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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. )) |
when I follow my eagle this last time finally matching his endless strength we sail over lakes and mountains with spiked peaks and sprightly waterfalls where sun burnt youth, treading lightly unaware of their unworldliness mix dough and hazel nuts for bread from this vantage point close to the gods I watch the fields ripen, harvest with not enough strong arms later rye and wheat blend in fine dust baked to a thin crust on an open hearth I no longer envy their simple life I strive only to keep even wing strokes with my guide who sees all how much of my soul have I hidden? faraway places [2012.14.4...a] |
as innocent as love's wings I have tried to believe to caress the upward motion that I could still fly in your arms earthbound, tied to a chair not a settee for romance I entomb my withering soul and watch it die once more I imagine it floating upward to join those other lost hearts I used to call my own the collection seems unlucky I am too old now for another springtime, winter becomes me better than summer frolicking one day will I drown in your tears? when I find magic in the autumn air sweet songs to uplift my heavy heart instead of feeling weighted by lead maybe I’ll follow an eagle once again lead and feathers [2012.13.4…a] |
| "Glee." The States' most successful TV series about high school, learning to get along, and discovering who you are. We should have had something like this to inspire us in the 60s and 70s. This poem is inspired by last night's episodes, a season late, broadcast in France. More or less when Kurt leaves the Warblers to return home. we must follow alone freedom is calling softly six or eight feet, single file would reassure me more than two my best choice would be four do you know who I am? straying so far away from where I've been you appear, radiant strolling down the hallway with a guitar singing about Broadway’s allure I am the lonely boy stuck in a wheelchair I wear shoes as if they were useful I dream of love, like you where I have been I can never return we're all winners always forgiving our first love’s errors someone only we knew so well collects stuffed animals and is afraid of the dark one day we learn to smile again if I cry tonight it's to say thank you you have shown me out of solitude’s way here is my world, come join me let's pack our bags and run away today belongs to us we are not too different varsity football captain and the fat bad-ass girl together we turn all their heads when we sing, when we jive especially when we kiss i told you I'm as sad as a baby panda you're my songbird, when I hold your hand everything is bright I will love you until my heart explodes you think I haven’t heard the rumors please don't ask more questions we live in a motel, five of us you brought me tears a guitar out of hock my story must remain a secret between us they sing about broken hearts sweet voices of their duets oblivious, time stands still for a month make a wish to grow old together I would die for you that news, the stuff I said I can't broadcast it live how loving you breaks my heart I must pretend girls only love boys I don't know yet how to make you my strength his body dances, speaks of sensuality the music is slow and soft his favorite pillow talk words are mon amour, mon chéri cigarette smoke, blue and red pens a love poem folded into an origami bird he isn’t afraid of who he is they flounder with love treading upon these eggshells they too are novices at life yet as delicate as a first kiss they embrace tomorrow as innocent as love's wings a dozen in love [2012.11.4...c] |
as we try desperately to find happiness, pain becomes our best friend we drink whiskey swallow little blue pills invent new addictions spend hard earned fortunes in new age techniques mantras and meditation zeal we fast for weeks on end and each of us touts a different truth new-fanged ideas worth millions self-help videos, slap-stick laugh therapy, street shrinks spout mumbo-jumbo like fountains of youth stained in sentimental turmoil once in our lives, every one is caught in the restless jungle of emotional vines, bellowing with a sense that, “by god there has to be something else” to ease our woes we overflow in offerings, praying to diverse happiness idols and over paid gurus pain slaps mortals into wise men it's a long treacherous path we must follow alone how to fight [2012.10.4...b] |
