%%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. )) |
| the seven carp do not yet come when named water is their freedom to feast elsewhere, or not fat and buoyant [2019.11.4...] #tanka |
| april rainfall prolongs the fool's day while sunlight hides behind a painted clown's dream cherry blossoms wait [2019.10.4…b] #tanka |
| Wind pushes at everything, tests limits, breaks fragility. Its wailing/screech of tires that night. The forceful sway of bridge cables, snapping like kindling. Freakish falling. Dreams from childhood horror movies, mother wrote our bloodcurdling scenarios and never paid her actors. Her perps taught sado-maso perversion. The whip mark were not special effects. They left solid stripes on my back, lower, private places. No one touches me there – to speak truth is another whip. Trees bleed sap when gusts veer beyond violent. They grow new branches from stumps. I still have nine fingers. From my darkness, I conjured only one storm. My mind was the eye of it. As her car filled with water, she screamed. I made her hear only my voice. Nightmare [2018.29.10...a] Author's note. Although I was a battered child, I never thought about revenge. I don't have that kind of conscious mind. But last night, deliberately trying to come up with very dark prose, this is what my muse came up with. Rest assured, I have ten fingers. |
| Japanese fans tap, a close up of tears shed on national broadcast black was strictly forbidden sixteen eulogies torn from the raw canvas of rouged goblets overflowing with sentiments portrayed at the end of so many operas every color represented splashing rainbows and brassy kaleidoscopes national theatres lent costumes besting grand couturier red carpets poets did not heckle, masked as Greek choruses, their declaiming simultaneous, each with his verse dealt a universal harmonization of life this final celebration coronated with gardens of white blossoms a tour de force of a thousand greenhouses, pollination with tweezers to bear this everlasting perfection musicians played brocaded melodies of minor intervals as acrobats and ballerinas leapt behind the pall bearers unified in turquoise, the color of her eyes when the lights were just so her lips pursed in a fate-defying "I have loved you all in the momentous eternity of silence caressing each of my words, drowned out, muted, overwhelmed by discordant tremolos, yes, I shall love you all in this last breath beyond my death …" Funeral rites for the death of an artist [2017.10.9...a] After the piano piece of the same name by William Alwyn ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** If you liked this poem, please vote for it here: https://thebluenib.com/push-cart-nominations-2018/ |
| I make the long hours race reliving our pre-dawn moments of whispered farewells longing for this effervescence a thousand times and in as many different colors I write I will love you beyond eternity waiting for midnight’s shadows to read to you by Venus’ singular light the might penned by Cupid’s nocturnal flight and hope this time you follow me home lines filled with rainbows of love ( alba, 6 ) [2018.25.6…a] |
| 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 tarnish to unvarnish, to perish to admonish 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 to illuminate even the twisted alleyways left by death's dull light the one gold flower in my garden [2018.10.6…a] |
| another magic hour this one says 22:22 how much happened then? to us sobbing 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? not until we drown in the slow tow of the tide ripping us from ourselves and crashing against our dreams not until 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 [2018.30.5…a] |
| dawn breaks our embrace lingers braving tear's threshold stars and moon give homage to the light in your eyes these moments have overcome my life with the sudden intensity of unexpected beauty will the stars in their eternal lasting grant our humble love another tomorrow? illuminating love ( alba, 4 ) [2018.26.5...a] |
| 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. silent sounds [2018.22.5…a] |
| 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 [2018.22.5…a] |
| you departed to the east your tomorrow I took to the west to remember yesterday last night last kisses to not forget, ever forever I run back to our lake our bench the weeping of our willows moonlight dissipated water stilled from collective shimmering 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 ) [2018.17.5...a] |
| 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" [2018.16.5…b] |
| night empties itself moonlight wanes, stars fade into a larger blue shimmering that breaks against their whispers can this be true? lovers tear themselves from grips of ecstasy and trip on tear-fall loneliness swells into a world haunted by one word farewell when the night bleeds ( alba, 2 ) [2018.16.5...a] 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! |
| those words love? caress? the end of moonlight sweet kiss farewell until the next eve insobriety, lust brings us together again, we must say the words? farewell kiss me again farewell the tips of my fingers mourn your touch the last star my star our star winks out your magic stays to play with my heart my soul farewell unwanted departure ( alba, 1 ) [2018.15.5…a] An alba poem. A poem of lover's separation before dawn; think Romeo and Juliet balcony scene. For more information: https://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2018/may/14/poem-of-the-week-a-small... |
An idea slithers like 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 enhancing roots speak to us of our origins in whimsical and hushed voices. why we want to fly [2018.9.5…a] 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 [2018.8.6…a] 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 unexpected hopelessness [2018.6.5…a] Same exercise as my last entry. Taking a phrase and using each word as the first word of each line in a new poem. Grey's Anatomy. 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 desires? the bright burn of fire [2018.2.5…a] 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.” Macbeth 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 box. 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 about someone 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 invisible 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 [2016.17.10…a] Author’s note: all quotes are from Federico Garcia Lorca Here's the link for the inspiring photo. http://www.rattle.com/ekphrasis/EC16Oct.jpg |
| a branding of emptiness the sting of tears heals so little speak not of time once again it stands still without you who gave me more life now tipped dangerously towards blundering words and emotions a new taint on sleepless nights today I have offered you my last peaceful words a prayer I must somehow learn to believe the moment life stands still [2015.10.2…a] |
 Log in to Leave Feedback |
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
