%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |   "Scattered leaved with poetic imprints." My new collection of poetry. |
|
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. )) |
their words have faded into holiday decorations left two months too long or a lifetime’s not long enough voices gaily comment Polaroid snapshots arranged in a strange teen-age artistic sense with plastic corners in a brittle green-leather book a birthday’s cry of surprise a teddy, his nose rubbed off from too much childish love his name forgotten just a few syllables not mentioned in forty years renamed after the postman delivered him a second time half across the world today he’s called OldTeddy… sleepy diction reciting story books, pages held in delicate perfection although the memories of their fantasy are still instantly recalled bedtime smiles the yellow nightlight an earthshattering “stop” my voice resounding in the hallway before Christmas brought its emptiness, that damned year my words have faded yet I remember it all because even after these silent years, I never forgot things deep in my skin [2012.4.5…a] |
| Last night before turning it, I left this small poem on Twitter: oceans never sleep* moonlight comes and goes* men come to dream* fall in love* and die* This morning, I went back to the computer to find the fifth line from last month's poem: beauty is a souvenir. The combining worked easily, and gives this final poem: beauty is a souvenir remembered over a splendid sunset sleep never overtakes the sea moonlight cycles from round brilliance to ghostlike obscurity like the dreams of men -- streaming for a lifetime -- upon sand, pebble or rock they come to fall in love to forget the unbearable to die, at one with the tides leaving their souvenirs for others to recreate... at the beach [2012.3.5...a] |
| like other dreams quickly vying for death’s grace nightfall, painted anthracite with cobalt overtones envelopes my vision in immobility music has faded, I have heard your voice its echo has dampened the fears encroaching on my sense of calm so sleep can conquer these lonely blues a sense of blue [2012.1.5...c] like other dreams quickly vying for death’s grace for six days the rain splattered heavily, the deluge submerging fields, overflowing houses, uprooting acres of hundred-year oaks reeking devastation upon sacred places of worship... there will be no prayers for countless dead children ruined foodstuffs, or the new homeless whose simple wood and mud dwellings were swept away, useless rubble feeding the torrents... the rivers will recede, lakes will dry even the new marshlands where forests stood all victims of summer droughts, still the tortured earth will yield nothing wholesome -- yet peasants have no options but dream of clemency... after six days [2012.2.5...a] |
arctic exploration is not on the agenda this charming May Day, the blue sky,a rarity lately is a captivating backdrop for floating white puffballs so different than yesterday’s bluster scientists, more qualified than my humble self, try to tell the world that too much heat — as is the case today — accelerates the melting of the vast frigid expanses creating breathtaking icefall as icebergs crash into the freezing waters adding pure sweet water to dilute sea salt in more temperate climates no, I am no Magellan, Vasco de Gama, and no continents will bear my name instead I sit Indian style on my cheery balcony enjoying the calm breeze sipping Perrier, iced from the fridge in a few hours we might speak of chartering discreet corners in the Milky Way, although Hubble is more competent than my small telescope… exploration [2012.1.5…a] Original fifth line: he has an extra layer of fur for the balcony’s arctic exploration Departure point arctic exploration |
I'll whisper one last time "ne me quitte pas" before my last breath escapes with my life a final blessing after these dwindling years "for hope is a cold star emerging at night." its light has dimmed while playing hide and seek among wishes, destiny’s pranks and goodness I rarely fancied the whims of church, state or reason my faith held only your love high enough to cherish I have traveled along strange pathways of change when aurora borealis matched daylight’s grace I have wrestled with nights of disillusioned treason now, upon my bed of weeping, I wear a shroud of lace death consoles me coyly as I board her vessel in the light, those souls treasured in my withered heart welcome me with lilies and other white blossoms a fragrant still-life capturing this last day, I depart this end will soon coax my memories into stardust a blanket of shimmering sleep where I now withdraw I kneel solemnly to recite childhood prayers whispering one last time “ne me quitte pas…” one last time [2012.29.4…a] Special thanks to Cappucine   for the use of her line:“my hope a cold star that emerges at night." |
