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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. )) |
cloudburst was a long drawn-out accent whispering a word with too many vowels streets did not swoosh nor did gutters gurgle, pitters forgot to patter, drops had nowhere to plop except in misty memories of a faraway childhood rainy day not even an old car's wipers screeched, rubber against glass no puddles to tempt rubber boot splashes no rainbowy oil-slicked pavement to entice noisy tire squeals what fell, after too many weeks of drought hardly fogged my eyeglasses and was just the nuisance of a wet chill the breeze brought against my cheek my new striped umbrella attended no inauguration today... sounds of rain [2011.28.4...b] |
water is no longer musical holographs imitate fountains splashes are pre-recorded many have forgotten their sweetness rivers run with harsh dissonance rocks and boulders clash like cymbals children do not learn the pitter patter sounds of rain, it comes only as mist if the atmospheric dust does not make it pearl into dirty cheap looking beads we are surprised by documentaries where oceans were high and waves surged in tsunami or lapped gently on sandy beaches astronauts no longer call us the inhabitants of the blue planet we are always thirsty now the human body has mutated, like rats and roaches, survival has molded us into skinny and spindlyness, close to the first signs nature gave our forefathers when water ran low they didn’t listen now only robots can toil the fields humans grow old and die long before they need to be replaced… in a few hundred years [2011.27.4…d] |
| out of sync, they gather to wash their toes in morning dew before donning striped socks a ritual before rotational sleep in the afternoon heat thus shoeless, they sit lakeside and count sunrays that flutter like butterflies painted gray and grim garden buttercups wither between cracks in concrete the later ones, in plastered pinstripes on park benches sip dream-sustaining brews akin to air-freshened gin the midnight work parties invade nearby squares a duck waddles by, followed by another generation of quick ducklets, quacking sing-song- like, blocked by mP3 devices ear-plugged into every human skull the city fountain non-lake sprays smog-dried air, ridiculous humid offering to heal the parched land, we are in april the-year-of-first-great-dryness, water is no longer musical giant wind fans stir up dull air, the humming masks death reclaiming life for the first duckling who topples over, shrivelled unamused, on-lookers fade distinctly into the murky blue sky they all know that rendez-vous with angels are unpredictable months later, when inoperative nuclear plants no longer furnish cooler air, global populations, electrified by one thunderstorm too many, revolt, the luxury of drinking water has exploded the stock market police stun guns bring final relief to quite a few today before 2012 [2011.26.4…b] |
nowadays, there is no more money to pay the distant organ grinder sings an old time hymn hungry children do not know why it’s time to pray the bells ring, nonetheless, yet another day for clean-clothed beggars, noon’s meal in the gym nowadays, there is no more money to pay afternoon is quiet, they sit and count sunrays that flutter like butterflies painted gray and grim hungry children do not know why it’s time to pray as flowers grow from sidewalk cracks, they stray riverside, followed by old dogs, all splash and swim nowadays, there is no more money to pay evensong has chimed, the others hasten away later tear drops wet all pillows, even the grown kin hungry children do not know why it’s time to pray adults have plastic smiles, dressed in monday gray they seek new shelter, once again out on a limb nowadays, there is no more money to pay hungry children do not know why it’s time to pray when children suffer [2011.25.4…c] Form: Villanelle |
the stained glass works of art receive little sunshine, the marble inside is dust-dulled, the faithful arrive only for special ceremonies, in the meantime, there is no money to pay the custodian’s insurance fees should he topple from the ladder twenty feet up, attempting to clean windows I, like many worship in distant words, a faraway ritual of my concocting the pious edifice of prayer only moves me — its physical beauty does not teach patience nor how to leap into the arms of the faith that tomorrow will indeed be brighter because I fold my hands singing alleluia in time with ancient musical cadences that yes, touch a secret place in my heart sunday mornings [2011.24.4…b] |
if you return here once more, the church is covered in fine snow mist, the evergreens are white and the stained glass works of art receive little sunshine, the country- side has been foiled by evil, a pollution no one could imagine during your youth… tulips bloom year round, in bright garish colors not found in a painter's palette, nourished, a specialist tells us, by the strangeness that has brought permanent north winds and a chill to our hearts… our hearths are still welcome places for travelers, though infrequent in these high slopes of your childhood, snow-water makes all the teas green now, a irreversible reflection of the northern skies which flash their borealis decoration year round… our tears flow for the land barren except for the flowers… if you return before our extinction, ring the tower bell for the generations of gods who have abandoned us thus the tower bell is silent [2011.23.4...a] |
When you were here before, couldn't look you in the eye... timid and unworthy, I caught you in my internal photograph, indelible a moment to end time your smile is a re-run of sweet unattainable dreams, a fast, nightmarish touch of reality when I gaze in the calm waters, I see no prince I am a frog who escapes beauty’s reach you, the beholder, run away from my pond frozen in its silver-plated reflection painted in untouched gallantry I am content to memorize your beauty if you return here once more I would offer you a rose without thorns in the eyes… [2011.22.4…c] Author's note: The opening couplet is the opening of Radiohead’s song “Creep.” {embed:youtube:http://http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jzjUjNPYzLg} |
I did not know its power until the first kiss ropes twist and turn jeweled chains tying me to life my prison is your love its four exotic walls chastise my freedom for I have lost myself willingly in the ebb and flow of your moods starlight on a dark beach I err, following the tides mistaking east from west only the seashells hold the echo of happiness secret treasures molded from ordinary pebbles your smile returns a new dawn, all sails raised that flutter in the wind I do not ask to be released until our final embrace bound together [2011.21.4…b] Author's Note: Suffering a migraine, this makes sense to me. Possibly it will need revision in the mo rning. Please let me know if this is the case... |
