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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. )) |
| Cat, As I write, I remember The Metamorphoses of Richard Strauss. I am lost in your world of love. Capsizing the entire Mississippi with emotion. I can reach the banks. Haul myself towards sunlight. Totter into the calm of your arms. In the illumination of A Great Love — I wanted it, more than my own life — I was too young. I fled its intensity. Perhaps I was blind. Blinded. I have since lost its trail. I have unwrapped the package. Unknotted the delicate ribbon surrounding your letters. Even with my voice hoarse and feeble, I read each one aloud, sometimes pausing to weep. Then I began once more. They are my Bible, my livre de chevet, my raison d'être. The Exodus, the Revelations. Both contained in such gentle Psalms. Through their Trinity of visions, I fell in love with you. Over and over. Ultimately. There. I have no more secrets. You have woven your magic. Delicate prayer, uplifted arms, joie de vivre. Your gift is miraculous: song words outlined with bittersweet chords that brighten the Milky Way. One day they will outshine Der Rosenkavalier. Now, my dear, is the hour to darken my lamps. The hour of sleep beckons. To dream of dreaming. Dying in the embrace of such devotion. Become the phoenix. In the morning I will begin quilting a patchwork. King sized for princes and their jesters. To shield its brightness from the night. Your letters are yellow bricks, a clear path to lead me there and back again; and I, mellow and humbled, rouged from my blues, see a true destination for the first time. Yes. I was blind. Will you flow with me to the delta of life? le souris bleu Endearing words [2016.23.1…a] |
| her feet float like sails between Greek islands curiosity her guide, captivated she holds a stylish fountain pen with fine blue ink, one color of inspiration, in her satchel sheets of contemporary parchment rolled and readied for her offerings thus inebriated for worship she sublimates the already perfect ::::: a bronze statue, a woven basket ::::: a watercolour globe, a box of folded flowers in words humbled like prayers to gods of all artistry, she writes a new hymnal of uncharted winds homing her beach to beach she follows those who soon become disciples of her visions and, graceful piper, leads them to a life of Bacchanal feasting where she replaces wine with verse how shards of glass gain their beauty [2015.26.5...a] |
| for Laurence a slow processional walk in a dew-filled forest or a late night's empty street dance a jig, a tango, a waltz a weekend with friends and folly to feel alive in a crowd perhaps you're fine alone with a library of good books and the discovery that pills or cigarettes or booze are useless stimulation which does not push you harder to get up in the morning and move from one place to another that desire comes from somewhere else and becomes a new mantra one with a gentle lilt life dances you only have two feet "les vies dansent" [2015.24.5...a] |
| The weight is lifted. My shoulders sag. They are fragile glass rods, breakable, not meant for this task. I do not envy Atlas. He was a God. My mortal watch over sleep outweighs wakefulness. To disappear into the former state. It's precious depths. I wait for both states to overcome me each in their given moments. They crisscross my intentions. The electric fan whirls making me cold enough to slip into the warmth of flannel pajamas. Wakefulness dreams. When I walk my legs ache for rest. Bedridden they twitch a winning marathon. Sunlight is the great darkness of midnight. Squinting to make shapes indefinite. Dreamlike. Misty and mysterious. I hover with conscious. I seek that opposite. The weight of ten billion synapses in my mind waiting to spin new tales. In the force of tonight's wind, my body would not resist. I would fly. Away. Weightless. Lost with a million leaves in a few months time. timeless another full moon how heavy From a night journal [2015.6…5...a] |
save them quickly, before they sink to depths wetter than a century of wailing before sea ridges claim their flesh as breeding grounds for new coral reefs before we forget them they are nameless with families and friends who did not see this tragedy although dolphins will understand it is not for fish to mourn and refugees cannot be returned to their homelands in anonymous boxes the Mediterranean has no grace to offer as eternity afloat in remembrance elsewhere let us set aside verdant hills on dry foreign soils where humanity still mourns the dead give them crosses that touch the heavens each epitaph a white star for the pure quest of freedom bury the dead [2015.30.4...a] Prompt: Bury the ( blank ) |