within the teardrops falling from the sky I float on the dense grey cloudburst as a token of my devotion I am broken in the puzzle of your love I peel off the pieces of my soul one by one trying desperately to erase the weight of my I love you's, my where are you going my I miss you, my please come back that drip like my blood from an IV giving life I am the god of solitude left in the wake of your distance “ne me quitte pas” we need to forget the withering roses those unseen pearls of rain the babble I used to invent for everything thats flees from us now will fade away into the mist of our minds to forget the years that united us those days we never untangled our knotted words forget the hours that were lost...forever lost... in a jungle of make believe memories “ne me quitte pas” one day the rain will cease its torment and we will again wander the labyrinth of your love the beacon of your shining face was my kingdom and, as the sun falls lower and lower, rouging the horizon we are stuck in a timid embrace at a dead-end turning let me become the shadow of your shadow the where-are-you echo of your voice the retracted hand that touched my heart let me stay on the outskirts of your life the shadow of your most faithful friend waiting , next to the window like I have done for so long curled up tight in your tattered armchair remembering... forgetting... and maybe before I fall asleep...maybe... I'll whisper one last time "ne me quitte pas" "don't go away" [2012.28.4...b] Author’s Note: Jacques Brel’s masterpiece song of desperate love, “ne me quitte pas” has losely Inspired this poem. I chose this text because it is one of my favorites. There are many versions of the Brel-inspired song, “If you go away.” Barbra Streisand, Julio Iglesias, and an incredible version by Rod McKuen. The English text here is a great lyric translation, although I do not like the "don't forsake me, please" instead of the more simple and direct "don't go away" or my own "don't leave me." http://lyricstranslate.com/fr/Ne-Me-Quitte-Pas-Ne-Me-Quitte-Pas.html Probably the most famous live version of Brel singing “ne me quitte pas.” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5N0KLu4vfkE |
the pot overflows with peppermint tea a slight hint of vapor, we guess the fragrance the recipient itself, squat with a short spout, is midnight blue, shiny glaze flecked with gold ideograms etched deep into the clay wait patiently to be spoken like dull rust dreams of new shiny metal objects, foreign but intriguingly beautiful, I have never learned their meaning... the pot is neglected, alone on the table, itself draped in simple white lace, the dishes have been removed to an elsewhere contained in my imagination a vase of multi-colored poppies, the afternoon's former centerpiece, set aside against the wall where a trio of Audubon birds sets off the buff yellow of the room, my friend Melody did not know the many varieties of poppies -- nor birds native to the Scottish tableaux... the matching teacups have rejoined the salon, most probably, for their absence is noted, beyond the window there is no sun over the silent crashing sea I wonder if that day was as dreary as now, and whether, when I pour my own green tea this afternoon, I will be alone with the gloom of steaming tea mixed with teardrops falling from the sky translation [2012.28.4...a] |
| you'd leave my heart to the rage of love’s might? flee with apple tart from the caged fighting dove let me hover above, shove this bethroved slovenly wreck, black tack bleck there is bo-jangling song bleating from the locked windows of my princely tower jingle, jinkle, twinkling stars, so far, so far Hollywood chewing gum, bad boy bums from Bollywood, I have won the emerald key to your boudoir, painted in erotic masterpieces of self control, exotic tromp-l'oeil of butterfly gardens in midnight pearly lighted flight, I swoon, a swan Would you, I mean, caro mio, will you? Oh please, is yesterday's echo now our truth? Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir? Please? Shall we boogie-woogie bugle boy shimmy shinny at the local bar, is this? the decadence called love, above in a cloud numbered nine or Chanel Number Five ah, ma petite poupée de porcelaine I've got the hives for you, itching jive thriving on swivelled shryve and chiselled chive-dive razz-matazz New Orleans jazz rhythms of long-playing vinyls, those black spheres virevolting at thirty-three revolutions per minute a cosmic metronome of heartbeats belting out the blues, oh my tender, love me tender, heart unified by sweet feats, we-are-the-champions Olympic meets, cleets, zeets, and, oh bother, mi amor, mien Liebschen sweet apple dumpling pumpkin the week has run out, Friday night weaving my cashmere sweater is ultramarine green what's this about boxing for love's chocolate covered kisses? decked out in glass wishes the pot overflows with peppermint tea the fool’s in love [2012.27.4...a] |
to distill love's magic potion brought by the night I sought shooting stars to push me close to the edge There, at the crater’s misty mouth, a besieging sight: I teetered, caught in a trance, not speaking my pledge such was the longing of an unencumbered man tasting each rose, youthful folly left me with a stain of Latin lover rosy rendezvous, to ban bouquets of hope, rather than forget-me-not feign a wise man once said books were decadent for rainy days when wistfulness tamed my solitary tears pressed flowers, poetry, cupid's love songs, declaiming an empty epitaph for my romantic years there is no perfect age to dream in the sunlight and abandon one’s heart to the rage of love’s might at the edge of love [2012.26.4...a] |