a sunrise will grace me with my true self its sunset vision paints the same colors but the image is inside out, upside down reflected in so many various circus-mirror ways that I never know what part of me is truly the essence, or only my imagination of who I have come to be… so it was grampa’s glass plate negatives of photographs, the colors were inversed, white being black, green-reds and yellow-blues and so on and so forth, you get the picture, there is every spectrum from the rainbow in our smiles, the color of or skins or our hair, and our soul-mirror eyes, their pupils lose their color at night when they dilate, our black hair turns silvery white as old age returns us to something resembling childhood, new meets old, wrinkled wise ones greet sweet-smelling toddlers, both with shaking arms, life meets death, poverty becomes a richness for the lucky, the reverse is rarely true — a sad side effect of capitalism — and love, ah yes, love, that most valued treasure of life love should never veer towards ugly hate, we are at war with peace, its useless death unbecoming as we try desperately to find happiness through pain day and night [2012.10.4…a] |
I lay no claim to these words without a river of tears this well of inexpressible emotion swells in my throat an impassable moat between this castle, my heart’s keeper and the torrent of sadness that crosses the forest nothing is expelled, no delicate sounds, no murmur my chest heaves in grief, my being is cleaved into more delicate pieces than a master's jigsaw hidden deep within this labyrinth, those words so rarely enticed into fresh air or moonlight I am not a disciple of the sun's clarity I am a poet of the night, not an actor, I declaim no language of love or sorrow though I know music and song, twins who move me deeply into weeping… ask me not the reasons tempting this salty flow my silence cannot bear your sweetest sympathy along the stark banks, I am shaded by willows of fear they are mossy barriers I dare not caress perhaps I am a warrior seeking a brave stallion to carry me deep into my own territories where I can battle the shadowy remnants of love and tame its three-word prayer into a beautiful duet which, like a sunrise, will grace me with my true self to tame three words of love [2012.8.4...c] |
| like a thunderbolt, it was there and gone my life buried deep, forgotten ice froze over my heart, never to thaw under the basement staircase in my dead mother’s house, there are four or five cardboard boxes and a large turquoise trunk, the first twenty-five years of my life are hidden away in relative darkness, I can’t really be precise about everything I have horded in these containers, I have forgotten so much, old books, a few photos, my chess set, lucky playing cards possibly my early-adolescent poetry has been reclaimed in their midst, my marble collection is surely present, rolling around silently in a felt bag, the first music scores — Beethoven Sonatas and Chopin Nocturnes — I bought with my pocket money that did not find their way into the heavy music-filled suitcase that split open like a ripe pumpkin on my journey to the other side of the world that fatal year, fatal, because I have rarely looked back before the turning point of my existence, rarely, because there was so much pain in those early years, pain of the accepting-who-you-are variety and the myriad of secrets you had to keep to remain sane, sort of there used to be a few drawings made timidly in charcoal,0 naked trees in winter, which are still my favorite they have now been lost in my own junk collection taking up so much space in my tiny over-crowed three rooms here in France, there were knickknacks and a picture of a clown that made me cry for hours twelve years ago when I had the courage — and the opportunity — to select a few precious items that would cross the Atlantic with me for the last time, that clown in small red square frame was not the first gift from a lover, but one of the most important ones, my old vinyl record collection, my first recording of Pelléas and Mélisande sent to me for my sixteenth birthday by my first boyfriend, a college senior who was so sexy and cool, others records, yes we called them that then, long before Cds, I simply couldn’t sell in a tacky garage sale set up to add cash flow to my grandmother’s estate when she decided to go live in a nursing home: that summer we earned a mere two thousand dollars part of the objects of my life, those deemed valueless, brought me a paltry three hundred — I rejoiced then for I was broke — but now, yes today’s now, not that callous moment my family decided to get rid of my grandmother’s life memories, what is money when I no longer have memories, even if they are stacked carefully in boxes and a turquoise trunk? my mother is dead now, as her last will and testament, she felt justified to bequeath me nothing, no memories, no family albums of my childhood photos, the childhood handprints, the small objets d’art she always promised me would decorate my home, wherever it was in my rapture, remembering that somewhere a part of me still lives in boxes and a turquoise trunk I must say farewell, a rupture so painful I do not sleep at night and cannot say these words without a river of tears boxes and a turquoise trunk [2012.8.4…a] |
