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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. )) |
| the wind whispers between our sighs it gently fills our silence with secrets to tell in the turbulent storm of our new desire our torn souls must be cleansed hesitating, we cannot ignore the wounds for love has learned to growl in our hearts I gaze on your ethereal peace, you are my treasure an angel to heal the spaces of doubt so often tortured tell me how you tire of finding new ways to hide I offer my arms, my tears and my questions your answer, like a sunny day, does not tarry together we may imagine the nakedness of honesty and when our souls no longer hide we may speak freely of love when the soul no longer hides [2010.9.7…a] for The Asking Boy |
| in the heat a young man fans himself with a newspaper, he sprawls, lethargic, sweating fluttering the thirty-five degree centigrade air in faux freshness, an empty water bottle stares at him abandoned on the seat facing the opposite direction the train is rush-hour packed, surprisingly silent my packages sit at my feet, selfishly I gulp fruit juice purchased in parched urgency from a scandalously overpriced newsstand, on of many traps for thirsty tourists and city dwellers, alike, who, while wandering the commercial streets close to La Madeleine had already swallowed the liter of icy water brought from our dwellings… I avoid ice cream on the street smile at two Chinese children sporting “I love Paris” rainbow-striped umbrella hats and notice others lounging in cafés under parasols or mist machines… soon enough I’ll be home under a cool shower spending the evening wrapped in the still humid bath towel hours later, when the sky has lost all its blueness the languid heat clings to the city, and sleep treats no one to rest, I water my plants, indoors and out counting new geranium buds fully opened by the sun’s glaring afternoon heat, now there is no moon, the stars hide among the city’s smog, the streets are silent and muffled lazily, I push aside the unopened parcels littering my bed and lay atop the sheets, waiting for morning’s freshness afternoon in the city [2010.8.7…a] |
| i remember, slowly, like the sunset color comes and goes the souvenirs return, tearless i didn’t suffer that day, too unreal was your exit from a world we both mocked… your laughter never a care, the entire earth was your friend not immediate family, no shrink talked to me about the shock of violent death i don’t suffer now, your name is tucked inside of my heart, a protective teddy bear… we had changed mutual friends by then, even so, no one could have told me if there was agony… in your last moments… was the water frozen… did you survive until then? no, of your suffering i knew nothing… i do not know if angels talk of these earthly details, and when i join you in our new moments of eternity, if your answers will be important between us… until then, your name has the echo of sunrise no suffering [2010.7.7…b] In fond memory of Joe Martin |
| This isn't completely new, so maybe I'm cheating. Here's a variation of yesterday's theme. Cat mentioned combining the last two poems into a singe opus, the "Joyce" style working well for extra clarity. I've started the process, but the central part here about Joe (a true story) gets in the way of any idea I can have for making a single memoir style poem of the two. I'll post something new if the day's migraine lets me. Six buttons to sew, silly for a pianist all thumbs with tiny needle eyes. Choose among diverse colored threads? Dicey. Meantime eight more shirts somersault in soapy water. The machine hums gaily. A familiar melody. No iron. No wrinkles equals my hands pulling cloth taut, next, fit ‘em on hangers to dry in the balcony’s breeze traps. Suitcases to pack, summertime holiday discovery. Farewell, home sweet home. My heart pines for Italy, to relive Napoleon’s exile on Elba. I seek amazement: Pisa’s tower, fortified cities en route. Italian wine is good, they say, close to the French bottles that spoil me so. Pasta at every meal, feast-like I’ll tip the scales afterwards. One day at a time. In the interim Beethoven’s Pastoral Sonata calls my fingers to nimble readiness, I prefer the Tempest but it disappeared along with Joe, crashed between New York and Geneva twelve years ago this September. Deliberately, I never replaced it, to honor our friendship… Other people make claims on my heart. Its strings, like the piano’s, sing a thousand songs, each one precious, each a weaver of tiny parts that create the man I name me. A splendid pleated anchor called today linking loose ends from the past and bright mosaic patterns of tomorrow… Then sheets will flutter in the balcony breeze traps the post meridien weather will be stifling , drying a cinch… Fill the ice cube trays, Wash out pitcher for tea. I am tired of lemonade. the path from buttons [2010.6.7…a] à la James Joyce |
