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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. )) |
hell’s darkness invades the sky, anthracite and coal layer the clouds with the rumble of thick menace rain crumbles with an oppressive thrumming that consumes chaos within a whirlwind screech of devilish ferocity, its angry howl a harsh wet battle that infiltrates life’s cracks in a growling stench of autumn’s late decay green leaves wrenched from supple branches snapping, delicate flower petals brutalized… on the horizon, a heavy glow of pink resistance unrelenting contrast [2010.23.8…b] |
banana and rhum smooth sun-gray sky blues our rock collection rules all corners shelves and table tops, beneath, mottled dust strains to rival contemporary canvases rain-white sleet pings against windowed pains visions with sentiments I cannot frame destined to remain salt-dried sediment, while my heart throbs from a thunder clap awakening electrified by your center stage departure, alone I count tear-blurred stars without believing in wishes rocks and stars [2010.23.8…a] A first text for
Ten-line poems are not easy, and I'll be writing a large group of them in order to have a wide choice to submit to Joy's contest. |
| tango in the night tango filled with stars stars light for your eyes stars shadow my fear fear not fear only not loving me me thinks me for you is our motto motto mottled in stucco motto painted over our hearth hearth, heart, heat hearth, earth, ear ears which do not hear ears only for my songs songs, you are my angel songs for tomorrow’s light light trades shadows light evades mystery mystery, tell me my secrets mystery, tell me our truth truth in your eyes truth, to trust my tears tears of joy tears of longing longing for yesterday longing for this challenge challenge me to return! challenge me to leave you! you, life’s center you, life’s end end without death end without my angel angels float angels occupy our cloud clouds smile clouds laugh laugh, my love, can you laugh without my love? love challenges love is my strength strength to leave you strength to return return to the haven of your hearth return to the simple dance dance, fair troubadour dance like the Milky Way way to mourn your heart way numbed from my sleeping pain pain heart… the heart’s tango [2010.22.8…a] A Blitz Poem after an idea by NOVAcatmando  http://blog.writersdigest.com/poeticasides/2010/08/16/PoeticFormTheBlitzPoem.asp... |
I am the wind the sound of my voice quietly evoking yesterday dissipates like the clouds I fade slowly into the shadows beyond the valley of promises my ashes will only add a gritty dust to the clutter of cardboard boxes an unopened résumé of my life abandoned in a distant nephew's garage because of all those who ignored my death I remembered him best we never whispered together our voices perched between secrets but his charity will not allow him to relinquish a dead man's wish though that too will vanish a silent shimmering evocation lost in the wind I am the wind [2010.15.8…a] |
after the desert dryness of an inhospitable land monsoon torrents defy man’s memory and transform life into survival within an apocalyptic decor of mudslide that entombs destruction and distress wailing exceeds the millions of souls who explode the homeless population deep within the hospital ruins the timeless ones quietly try to save a fragment of humanity more than hope remains unreachable to them amid the chaos of human desolation women call out with an unnamable suffering no medicine, no love can relieve where death reigns [2010.14.8...a] |
artificial air currents gently sweep east to west from the stucco wall to the stone-framed fireplace the Rhone banks are crowded the city hall fountain needs cleaning thus a great solution for wetness is my sunken bathtub already filled and emptied twice perfuming the air with lemon outdoors is no alternative for blue skies reflect too post-card perfect with the eye strain of blatant summer sun content, I remain in the relative shade of the top floor apartment windows tempting the air, trapped willingly with a liter bottle of bubbling water, a hundred grams of roasted almonds a book about a wild sheep chase and several people magazines saved from the dancing waves of last week's holiday at the beach... anchored calmly in my cocoon I wait for nightfall to once again stargaze in my dreams wrapped in a cotton print sheet the ventilator humming at discreet to ward off sweat-related nightmares staying cool after the beach [2010.9.8...a] |
| cast on my doorstep three brightly colored pebbles no rough-cut jewels they appear as gifts strangely discarded objects like pre-autumn leaves each day I find three gifts for meditation's hold a child's lost marbles I choose a clear bowl arrange the stones artfully they number eighteen splashed with cold water they form a fishbowl's landscape or a riverbed there, all rocks glitter washed and swayed by streaming will where I swim alone my clothes sun-drying water offers zen balance like summer blue-gold cloudburst suddenly I run naked in the rain captured in wetness I tarry slowly nature's caprice delights me without umbrella new colors beckon on return, my doorstep shines watery gems wait gifting pebbles [2010.8.8...a] Chain Senryu |
ultimate midnight time suspended in a single shooting star wishful hesitation to caress the shadows guarded by the yellow clad hermits found deep in mountain secrets from summit to summit they resonate the rhythmic bongs that herald dawn acclaiming the golden hued power to blossom hope from the long dark hours of meditation in a single breath [2010.7.8...a] |