he was not at the end of a shooting star or beneath the razz-matazz of fireworks those were memories of many years-gone-by when he sprinted spryly today his gait stumbles and halts we’ve spoken about his pauper’s status hip replacements are not deadly concerns like hearts, kidneys or cancers I see him at any hour of the day its just a stupid bus stop across the wide avenue damned new buses with no numbers visible from the other side of the street gotta arrive early at the stop to see a number on the window’s right corner could be just a two-fifty-eight or a one-seventy-five even if I had a stallion’s legs what if I raced for the wrong one? I often see him hail the driver stuck in the pedestrian zone impatient to cross I can’t be lumbering about in the middle while trucks and sporty models speed by so I wait for the green man to tell me it’s time to push these aching joints to an uncomfortable pace, slow but sure dear god, I’m always out of steam right or wrong one, the bus never waits I watch him hurry just in case I hear his hateful exclamation as he joins his first destination shit, the one-sixty-three his frustrated screech is no pious glory alleluia like a thunderbolt, it was there and gone the one-sixty-three [2012.7.4…b] |
moonlight is no longer my salvation I am not yet doomed, god has abandoned me to these hundred years of suffering he has ignored my last prayer my granddaughter in her youth, speaks of repenting, relentless devotion and goodness as and ultimate heavenly goal she does not understand the hell of immobility and Swiss cheese memories when I waltzed and mastered every trump it was I who taught her belief, the joy of hymns and stained glass communion of like-minded souls seeking whatever it was we sought in the zeal of our formative years but the hundred and one milestone twists a solemn soul down a dark alley beyond enlightenment's grasp and the soft luminescence I once perceived that shimmering silver — almost white — has deserted my mortal dreams forcing me to mark time’s slow decline an unwilling witness to my inexorable dimming without the final crash at the end of a shooting star my final reward [2012.6.4…a] |
can my heartbeat drum a path to eternal music far from you, to a reuniting my soul is shattered a hundred-fold in this one place we never discovered but to lose myself in the fragrance of lilac and azalea death is not my option waterfalls woo my cooling blood in this choice to embrace forgetfulness on this island paradise my feet tread my senses towards delights only you relished I was always blind until your joy led me reminded me of life the warmth of your love has abandoned the sunlight moonlight is no longer my salvation to lose myself… [2012.5.4…a] |
my voices reign in silence the strange people have cast aside their fondness for exciting gray matter their words have faded to no longer admonish or coax with coy repartee no more murmuring internal blizzard creates turmoil upon the mime of my mind white nothingness surrounds me an infinite visual stimulation yet I cannot count the flakes nor revel in their diversity snowfall also reigns in silence this storm which numbs my brain is a first warning a demise for my never-ending story if my voices have deserted me can my heartbeat drum a path to eternal music the warning of silence [2012.4.4…a] |
I have epitaphs to sell death outlasts life in barrenness where salt-poisoned rivers snake in labyrinths through sandscape beauty is a souvenir I have stories to tell unbelievable tales, fairy dances falsehood spun to spurn eternity but the songs of the wind are silent outstretched over the graveyard I stand tall and gnarled, twisted and proud I alone have survived a hundred decades my strong limbs battle the elements’ disdain they leave shadows as vast as the horizon my heart-shaped leaves wither twice yearly the first are pale like the moon’s reflection the second blaze like blood-fall my flowers are like extinct snowflakes death’s tears nourish my roots they reach bedrock where dreams linger and I, the last witness may never sleep I have secrets that quell endless days of blinding light like love’s destiny carved deep weeping words pierce my bark children die alone generations of ghosts there are no more epitaphs to sell my voices reign in silence the last witness [2012.3.4…a] |
wishes of a poet trying to avoid foolishness my lifetime verse is listed in reams my fingers whisper only pianissimo songs dying like other dreams quickly vying for death’s grace who will recite simple prayers for its eternal soul when I cover it in soft loamy earth? wild violets planted in ceramic under a glass bell poised atop a marble tombstone, purple like the bruises clawing at my soul pain does not… allow my freedom the least movement jars each nerve overdose or amputation might kill temptation I cannot write brushes only paint in abstract splashes music, that once sparkled with two hands has become inaudible sound spoken with a shaky voice caught by posterity’s microphone I have epitaphs to sell the silent hand [2012.2.4…a] |