| six buttons to sew, silly for a pianist to be all thumbs with tiny needle eyes and diversely colored threads… in the meantime eight more shirts summersault in the machine, no iron for pleats I pull them taut before hanging them in the balcony’s breeze traps suitcases to pack, places to discover farewell home sweet home bienvenue hotel rooms my heart pines for Italy since the last visit, Napoleon’s exile on Elba, the leaning tower other fortified cities en route the wine is good, they say — spoiled by Bordeaux that I am — pasta at every meal, feast-like maybe rebalancing the scales afterwards one day at a time in the interim Beethoven’s Pastoral calls my fingers to nimble readiness, I would prefer the Tempest but it disappeared along with Joseph in a plane crash twelve years ago, deliberately, I have never replaced it, to honor our friendship… now other people make claims on my heart its strings, like the piano, sing a thousand songs each more precious than the next, each weaving tiny parts of other souls into the foundation I call me, each anchoring today with loose ends from the past and bright mosaic patterns I will create for tomorrow… then I’ve planned to hang sheets in the balcony breeze traps the post meridien weather will be hotter than now, drying a cinch... I should fill the ice cube trays for the water pitcher I’ll likely fill it with tea instead of lemonade unless I draw blood with the needle and die, an accident of some fairy tale’s gender crossing the path from buttons [2010.6.7…a] |
| I've decided to try, for only the second time in my life, to read James Joyce's Ulysses. I'm a bit scattered by his style, but it's left an interesting imprint on tonight's poem. And for once, a properly punctuated text! I turn the corner. Ten to eleven, like every monday evening. The sky, midday blue, with a lid of nighttime placed upon. Shall I paint my door red with a square around the bell? Few come to ring it. Door unlocked, shoes off, phone calls finished. I inspect. Laundry hangs drying from every surface, the apartment a multicolored fairgrounds. Surely a place for a cat. And a songbird in a tall wicker cage. At night, one could sleep on the balcony, the other under a bright caftan I’ve washed clear of hues. Affection keeps it like new. From the window I spy that same corner. No starlight, the street lamps are out. Dead and dulled. Great for thievery and other sullenness. A bit more night in the sky, the blue still available for pondering. What… are the colors of my dreams? I remember rarely the tints, but the music is common. Surely the bubbles of my aquarium. My sleep is unpredictable as the fish, or the bird, a canary? Cat’s about. Their eyes rarely close. Cats await. Even when the stars finally wink. familiar things [2010.5.7…a] |
| frozen in stained glass battle for eternal love evensong’s desire evensong’s desire surrendering hope and faith so rarely attained so rarely attained a design for ultimate illumination illumination captures life’s timid prayers magnifying all magnifying all tears for simple broken souls bound by angel hymns bound by angel hymns joined in vast celebration man’s joyous temples man’s joyous temples caress universal pain freed behind stain glass the solitude of mankind [2010.4.7...a] |
| suddenly the exchange — every opposite crashes and crumbles blinding blue unravels into a dull white greyishness, a fluttering cloud of mosquitoes that hovers in a subtle dragonfly hue while catching the receding light, backlit by the bark of thunder and spider web sky illumination hell jousts with heaven in planetary battle where the elements explode in aggressive duel heat splits the pavement and makes it steam with rainfall its pounding purifies bodies covered in the stench and sweat of city filth drenching each creature caught under its driving force in an electrifying shower that binds each soul with the reminder of its power and still the night tales inhibit sleep constant dripping of water on leaves overcomes last night’s repetitive click of crickets a new lull that stretches one’s torpor into groggy tiredness, a hangover of high and low pressure systems cavorting to strew the jigsaw puzzles of peace along the raindrops of insomniac distraction when a spring-like storm replaces the dog days of summer night tales [2010.3.7…a] |
| I weave threads of silence into our conversation that allows us to meditate the space caught between double rainbows and smiling women you evoke a place where we run barefoot in high grasses immobilized in the serenity of a perfect landscape to enjoy pink ribbons of color in the sky that depict both dawn and sunset reminding us that we can share joy and that our pain is just another way to bond precious sentiment into new friendships we laugh about inconsequential gossip and philosophize on love after death our time together closes discreetly with new promises to create a ritual encounter for old friends words float from my mind to your dreams like butterflies posing for a photograph immortalized in a moment we will all remember all in the sound of your voice [2010.2.7…a] |
