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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. )) |
in case of an accident, identification papers: an out-of-date license from a foreign country in case the foreign people need to be warned of death; loose change, a few small bills, keys, (bureau, house, the ex-car no longer driven), in the bottom of the rucksack is a faded rose bud carefully preserved in a small wooden box engraved with foreign symbols, I’ve forgotten where it came from, but know who gave it to me; menthol flavored paper handkerchiefs for the 12-month allergy season, a few paperback books in case boredom strikes or my feet can’t bring me home so I need to take a taxi or a bus, yes the tickets are there too there’s a strange collection of plastic bottle caps, eight or nine, a set of jeweler’s screwdrivers with yellow handles, a police whistle in case of problems with young know-it-alls, a bronze bell from Tibet, dried fruit and nuts if I spend too much money on other stuff, in that case I have to remember to rob the piggy bank before leaving the house again; various maps still have a home in the side pocket even though the cities are not where I currently dwell, postcards never written from those trips the rucksack is filled with memories, its sun-stained canvas is silent earphones and a head set, depending on the out door temperature, to listen to a new-fangled mp3 player with hours of string quartets and symphonies, breath mints of all types and flavors, should I meet someone I know — bad breath can quickly stop unwanted conversations, my teeth are clean but digestive confusion leaves its aura around me; sunglasses, a baseball cap, a scarf if the wind picks up, a dictionary because I’m bilingual but forget words in both languages, an alabaster egg, a wooden duck painted with blue and orange stripes, various utensils for writing stored in a small leather case containing a used inkwell and yellow stationary bearing an address thirty-five years old oh, there are such odds and ends that travel daily in my humble company… next to the gold dragon and an emerald, a third chain around my neck bears a flat black onyx medallion engraved with seriousness, a message well needed before my visit with Saint Peter — it reads “do not reanimate” (ne pas réanimer)… I carry my life with me everywhere I go, I’ve learned not to fight the inevitable things in a rucksack [2011.8.4…a] |
the same washed out blue vest, twenty years old, ironed weekly to a crisp, pockets filled with the items for daily use: a bus pass when hip joints ache too much, glasses for far and near, eye drops, the notebook, this year's opus already torn and tattered in april — impressions fade so quickly now, menthol flavored paper handkerchiefs, an ivory bear talisman, master to a handful of meditation rocks — as close to a religious symbol as he allows — touch that dam too closely and water under the bridge will be the biggest tsunami wave ever imagined, lastly, an old yellowed photo, only one, of a time so far away that youth seemed eternal he still lumbers up and down the same avenues, home had to be somewhere, —there are no other places to go, he stops daily at the same park, direction the gazebo with the waterfall behind it and the uncomfortable stone bench where other couples have engraved their initials, victims to silly puppy love proud, he still resembles that man alone under an elm tree, his life watered down to colorlessness, even if, fifty-five years later, he has never ceased believing in angels under an elm tree [2011.7.4…b] prose poetry |
mon petit ange bleu always made you blush my truth was simple your angelic smile did light up my life your cobalt eyes were as deep and vast as every blue I had every imagined you redefined perfection and crowned me your prince our days together were heavenly our nights were black and white ecstasy yet you could never unpaint the broad primary stripes of sadness from the dreams plaguing my souls, as if loving a blue angel was not destined to last as long as I could continue to breath… you never spoke of your aches and pains printed in your private coloring book or warned me that your love might suddenly explode one morning and fade permanently into your last aquarelle of a man alone under an elm tree watered down to colorlessness I saw then how the last brush stroke erased the color from your eyes and left me prisoner of that portrait alone with the bittersweet memory of my sweet blue angel blue angel [2011.5.4…b] |
“Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness. ” -Maya Angelou, Gather Together in My Name bubble home to solitude, listen to my heart beat discover what makes it throb I resembled a stray cat, and music - its insistent purring – played the role of my refuge no one claimed me among the notes they were black and white ecstasy broad primary stripes of sadness where word songs plunged into silence my soul welcomed their mysterious haunting and I whispered with yesterday's pain laughed at my daily incongruity dreamed like all children did of a future gathering towards a life force responsible for my precious harmony a companion to the less ordinary sounds I might one day find outside refuge... [2011.4.4...c] |
I long for a garden a place to bask in the sun, or meditate under the branches of any tree that wants to call itself home for shade there I will seek no shelter, welcoming any windy path from harmonious concerns darkness gathers over my Eden daunting spirits alight like fanciful fireflies my soul welcomes their mysterious haunting as the first blossoms of jasmine perfume the air I sense joy in this unique moment when answers weave yesterday with tomorrow in my garden I face the stardust while wind songs let me touch heaven counting joys and concerns [2011.3.4...d] For Beth and SummerLyn |