| April first bangs its fist against showers and colorful flowers in a tempestuous home-coming and a slight fight with winter’s worst chills the cat scratches at the window like a crazed banshee he has an extra layer of fur for the balcony’s arctic exploration or the simple genetic expression of wild bird chases after dissipating the morning haze, the sun tries for brightness skies veer towards a tint of jazzy blue-without-blues but I will wear wool to the market gloves and scarves to break the wind's cheerfulness the season to be jolly has gone although Scrooge has returned he forgot fire and brimstone and the devil's ashen thunder scheduled complaints in July if frogs don’t fall from the sky Mother Nature has been kidnapped by a single-nation-consortium of ultra-right-wing-religiously-reborn-politicians-cum-fanatics holding out for the highest interest rates in Zimbabwe, will blizzards admonish the poachers today? will record setting sweltering melt the glaciers in Iceland? will monsoons turn the Sahara into a soggy playground? the Baskerville Hounds will howl hear them and cringe, for disaster abounds half-life dust from Fukushima and Chernobyl and Hiroshima’s remains slowly shred ozone layers the dwindling Amazon forest cancers Earth’s lungs Apocalyptic threats of end-of-time cauterize New Year’s merriment terrorist world strife forewarns wars for religious domination the poor munch on bread, drink unclean water, sleep in tents the rich — smother them in their pillows made of gold — no, fuck the rich, they should taste the progress of rape they will dream of twin towers inferno as death covets their treasures they didn’t reflect on slight irregularities plaguing the global thermostat blinded by millions just like true love to deem life would remain sweet and simple is out of style mile-high wishes of gentle poets trying not to be fools... not so far off course [2012.1.4...a] |
calf cramp screams seamless sleep thus suddenly creased hobble back and forth cringe, supplicate, swear pummel, massage, curse louder then the second untimely plague latent fairy dust gifts a spell of snorting, sneezing in pairs, triplets, lost count in the wake play dead, sit in a chair, stare at the wall puffy, rheumy eyes, nose a fountain sheets are drenched, cold as a coffin impossible to imagine their former comfort dizzy uneasiness renders everything immobile like the dead eternal rest, a cozy nest if sleep is part were still on the slate now famine claims a plate, a mug from a kitchen raid hovering back to spoil the snack a fleeting image of gnomes captured Morpheus speaking rhyming riddles in Cyrillic hieroglyphs out damned spot, bloodied Spock Ophelia, not Uncle Vanya, declaims "I am Puck" spinning, clinging, infringing internal folly stopped at three-fifty, nothing else starts the night had a host of hazy stories almost forgotten in the barrenness of this starless and sunless morning brimming, like a cauldron, with sleepless inactivity tempestuous wake [2012.30.3...a] |
| rambunctious wind sprites have returned, swinging with Puck-like sauciness against window panes, clanging metal chimes and rickety wooded bridges in noise-laden imitations of splash-fallen ricocheting rocks in a gurgling river the rain certainly invades somewhere else, redundant like thunder fields for food cry out and cringe against the onslaught of desert-like blistering not to be offset by the turmoil of water crashing from black clouds indeed they swerve too quickly along unchartered cardinal points to unleash their fury, these impatient goblins of whirling havoc dreamland will be a blustery wilderness with symphonic restlessness yet I will sleep well... lullaby [2012.29.3…a] |
I am drowning in a small corner of the sky where the moon sinks behind cloud slivers its intensity scatters briefly no sadness possesses the night confident it remembers birdsong blue and golden warmth and shares the wind so joy may cavort between hearts my friends walk on desert sands on edge-of-globe islands in countrysides where trees outnumber men I am this window's unique homing pigeon I have honed the art of waiting into my own still life mirror while night and day alternate their shimmering smiles someday loneliness will implode I will fly free follow each wind's destination and breathe without fear for the first time to take wing [2012.28.3...a] |
rosebuds have not yet begun to open my cup is half filled with cold tea in the steaming sunlight, dust flutters as a gnat suffers capture in a gossamer web spun between thorns elbows grate on bread crumbs from the table I wait patiently for a single white petal spring patience [2012.26.3...a] |
I witness the monotonous blackness of night where is this quaintness called sleep? starlight, hidden by the city, should be the backdrop of dreams insomnia (take 327) [2012.21.3...a] |
| red sunlight leaves dusty stains on a shimmering path between the rooms adieu from the west sweeps through in a slow kaleidoscope waltz sunset on a Monday [2012.19.3...a] |
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