| Prompt: write a what nobody knows poem. they never knew thought that old b & w film bore false witness I excavated the cave hinged the bolder why she disappeared that summer day or her jewel box emptied two months later she shared guilt that too was never brought to light snuff has unexpected prices I am the last to die with secrets from his tales of horror [2015.29.4...b] |
| A shadow, thicker than normal, glued in place. Gut feeling of F-sharp minor instead of E-flat major. Brooding versus daylight. No, I won't turn around. Ghosts have never come before, no supernatural witchcraft. Poppycock. No mafia member stalking my mundane movements to see who other than the baker, supermarket employees or pharmacist takes my money. Preposterous. Let them see my bank accounts. Can't have anything tucked away in Switzerland with this paltriness. Last vacation was a B&B in Belfast. Hardly luxury staying. My 1990-2003 acrylics never had a market value, their dust covering has certainly not made me an over-night millionaire. Guilty conscience? I confess every Sunday. Spurned lovers? All best friends now. Sosie? People don't confuse my face with fame. No one remembers my thin career. Never signed autographs. Except love letters. Can't imagine them at Sotheby's. "Amorous prose of a complete stranger." Great title, though. No, I won't turn around. I wonder what lung cancer feels like. This nagging sensation in my left shoulder, wanting to look beyond myself to see a smoke trail I leave behind. Is that It? That must feel like a mountain. The pressure. An avalanche suddenly compressing, oppression, depression. No. Not like that. More like murder mystery spooks. Suspects who lurk. I need to go back to poetry by candlelight. Adding things up [2015.28.4...b] Prompt: write a looking back poem. |
| after the splattering of rain rincing salt from beneath the boat and the sound of wretching men discovering their weakness, the wind howls. and doesn’t stop. for days at a time. they have left familiar sounds, language, church bells, muezzin calls to prayer, soft footfall on dry land. there is no silence here. death parades by their cramped sides. sleep restores nothing. children succumb first. their inner strength should not be tested here. women deplore. men remain stoic but die day by day inside. the light in every eye dims day by day. when few survivors reach land, hell shows new surprises. where they should not have travelled [2015.25.4...b] Prompt: write an across the sea poem |
| glasses stuffed out of reach I am blind to the transformation I trust the judgement of her steady hands knowing how homeless I appeared and how much that new adjective demeans and devitalizes I might have once said dishevelled the floor below fills with discarded pieces no longer needed from this trial I self-imposed, and then she says voilà, takes the cape from my shoulders allows me to reach into my pocket in one perfect moment I feel like a man again untitled rejuvenation [2015.24.4..b] Prompt: write a moment poem |
| Lampedusa April 2015. Death by robbery. The Innocent are victims of religious persecution. History is a circle of repetition. Man is stupid. Faith divides. It should unite. Across continents to the sea, The Innocent flee on foot. The lucky are crowded into trucks. Northern Meditarranean shores cry survival. Human vultures organise their exodus. Called Passers. Who take a lifetime of money, make it disappear. The Innocent do not know the endgame for most includes death. The last link is the sea. Passers know nothing about how many human bodies can be crammed into any given vessel. They are, by nature, stupid viscious individuals. Passers, aka history book villains, have no conscience. They smile like movie stars and know how to tell lies real well. Hollywood has perfected the genre. Passers, from cultures where men should still have souls, look westwards. See a New Market. How to make a quick buck. Their victims, The Innocent cannot sign papers garanteeing them anything. Their homes are destruction. They flee. Passers know this. They think oh look, this is how we can get rich. Do they equate human lives with collateral damage? Out of our hands. Allah creates the weather. Another story of Unlimited Sadness [2015.23.4..b] |