the lamp is broken wooden base chased from its wicker pole by old age, the shade casts no more hazed light to illuminate his midnight lecture our outcast lantern thrones darkly atop the dirty laundry chest reminding us of the bedroom’s dreariness… I leave him retired to the plush salon armchair his body pillow plumped for added comfort he hopes to finish "Millenium, Tome Deux" I have not unveiled Lisbeth's fate later if my dreams grate against my peace I may find him caught by slumber the book creasing his chest not a rare occasion, though tonight darkness will shroud my sleeping hours until tomorrow, when we will choose Ikea or Pier Import to replace the discreet incandescent shadowing that will remove gloomy corners from the room where I sleep and he tries nightly to read broken lamp [2010.6.8...a] |
he stares with childlike wonder at the infinite sky water billows against the boat clouds form in stylish waves above impossible to gaze in every direction he must select the beauty that marvels his eyes blue-silver shimmering laps at a distant rocky coastline gulls hover, a dolphin swaps air for water, a tiny island appears to the west where unexpected colors somber and bruised join the horizon, cloud-layered now with a mobile storm, unrest flashes only as silent lightning of summer heat illuminates the darkness gathering where brilliant sunlight fades to an early glimpse of fall's paleness the boat sways, wind chastises the sails that swell, push ahead arrival later than the brochure’s schedule safe in the busy fishing port... rain never falls, electrified by cloudburst his wonder complete, he chooses a water-side restaurant hours later melon and prosciutto as antipasta he sips rosé wine while delighting his companion with joyous drunken tales infused by his youthful, fertile imagination what might have happened on a shipwrecked island during the first storm as Crusoe's new man Saturday.... the sea's afternoon [2010.5.8...] |
I wait, yet once more, for revelation… photographing for my own memories the silent, invisible prayers of thousands who have never trespassed worthy and uplifted in their praise of the heaven's kings, godly sons and disciples I am held breathless by the perfection in the details of spirituality moving each heart, mine included as it steps into the quiet light of marble or the coolness of stained glass here, imitating piousness I honor this beauty as I may with subtle details I capture discreetly on film for they will not remain embedded upon the empty well of my heart and soul leaving an tangible imprint a stain, like divine grace coloring my disbelief into a permanent ecstasy to search for a different light [12010.4...a] |
| like a mountain torrent words so clear, inescapable our minds like an hour glass meaning drifts from one half to the other the sand cannot clot, no rain can spoil its perfect dance the case is a polished diamond reflecting every possibility unbreakable a bottle cast to sea waves, corked expeditor's full address a simple message slipped inside if i ask no questions... one day there will be an answer a stranger calls on my shady doorstep attired differently than my people a warm, inviting smile, bottle in hand my heart wavers throbbing I never imagined beyond the happy end a reincarnation of the daylight is it the summer's warmth or the joy of holding your hand I am topsy-turvy in love a rainbow that captions a stormy sky and when I speak the miracle is the whole world listens simple words [2010.19.7...a] |
| overlooking the chalet the mountain summit has vanished in the thick promise of wetness like an elder, head in the clouds it abruptly disappears in whipped cream pondering the inclemency that claims the summer air we, familiar with its contours know every missing bolder and crest, and beyond its northern face, rain falls silently imagined easily by the blackness of the sky here below, the vineyards are verdant and our balcony is flowered with bougainvillea hibiscus, begonias and geraniums their feminine colors contrasting the dark wood of the walls and the brown-orange tiles underfoot birds cluck impatiently waiting for the storm, the trees sway and dance in supplication and I, ever ready, have powered my camera to flash the anger as it resonates over the valley hoping to catch the ultimate white of nature’s fireworks summer artistry [2010.17.7…a] |
| unlike the blank page , a white screen hovers, mocking us without even the former buzz of TV snow deprived of quick amusement disappointed and quickly irate we rap on the box, hopeful, yet no nimble spirit reappears while we stare at its nothingness others sharpen pencils and empty trash of useless but useable crumpled papers who thinks nowadays about good book substitutes? bother the inconvenience of this mess of vacantness today’s machines don't hum or purr like twenty-year-old iceboxes or the lawnmower carefully oiled each summer, yet waiting for the screen's animation, the grass grows savannah high and ideas float in the pictures clouds form all forgotten when tiny bells ding: you have new mail.... screens [2010.16.7...a] A Random Act Of Poetry for Teri |
| ten years is a long time the ocean waves still separate us, uncounted moons sun rises, shines, sets… i’ve stopped looking for shooting stars a true unbeliever now i don't know why the days no longer have numbers there are no special ones among them if you sang for me, i never heard words rustling in the wind, even in thunderbolts maybe your thoughts and prayers were too timid to fly along time’s borders towards me there were no promises — you could not have kept them, are you that heartless? i too am selfish, for you do not welcome my lovers… your home has become your fortress instead of a family haven comfort? i find it in other arms, although i don't cry for the loss between us who would hear my mourning? do you weep at night with my yellowing picture? i remember your rare smiles, the moments they spoke of truth… i have no hearth to lighten my heart in ten years life has stopped… ten years [2010.15.7...a] |