| the fields beyond the volcano have turned from ash to verdant sheep graze tonight while sunset’s cream and baby blue color the sky the melted glacier has taken life elsewhere to places where only water can stream now the mountain is merely a wisp of gray-blue with random spurts of hot air warming just so the cool Icelandic summertime the jolt of life is over, the earth’s need of effervescence is done, life has triumphed in the cycle, overturning death this time and the simple things like wildflowers invading prairies where birds feed on insects have regained their expressions letting us almost forget having feared for peace, while the idea of prosperity threatened the necessity of survival from a far-away island [2010.1.7…a] |
| no swallows, no sunset, no rain the heat wave happens, more and more often fear the weather-casting wizards, no more talk about the World Soccer Cup or the neighbors already drunk on Bordeaux dining with opened windows, their proximity distressing my calm no sleeplessness, no drugs to avoid it can I abolish pain? no second liter bottle of bubbly water to replenish the body fluids I’ve sweat or eliminated in less noble ways no quick witty sitcom on the TV, the CD player is silent too no need for any form of entertainment that only catapults more muck into my tired, indifferent senses — I am exhausted by these endless impressions of living — and my heart, yes, with its wounds, scars and promises is all that matters, for when love leaps at me from across the miles I start to believe once again in the power of hope and in a short while, when you and I can hold hands daily nothing else will matter when, in a few weeks [2010.30.6…a] |
| blue paper litters the floor dead leaves too, but that’s more conventional my study has too many piles for heavy stones to weight the pages, when the wind comes to life opened windows everywhere create a smooth breeze cooling my indoor accommodations from hot to luke-warm, allowing me to sleep more peacefully some nights I'm even a bit chilly by sunrise and as I reach for the sheets just now a bug bites my foot, it's slight jab waking me with a nightmare start they also come inside through open windows maybe in passing they toy with the idea of leaving foot prints, or wing stains on the blue paper arrayed on the beige carpet I don't have a magnifying glass to check my theory of insect games within human confines after all, we don't speak the same language and their signs are certainly as coded as my “ouch” when they decide my skin is fit for breakfast... when I open the windows [2010.29.6...a] |
| no release has come to this hell the peace is unsettled and eerie skies remain heavy and humid a pregnant gray pulsing visibly letting nothing caress the stifling slow, dull footsteps resonate on sweltering concrete sweat evaporates before touching skin glistening beneath opened shirts and blouses a naked wisp of wind, tension swelling the promised climax of thunder growls lightning quickly hues the thick blanket of cloudwork sudden visions patched with water expulsed in a frenetic madness that staggers onto the dead ground farther to the east, or the west but never here where the city waits nothing to sedate its nervous souls but sleepless summer night and a slight dance, no release from the breath of a storm where the city waits [2010.28.6...a] |
| there are no more thoughts, I have spent them like pennies for a beggar and at last I am silent only the swallows activate the mugginess of mid-evening before the sunset their ballet is with invisible bugs that have flown away with pieces of my mind and left only the dream possibilities that the moths and owls create with their fluttering when at midnight sleep finally claims me the swallows pirouette this way and that hundreds tonight, like words following no logical order a goldfish in a virtual aquarium the snafu of train timetables and a late departure in the morning because neither of us heard the alarm lunch with friends, their twin daughters a delight and once again departure, the word I have come to hate the telephone rings, speech overcomes me and I speak to you of the things you are missing from my windows, though some of my thoughts have followed you to your corner of the world where part of your happiness is no longer dependent on my presence we speak about my train ticket going south many months before the swallows leave their nests close to the place where my heart is left alone and I smile in a way you remember but only imagine the stickiness drapes me in early symptoms of sleep a yawn, already I lie on the floor listening to your voice I say goodnight early, hang up and wish … when my wish has lost words [2010.27.6…a] |
| and when against all odds a single moment of truth arrives while death hovers between love and life its awakening calms all doubt the only possible response beats strongly from faith, or heartache, or the utter grief of losing a child, and all we can do is stare down the adversity, trump it with the swoosh of a falling star and scream out against its injustice I will prevail… nothing more to do except… [2010.26.6…a] |