distant, my breath returning slowly like the elliptical journey of the planets I follow you, shadowed in rejuvenating starlight I reach so far away from myself, a prisoner caught in moon rays radiating midnight meditation that are quickly fading between yesterday and today there, too far away now, our footprints in the sand leave a windy path from harmonious concerns about two broken hearts their song a dream of melted candles, a cloud of dust left behind, reflecting in desensitized hope that tomorrow the pain will stop for a brief moment melted candles [2011.2.4…b] |
naked, unclothed, untouched no arms to caress the zones of solitude invisible kisses parch my lips desert dunes hiding each peaceful oasis like starlight, I reach so far away from myself between each midnight and my dreams their chimes conceal a fog emptied of all substance regardless of who answers my call the cloth of my life cannot morph into soothing wools or cooling silks this magic weave remains a plea but I am no beggar in the loom, its threads tightly knotted their color pales into a fuzzy zoom the garment sized for two... a patient wait in a bed downsized by too many extra pillows poorly imitating a warm human presence naked, unclothed, untouched I shiver I am alone a willing partner for a sensual embrace Morpheus, ever faithful, can never return night magic [2011.2.4...a] For Scarlett and her line "May the cloth of life morph into soothing warm wools and cool, silky satins for you." |
temple bells resonate like VSOP Courvoisier in spite of grey-streaked skies east west north south my prayer is complete mortal men can do so much if the divine appears in a sudden moon-striking ray of silvery good luck when the winning lottery numbers resemble those on my ticket then I’ll pray every day regardless of who answers we do all we can [2011.1.4…a] |
eyes indicating some state of still being captured by night I drift between the wannabe sun dance and a child’s delight at me guessing her name it seems buried in a pre-Alzheimer’s memory stick I’m too young for senility’s pranks, but playing with her brings back my own springtime all of her names mean love caught in brilliant cross-over between an Andy Warhol/Mozart eclipse quadra-chrome portraits in black and white sound I have forgotten your birthday guilt hounds at my soul, I find a way to console myself an April Fool’s card hoping your days are not spoiled by rainfall or Japanese nuclear atom-filled dust particles my eyes burn, but I’m easily embarrassed a large coin dropped in a wishing well I want both of us to live long enough for Guinness to interest itself in our longevity finally I extract myself from sleep I am that nameless child playing the same game with my schoolmates inventing pseudo names for myself so no one would learn who I then found myself to be lonely, already walled in lies that only Bach and later Monet could smooth into cloth I felt comfortable wearing the cloth of life [2011.31.3…a] For Jen Marie |
in other cities you people dear to my heart sleep tranquilly, worrying not that my soul is slowly tattering tethered to my fear that one morning I will not wake and the fright of these last minutes of utter solitude will, like a spear tear the silence from my heart my whispered cries unheard the rhythm in my chest slowing towards its rendez-vous with eternity and on that fatal and dreary morning no one will know why my front door remains locked behind the silence no one will be present to shed the tears that might warm the ghost of my departing ember and across the continents where my fondness has strayed no one will remember flowers to decorate my unmarked emplacement at the crematorium simple endearments to guide my erring soul while it still hovers above my love dispersed between my memory and your fading photo album pictures… did you dream of me that night? [2011.28.3…a] |
| Joy and Kåre's blogs. Haven't decided what to write chez Joy, but composed the following for Kåre: i am his thief stealing stones, beetles and crunchy cookies dispersing them as treasures along the slow spring path of the williamson kin trail, from the school to the libraries found in the forest, there i learn of a clearing where their forefathers planted an orchard, sweet pears and apples vineyards facing the mountain's flank tomorrow we will, on our separate ways visit the fish market, i will find cloves and other rare spices, to be paid for with a rhyme and a jig for i am only a thief of his dreams... his thief [2011.27.3...b] A RAOP for Kåre |
i cannot live inside the super moon its light too bright, its rays too distant in my dreams that night i was drinking rum i cannot live inside a mere poem my pen and muse are too often at odds and what would become of ancient broad-wood trees weathered mariners, or faraway realms of magic that a simple love poem cannot touch? i would wander in the words, though, letting them whisk me into fantasy worlds, or Greco-roman amphitheatres overcrowded stadiums, a gilded opera house i would find myself on a victorious mountain top overlooking deep emerald rivers, where, like love-struck Romeo, I would declaim my soul songs and listen to the universe weep never lost on my ethereal perch i would let those words pave my slow return to civilization on roads winding through forests, where, gladly yielding to the temptation of bird song and shadows from the overhanging canopy, i would wonder and i would ponder content to be delayed by this delectable mystery where tantalizing sounds shoot arrows through my heart and double its speed, a twin to starlight am i in love? is this the radiance of last night's full moon? is this power i find in a poem? in or outside of it i know nothing other than i am alive… where i would live [2011.23.3…a] Inspired by Crys-not really here   after today's Poetry Newsletter |