sea-born clouds rival with air-cast sails kites of colors swirl and whirl gracefully tip between sunlight-to-rainbow under shaded dream-woven vines a fantasy jungle of animation shape-shifts high above the tangle of arms tugging to juggle invisible currents ropes twist and turn create aerial arabesques dance kite choreography and stage Shakespearean drama thrilling spectators at the sea with the dipping and whipping of kites in springtime contest adventure to forget brine and sand normally welcome months later at Berck-sur-mer [2011.20.4...b] Each year in France is an international festival for “cerf-volants” as we call them in French. It’s a three-hour trip from my apartment. I'll miss it once again this year. |
life in the weeping hours swept under shady dream-woven vines starlit ropes in garden rows like silk comforters tightly leash our hope to wake untroubled, beseech daylight, and accept death ultimate decision [2011.19.4...b] After NorthernWrites' idea using magic squares: 6 1 8 / 7 5 3 / 2 9 4 = syllable counts for tercet lines |
from midnight to six creeping between the hours we steep discreet hope naked, closed eyes relax to yoga mantras that eventually dream-catch our souls in search of an absent excitement penned in story books something that vibrates hearts that scintillates souls no pale imitation of life in the weeping hours we wake sweat drenched, frightened invigorated, in love until we find, eyes opened that pallor has returned painting our sun-drenched need in pastel feathers bend in the wind [2011.18.4…b] |
pilgrimage, to holy places or those to expand spirits to encounter wandering shadows on a tea-time oasis among dunes in step they pray, meditate or seek transcendental ecstasy alone, or one of a faithful group, others choose to answer immortal questions evading the ethereal ones seeking prophecy in sunlight, or moonlight for responses to well-drenched quandaries that dream-catch souls in search... destination is not the purpose the long, arduous path, a means to steep personal knowledge, is all encompassing and if a cloud passes they open the water gourd slow down the afternoon pace and attend to a new moment of awe for pilgrims of life, death brings only another answer a final answer [2011.17.4...b] |
a thimble’s leprechaun dust a kiss from solstice’s fading rainbow a goblet of Kilimanjaro snow a phial of Dead Sea Scroll ink the last prayer as she left this world the first prayer as you entered it run naked in the rain, let moonlight wash sin and desire, find the joy hidden in a timid stray cat — essential is to capture the darkest wish to thwart the grasp of destiny gather together these elements to honor and nourish this magic potion a cascading fountain of rare crystal poised under gnarled and ancient bows offering respite from noonday sun a place where bells chime in steady breezes birds come softly to quench thirst and men seeking the unusual come to encounter wandering shadows how to catch the setting sun [2011.16.4…a] |
cherry blossoms perfume the air the park has been tailored for april showers tarry this year under shady elms and lilacs men sit silently in cool light wrapped warmly for the hours they seem to meditate but ponder strategy and feint gray and withered, others newly retired chess players traveling here from the city have come to wait upon patient wooden benches to match wits with elder wisdom of those who have learned how to catch the setting sun catching life [2011.15.4…b] |
a part-time philosopher teller of good fortune un-mountained wise man libraries hold half the answers the other percentage is vague mysterious, unwieldy, savage needing to be coaxed into the light it is what we spend a lifetime trying to sort from the traps we put in front of ourselves men of the good books those who would govern retired chess players those who know more [2011.14.4…b] |
hope was born on a windy day at seven p.m. your sudden smile illuminated the fog of my ailing soul heartache was an ever darkening bruise that starlight could never heal... your hands still try to work miracles but you disappear as often as moonlight on a stormy night and though the ebb and tide of my need you ride the waves of my salvation like a pirate caught between lust for rich horizons and a part-time philosopher in love with ideals on the waves of my life [2011.13.4...b] |
grim sunlight filters through rusty clouds southwesterly gales are the verse of irregular meter that governs the waves the tides of life, a hopscotch game where players stumble too often on the cracks greyish beach sand is untouched by human trails, gulls leave delicate paths among the driftwood where crabs hide their cawing is no song to accompany the wind dunes form, ever-changing, in a telltale rustling appreciated by city dwellers who used to come seeking solace sunset has left its un-brilliant print upon this gloomy day, turning the sky into an ever darkening bruise that starlight cannot heal; far from the horizon humanity screams, mourning yet another attack a desperate earth unfurls upon her despotic masters when waves can no longer console [2011.12.4...b] |
the words of starlight are the secrets lost generations ago, the rhymes of the moon are lover’s promises like the cooing of turtle doves the nightingale brings hope for tomorrow the songs of whales, strangely distant and soft are the keepers of destiny, versed in irregular meter that governs the waves of the sea, who’s movements are mere whims of the moonlight and promises lover too often cannot keep whims [2011.11.4…b] |
do the whales, in their immensity carry the sorrow of human loss in their mysterious siren songs from generation to generation? like their earthbound elephant brothers who yearly mourn their own ancestors do they too remember Atlantis, Pompeii, today’s small corner of Japan all vanished in evolution’s might that devastates thus our paradise? through its sad resonance, has their song become a memoir to our human soul? the songs of whales [2011.10.4...b] |
carefully, I remove it from an indigo silk sheath preserved thus from years of indiscreet questions in social situations where curiosity is a vice I do not care to further; I uncover its small, elegant proportions, like a cameo carved into a wooden marvel of cherry and ebony, my secret box patterned after an ancient alchemist’s model engraved, for posterity’s sake with the beauty of a master calligrapher transcribing in foreign letters, post cards, valentines and other love letters symbols of the lost art form called communication the engraved box [2011.9.4…b] The hidden line today is more hidden than usual: "carefully preserved in a small wooden box engraved with foreign symbols" |
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