sunburnt and parched I stumble into the oasis' world of dreams in the chilled reflection of the thirst pond my grandfather laughs there, his kindly wrinkled skin grey blue eyes I mistook for my own a voice I was never destined to know ripples like a memory over the water he speaks a language familiar to our bones strange words of a woman taled in legend an Indian squaw caught in a love spiraling her away from a world closer to the heavens and earth his own unknown grandmother I am striped with love and hate violet reds and charcoal blue thick layers of I-can't-do-this and foolish wish yet mostly there is you. what is this mirage, the sly portending from a man dead before my own five decades brought daylight to the blues of my soul? such devotion... a splash frames the muted shade in revery's restless change above I imagine a crow caws a shiny trinket appears a thick gold circle that once held impressions from his hands flakes from his skin, his odor, his goodness details I was never destined to know yet revealed in the mysteries and wealth of love's magic potion brought by the night the oracle [2012.25.4...a] |
moonlight’s sad song forever retains death’s cold breath Let me live in the sunlight, but teleport me to the desert if I must make amends for my folly, callous in love. I know few gay, dainty, sprightly wishful tunes, I am not a singer, nor songwriter, as my muse is often mired in decadence. Wisdom, after five decades of being a smart-ass little boy, has only taught me to live for today's pleasure, a slave to pseudo happiness that is rekindled every week with new adventure, new lies, all  cut into pieces and served in a tall cocktail glass filled with the chilled sweetness of a banana daiquiri  I sip and slurp as we -- my muse and I, of course -- compose ditties unworthy of tweets chez Twitter at midnight.  Oh I am tired of this frivolity. I long for death to entrap  me, wrap me, rapture me  in beautiful funeral music. Be quick! before drowsiness claims me! Oh, gentle gods and goddesses of ethereal harmony that I may hum gladly to your thrumming in the arms of eternity. sunburnt and parched I stumble  into the oasis' dream unconnected reality [2012.24.4...a] |
can we not share the sunlight as well as the clouds? does love not illuminate equally our souls? Oh Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? I have done away with the man who slandered your lover’s name, insanity stains my reason treason to my own heart, pierced and bloodless Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love… the pious monks will humble my need to wander far from you, I will learn to view a different sun fearing more the morning silence than your sweet voice Oh Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? yet deprived of your love I tame devotion’s verse moonlight’s sad song forever retains death’s cold breath from the cloister below the balcony [2012.22.4…c] |
because I would marry my man at the altar won’t you grace me as the stained glass reflects? the eagle’s majesty rules the mountains he is humble before a beast equal to his wingspan though my love has the benediction of my gods my heart welcomes all of you, voiceless vultures crows crackling with black despair and hawks coughing blood from hooked beaks I — the despised, feared and misunderstood — will not hate you making carrion of good stock even though your prayers seem worthless the sky is vast, our hearts beat to the same rhythm can we not share the sunlight as well as the clouds? birds that don’t pray [2012.22.4.] |
I am a man I stand tall, assume my baby-blue eyes my Hollywood grin I am proud to wear a beard long hair, designer jeans I turn heads in the street I pay taxes after a three-piece-suit job memberships at the gym, tennis club swimming pool, library, opera I read three books a month one is always poetry I am a faithful friend they can count on me in troubled times my door is never locked, behind it is garden filled with rose bushes I collect Japanese tea pots give sanctuary to homeless cats I read three foreign language newspapers and travel the world to stop injustice love? you ask will you too condemn me because I would marry my man? one wrong detail [2012.21.4...a] |
we hover today in the sunrise for death cannot touch this love to reach eternity, they bear children nourishing, wasting their own bodies in sleepless nights, worry, love their devotion counts the stars sweet appeal, prayer wise words that heal our wounds beyond our bruised horizon their smiles illuminate our worlds without them [2012.20.4…a] |