| Not in the mood for writing, so I tried my hand at something completely new. spiraling somewhere down the road (forget colored bricks, they only deter the imagination) at a time when pebbles have disintegrated into coarse dust (let’s not have future generations pine for too long, therefore) in a not too distant future, when acid rain truly does leave purple drops (ah, the years of hippy freedom when we still believed in dreams) our internal procrastination has ended (a farce from a non-bargaining angel of death) we are forced to make a last will and testament (allowing for family rivalry multiplied a hundred fold) this very final parting of the ways leaves only mysteries (the ones we have concocted with our solicitor’s advice) ah, the moment when I’ve been dead and buried for three decades (and my children’s children are still battling over my riches) will no one think that I built the casket with pockets for the gems (they never were an intelligent bunch) and took everything (or most of it, anyway) to the other world, for bargaining with the angels (for TV rights or ghosting lesson are dearly bartered) and occupying an eternity without human foibles (remember how they all played the dearly beloved?) is more complicated than clicking one’s heels (and landing with Toto in Kansas after a twister…) dead and still dying (of laughter) [2010.25.6…a] |
| a hundred brightly colored tee-shirts as many cute smiling faces ready to sing, at first long before tonight’s excitement, no one understood the words, not even on discovery day when the music teacher came and taught the strange sounding words and tunes nine months earlier, but when june arrived after months of rehearsal, they had molded them into their own personal story invented from melody and sounds — no one would believe it anyway, but that wasn't the important part — the music, ah yes, the flutes, the drums, the cellos and the horns woven into a tapestry of sound around the words and songs were born, mesmerizing them with meaning that became universal — for every child sings on the playground — and a hundred colored hearts vibrated at the same time together united as a single scribe, they created elephants and space ships people with purple skins who lived under water, a shaman who could make children so small that they could run into the dreams of their lost parents and reunite the family in a fantasy of a hundred imaginations filled with happy ends when turquoise feathered eagles took you to heaven to ask favors of the angels five times as many people watched as wishes were granted hypnotized by their song-story-fairy-tale with outer space twists we applauded long and hard afterwards not wanting to break the spell a hundred children had created just for our happiness… and quietly we each took a brightly colored tee-shirt home a flag to remind us never to stop looking at ordinary made-up words without promising to find a world of magic within, like our children do a hundred tee-shirts [2010.24.6...a] |
| I am determined to wear a permanent smiley face chatting in English, Spanish, French and Chinese with people whose paths rarely cross mine I spend the afternoon patiently waiting for eight pm to roll around the last obligation before holiday strikes a bargain and frees my ears from the sound of the choir’s garbled songs their plan is to trail me to a karaoke bar hoping I'll sing “My Way” and begrudgingly I'll comply astound them all by knowing the importance of singing in tune, a special feat after slugging one glass too many of cheap wine to drown out the ambient ennui then we'll part each with our plastered smiles until the cooler weather returns yet as the clock strikes the proper hour, all l really dream about is to curl up in bed with a good book and the smile of someone truly special plastered smiles [2010.23.6...a] |
| wisely I wait in a comfortably decorated royal blue and dove grey room, but my patience dwindles as I sit in a burnt orange leather armchair, more comfortable than the yellow chintz ones adorning my salon at home; I too would prefer strolling in the park I spy across the street from my window, to breathe in the early summer air and taste its balminess scented with the jasmine that grows there but I am a music teacher with absent students, happy, it’s true, for the silence without their bothersome and tuneless wrong notes, but next time please ext me on my phone, leaving me instead with the choice to run across the street and listen to birdsong under the poplar trees wasted time [2010.22.6...a] |
| although I utter monologues alone often in cartoon-character imitations my voice does not pierce the walls unlike the ghosts beyond who mutter loudly fortunately they forget to rattle chains except when a second floor washing machine has running shoes in it the banging is like hammers on concrete, a resonant thudding I create little contemporary noise I do not re-hang my pictures each week-end nor do I choose to plug in the vacuum at eight on a sunday morning I do not scream from the fourth floor windows to the street below when drunk evening guests have forgotten their coats cell phones do a discreet job for those missions alas, I sleep like a titmouse afraid of owls my dreams incorporate the muck expatriated from walls adjacent to mine and can easily generate my own dreams of lust without hearing nearby amorous grunts at any hour… there is no prize for being an inconspicuous neighbor I am a disappearing breed no prize [2010.21.6…b] |
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