| I’m a fool in front of the camera the lens captures only my nonchalant inability to be natural people watch, I freeze this brilliant idea was to say hello video style, to virtual land i.e. internet in any language but I get tongue tied and French and English get mixed up, every other parole comes out as a word bathed d'un fou rire, and great belly laughs are the perfect way towards the camera-man screaming “take seventeen!” (I tried, I really did to imitate Clark Gable, suave and serious, but Salvador Dali took over...) behind the iPhone he said to write my text — anything coherent and sensible — decide what to say once and for all (winging it freestyle with improvisational jazz overtones just gets more an more comedic…) memorize it, like TV speakers I mentioned prompters and he said no way, so the would-be modern means of communication is reduced à un petit mot d'un poète poetically penning vacation post cards (a holiday in any language bon voyage et tutti quanti did I say we're off to Tuscany next week?) trying to say hello [2010.14.7...a] |
| placed between parentheses, I wait upon earth-shattering events to chronicle I strive not to stifle my creativity trapped at the wrong end of the equator mosquito bitten, baptized the collector of berries the twin rivers give sweet refreshment and after three months, I have gone from welter to featherweight with daily promenades a sweaty two kilometers to the beachfront, midway a jazz pianist breathes swarthy song into similarly sweltering air melting the silence the road quiets of carts and vendors, his improvisation lazy like the clouds afraid of spooning even a drop of water onto the parched earth below, a hymn of this civilization hammocks sway, my papers stuck to my wet chest eyes bleary from the torpor yet under these tropical heat waves there are grapevine words that tremor of an organized native upheaval imagining rights to the rumored western ways I wait, sketching faces and postures my stock of pencils is waning they tell me my blond hair brings them luck so they all sit patiently, humming unrecorded melodies I become their historian, faithfully setting my own life aside, punctuated by the eclipses of their smiling faces before the pencil stubs [2010.13.7…a] |
| Creamy ivory white pages. Blank. The ink is a succession of thoughts, invisible, forgotten. Dreams not yet born birthed in silence. Flotsam on the shores of a deserted island. Our love, a slow decrescendo escalating out of control. A spiral of tears, a forlorn fumbling of mid-life. I am a beggar, choosing other relics from dustbins in the chic neighborhoods. Or a naughty child, punishable. A recurring fantasy, the truth is gone. Am I asking you once again if you love me, did I say it? Once more I mouth the same. No, it didn’t used to be that way. We ran on that beach, isolated just for our communion. I am no one any longer. Will God retain my soul when I die? I drink from a blue bottle containing your tears. I am a sieve, maintaining nothing. Dust. Sand. Slowly I will forget you. Do you love me still? I have forgotten to write the words, today, Chilled, I wear three wool sweaters. I look at the calendar. November. I don’t remember Halloween nor the reason a red B decorated the twelfth day of august… Bella? Bernard? Do you still love me? There are shelves of matching books filled with my handwriting, it seems younger, more sprightly. They all have the same colored pages, some speaking of dreams, hopes, scenes from a life I cannot remember. Do you still love me? When I was a child, I rummaged through the neighbor’s trash. There was a blue shirt with an eagle embroidered on the sleeve. I look at my tattooed arms. The same. Its colors have faded. Do you…. at the end, we all forget [2010.12.7…a] |
| exit from the shower delicate ping of wood on brass a song of encounters strangely pleasant indoors the breeze displaces dust windows and shutters creak it’s almost cold on my naked skin heat storms cull the air’s freshness disguising the mugginess in friendliness when the strikes-and-spares booming begins and the blue-to-black transformation swells with lighting effects of a fluorescent nightclub finally afternoon sleep will dull my senses deprived too often by hot and humid nights while in a frenzy the wind chimes sing of freedom rainfall, a childhood lullaby lulls me into safety when she used to sing [2010.11.7…a] |
| the scar on my forehead is a thin line the others, deep and mysterious are buried under the blazing light of another continent, where I was just a number to be extracted from existence today, i drift from smile to smile sharing a kiss only under the full moon closeness belonged to another life i have my stories, ghostly and precarious, they arrive with candlelight and wine when curiosity peaks and each man cries out when caught in their spell terrors of my past… my tears are dry and spent my voice calm and too matter-of-fact for their comfort, I speak of independence and suffering when there is nothing on the table they nod, as if they truly understand my tale and pose a warm hand on my shoulder thinking to comfort what should still be my distress in response, I tell them each of our lives is a piece of tomorrow’s puzzle but mine is merely the shadows cast by the clouds masking the thin line of the horizon a question of comfort [2010.10.7…a] |
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