| we have no time to gaze past the stars we fear being caught in the evolution of earth’s endless spiraling, should we wander towards the horizon’s pale hued illuminations our eyes are fixed in prayer to honor our ancestor’s who believed in moonlight’s flow — we are fireflies, buoyant, floating in the mists of memory, caught in the space between the rich loam and the dark rain clouds, our life devoted to taming solitude perchance you dream of my strong arms when your sleep-tussled head is poised on the pillow and your breath grows deep — are you not mistress of your desires? sensual companionship is our survival after long days in the fields, do you not ponder the passing shadows to measure the echo of time? love, this noble sentiment, must not be an absent player in your heart, do not turn away from its arousal… as night engulfs you, embrace the power of a tree, sing lullabies with the nightingale for we cannot always fly along their invisible pathways, their twittering will guide us home before morning touch the essence marvelous, wishful a thousand times I have imagined your portrait in the morning mirror and vow to answer your silent calls, learn to mentor, cherish and caress slowly our revolving dance will unite along the same elliptical path we will become our own universe, with moons and suns to light our theatre of life… year after year it will grow brighter and brighter, incandescent as love centers us in its eternity I too have dreamed thrown pennies into wishing wells filled with hope it is not yet time for death to lower her silky blanket over our lives, our songs must ring out against her grasp like a lark’s egg cracking open in the early spring light, the sun’s rays toast our souls as trees grow into forests and rivers fill lakes we have prayed for this life to honor those before us yet if you fear her cold embrace, I will entrust myself with your life warm the chill of your hand, listen to your heartbeat with admiration for I will always be the giver and holder of secrets — your soul mate I have grown into the mightiest of islands to house your fears I will not allow you to die in desolation we hover today death cannot touch this love it is the sunrise a promise [2012.18.4…b] A Haibun, For JulesPaige |
comes yet another beautiful sunrise that whispers boldly of our common tale these continents cannot remain a prize to plunder ivory horns and tusks - we wail the dying Rain Forest, dry fishless lakes and vast blackened petrol poisoned beaches have killed food and hunger in the sea’s wake tsunami swipes man’s penny-pinched riches millions of homeless sleep in cardboard tents cramped in perilous tin roofed shantytowns in drought and flooding, life is quickly spent dreams whither when survival dries and drowns for few, beauty is locked behind gates and bars the rest have no time to gaze past the stars to protect dreams [2012.18.4…a] |
the sweet lips I’m kissing right now evoke dreams of sailing across silent clouds first love and destiny caught us as willing prey enraptured in perfect harmony on the first of May it’s just you and me was our motto for eternity’s sake a blazing trail of happiness even after we wake star-gazed, we buy soda and chips at the seven-eleven we need no spirits to highlight the haze of heaven we’ll build a hill-top house and adopt six children keep memories in a journal written with colorful pens a garden with roses, flowering trees and a waterfall no mortgage sweat but lottery wins to pay for it all together we lay in the shade of an apple tree imagining a future designed to set us free all our dreams were an act in someone else’s time line cinema rich with red carpets and margaritas with lime our daily joy was in a bookstore loft outside the city’s reach and a cat-filled greenhouse, each holiday at the beach none of it matters today, forty years down the road we were young of heart, impetuous, if all be told our life has been a slow waltz, “a whiter shade of pale” another beautiful sunrise that whispers our common tale forty years later [2012.16.4…a] |
the porch light is out at midnight no one waits up, we snuggle in darkness he lives three blocks away, no one waits up for him either the bowling alley was crowded in another kind of obscurity, this not-daring-to… yet my hand brushed up against his scoring our strikes and spares at the soda counter, trying not to melt feeling his eyes follow me everywhere love is simple at sixteen the trouble begins when we realize that other boy-to-boy friendships don’t end in physical closeness will never share this tender budding love to survive, even as we pump iron in the gym we will steel ourselves against the assaults praying daily they will only remain verbal jousts and that some ignorant fist will not spoil the sweet lips I’m kissing right now the porch light [2012.15.4…b] |
how much of my soul have I hidden? I know where its fabric has been sheared and have sewn the scraps into place with the essence of ghost matter and a smattering of over-the-counter satisfaction, communion through feigned stained-glass devotion gives me little matter to coax thought towards inner enlightenment but “this is the true belief” is never uttered as a prelude to exchange, and the blinking light bulbs of my neurons, flipping wildly in a constant Milky Way shimmering to guide me from my personal darkness, can do nothing with dogma that isn’t as simple and beautiful as my mama’s old collie faithfully wagging his tail, an unconditional expression of love when the porch light is out at midnight simple expressions [2012.15.4…a] |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
