master contestant’s jigsaw puzzle to be glued once again with patience and love… feeling lopsided, I must certainly have mislaid a few and the portrait may not yet be pretty, perfected or worthy of a museum, but it is as strange and unique as any grandfather ticking away in well-oiled harmony, the hourly chiming a simple response to the world's folly personal puzzle [2012.29.5…a] |
beyond the window is the silent crashing sea no sun reflects in the foamy waves, the lighthouse sweeps its beacon in a plea to halt man's floating on water madness that transcends godlike crossings -- salt-crusted boulders dwindle on the vast horizon black clouds taunt the churlish water with hail they vie for victory, though there will never be an ultimate winner, except perhaps the thousand watt supplication outlining the cardinal positions between the tower that withstands each attack and those staunch men who, armed with swollen sails would defy the gods' lonely altercations the beacon [2012.28.5...a] |
is yesterday's echo now our truth? condemned to a spin cycle of pain our hands fashion the steel bars letting only a few rays of happiness decorate our drenched souls and there in the shadow of the run-off is a single rose of every color withered but alive, a dream with no other desire than to be viewed in CinemaScope with vivid animation the truth reinvents itself with each new sunrise and the first conscious breath defying darkness an echo of death's useless breeze a single rose [2012.27.5...a] |
unencumbered man no longer rhymes with longing the genie’s wish granted him freedom now he is weightless, his mind empty of memory lust, love or companionship, desire and dreams he eats and drinks well, attends theatre, cinema opera and museum openings, people flock to his insouciant smile, but no one asks him what is was like to rub the lamp too early in life when he had not yet learned that to exist means juggling pain and laughter the acrobat [2012.26.5…a] |
in revery's restless change secrets are framed in rainbows sprinkled with glitter, in a constant ebb and flow, a kaleidoscope guardian for battered souls the rain forest withers hourly breathless, no one speaks only the clouds listen heaven weeps through tears of dusty memories, the walls of silence cannot reflect human sound broken and heart-bound, only whispering remains, a temple of empty worship where silence reigns [2012.25.5...a] |
my muse is often mired in decadence drunk upon the maddening space that creates the in-between of words where silence is too shy, not soft enough to hide a newborn's cry brazen, like your hand on my thigh love is the only syllable spoken a million times every day, so tiresome it rhymes with few chimes, above, see a pair of hovering doves their cloven hooves gloved with the scent of cloves, oh for the eau de vie to tinge our throats as we swallow those tiny bones that articulate their wings, oh my muse, let me be hallowed in the shallow waters of thy empty cup nightly prayers to divinities chosen from mythology for the parched earth, a rapid rain dance till blue is tinged with red, a stylish offering, allowing the gods to fill in the lofty silences between the words between the words [2012.24.5...a] |
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