cloudless blue skies, dirt under my nails today the balcony changes seasons sweat-stained socks tumble in soap suds shirts hang in the sun on a balcony rope jazzy improvisations jabber with the wind and the tea kettle whistles like birds call for love I stop to breathe the still cool air, the taste fresh before munching on cookies the broom waits patiently for the last act the epilogue a visit to the trash cans in the courtyard five flights down plants revive quickly in afternoon sunlight rejuvenating buds promise more colors than blue seen at each cardinal point my heart is buoyant, already thriving on springtime thriving on springtime [2011.21.3…a] |
| ...so I'll pen a small haiku... evening fantasy spring colors blue with pink haze midnight promise [2011.20.3...a] |
there is only one empty room where the blue moon creeps before he returns from the orchards at four in the afternoon where a lifetime of cookie crumbs tempt generations of mice oak floor boards creak, ghosts hover and cast lonesome shadows a caress on chips from blue-painted walls polish for weathered thick brass doorknobs beyond one, the closet's dark threshhold still welcomes empty hangers old mud-caked boots on the floor beyond another the garden-side window says goodbye to the lemon tree and the porch swing turns cold north winds into faded creaks of his old photo album the lemon tree [2011.22.2...b] |
the empty house floats around me parquet floors with Persian rugs brick walls hung with original oils hot water floods into a sunken tub vanilla parfumes the air like an orchid pale green tea mists through a glass pot the second cup is empty I am thirsty for the sound of rain clouds gather round the steeple that points towards my nighttime dreams I am a dolphin, a sea horse a falling star a sudden splash startles my reverie a tap of winter's tears on the window and with ripples of pleading the house brightens into a love song loneliness forgotten when the sun almost sets [2011.22.2...a] |
| Catherine's Valentine's poem inspired me. I took another stanza from the same text by Rumi and turned it into the following glosa poem. At night, I open the window and ask the moon to come and press its face into mine. Breathe into me. Some Kiss We Want -- Rumi Alone with my comforter I listen for your whispering, knowing your verse by heart. Among nightingale songs at midnight, I open the window. My prayer would hear your voice remembering this day. Sunlight has faded, so has this promise of love, and I ask the moon to come the stars to illuminate your portrait gracing the wall. I have not forgotten you — I offer my solitude only a chaste kiss and press your face into mine. But oh, when at last we touch after a delicious wait, harmony tunes our discord and your life awakens my wishes --- breathe into me. the breath of moonlight [2011.14.2...a] |
| A poem inspired by the glosa form. Basically, one takes part of another writer's poem, highlights it as the beginning of the new poem and uses each line quoted as a point of development for a new poem which "glosses" the original. There is a small rhyme scheme which I have not respected 100%. The text is not here. As it's a 81 line poem, I have awarded it its own Static Item. For the time being, as I'm looking for reviews, it's Auto Rewarded, so true reviews will earn you GPs!
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| I can't copy a photo here from Mandy's FarceBrook page, but it's the one where the river winds through the forest. Summer asked if I couldn't use her photo as inspiration for a new poem. I have done so tonight. silence has gathered its tethered hush over the abandoned wilderness not yet frozen, a trickle of current conveys the sparkle of december sunlight from east to west, twisting then north to south the riverbed path wanders in a zig-zag through the forest covered in winter's robe, harsh and beautiful a slight breeze carries the spirits of other seasons like the mist of human breath tickling naked branches that reach toward eternity with the silent memories of generations of wisdom's promise night eventually falls and by the moon's silver hues only the cold blanket of snow catches the motionless shadows time, like the ageless river, flows hither and yon casting a glow of destiny towards the horizon of mankind's tomorrow while we wait [2011.8.2...a] |
undismayed, my tears flow they cleanse the loneliness I have imposed upon my body to heal the tension that ails it my mind and soul run free in a monastery bound by vows of silence, their marvels unshared — for I cannot parry the distance that imprisons me from the world I affection I read your simple words and bask in their comfort they are the welcome bringer of tears I am not a hollow man though a dense nothingness surrounds my heart, daily its growing pains thwart the emptiness, and each time I dim my bedside lamps before retiring into the void of sleep — sometimes punctuated by silence often compressed into a mess of turbulence — I too offer a humble prayer that resembles a selfish mantra to the eons of darkness between us I follow a single shooting star and hope that the peace you find in her arms will be enough to help my soul heal as I watch your love unfold while I wait for the day I am strong enough to once again fill my heart with the truest joys of your friendship words need not be spoken [2011.27.1...b] It's rough and I did the first draft on the iPad. But after another fifteen minutes at the computer, my wrist has begun its ritual of pain, so my revision must stop at this point. This is for two people in love, who need no other dedication than knowing how much both have helped my heart to grow. In spite of my enforced silence. |
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