| scribbles the word nature in sixteen different places on a piece of gray paper. streets arise. roadblocks imagined. doesn’t know how to scribble on a computer screen. lacks geek savvy. can write music on a staff. play hang man on squared writing paper. remembers being fascinated by square roots. that cute little V thing. and pi. writing lines and lines of a single unending poem corresponding to its decimal point order. no don’t point your finger. he drinks beer poured precisely for the proper amount of froth. likes salt froth on pebble beaches. building high columns. sand is more comfortable. you need a bucket. he hugs friends from behind with strong arms that don’t want to let go. he calls it a backward bear hug. things to be linked [2015.22.4…d] Prompt: Write a nature poem |
| i am not a clear sky on the cruise ship of your desire. i am every other element for your garden to thrive. keep your fingers nimble in the muddy loam of my tears. keep your gait quick following my lofty pilgrimages. keep your heart beat strong to anchor my place asleep when my dreams wail demons. you are not one of them. my first secret: to be whole. a newborn child to open into your love. the reincarnation of your vision. the second: to see perfection reflected in your eyes. and not the tristesse of my storms. sail with me. windless we will burn together in the sun you imagine so well. oceans apart [2015.21.4…b] Prompt: Write an "I am" or an "I am not" poem. |
| I was so sick yesterday I couldn't write anything worthwhile. Here's the poem with the prompt "write a authority poem." Obviously, one I didn't quite like. I have wept shooting stars in its wake although never astronauted to its dark side its trajectory has brought me love and taught me the solitary art of mending my broken self on a potter's wheel I run beyond its slow spinning paths over dusk and dawn appearances and marveled at its echo reflected in noontime's force I telescope its craters and dead rivers though when I gaze inwards its light illuminates my skin I am a child of the moon’s favors holding its cold warmth close to my heart untitled (moonlight) [2015.20.4…c] |
| Chronology bustles in my head. Clear visions from the top of the staircase two nights before Christmas when daddy left the house with a suitcase. Skip the first stepfather who tried so hard to butch me up with a nickname I hated more than him. The piano, in that wonderful room with windows on three sides, my sanctuary, my sanity, my love, my life, my everything. Lessons with Mrs B every Tuesday and Friday morning for an hour before school. Sanity and love. The only woman I loved. Dearly. The evening in October of my fifteenth year. Mother and second stepfather (she taught me to hate him too). We three sit on the powder blue velvet sofa. Dear, you’re gay aren’t you? Yeah. (Duh I didn’t say. I was a tall skinny queen.) Why the need for this mise au point? That year I started a poetry journal. Fantasizing about another life where love played an important role. First music contest the next year. Saint Louis Symphony Orchestra Young Talent. I trashed a fellow pianist within earshot of one of the judges. Disqualified immediately. Mrs B told me later that had I kept my mouth shut I would have won. I still call a spade a spade. Especially caked with dirt. On a hip small town campus, wasted a scholarship at an important Conservatory spending more time discovering if love could come my way than learning about Gregorian Chant. Sung in the choir, adored the camaraderie. Two years later in a State University I met my first lover splashing almost naked in one of Kansas City's Plaza fountains. It was a Monday at three a.m. He was the father I never had. Not a good way to start off a relationship, although we were both willing to role play for five years. Daddy and I remained estranged all of my life. Hepatitis A cured me of budding alcoholism when I was 26 during my second year abroad. Next month I'll be 60. I'm still here. I’m still looking for a vice that won’t kill me. Gave up sex years ago. I have played on some of the best pianos in the world. Life has taught me the art of being dissatisfied. I spend a lot of time peering out of windows. I imagine that’s what prison is like. my life in simple badinage [2015.20.4…b] Prompt: my [blank] the [blank] |
died, my sire & I lie tight cry, eyes dried I buy time try night sights & fie I sigh, I fight & buy nice spiked ice & my sire died & I lie I pry time & dime-like I tried & swiped I fired high my pyre I lie tight diced & fried died, my sire I tire & try mice & lice my might & my plight fly high my sire I lie & die white light [2015.18.4…b] Prompt: write a poem using one or two vowels |
| gibbets fascinate me death by strangulation a thick white rope knotted simple but sturdy not nearly the same as a crucifixion where you’re just nailed there but a real honest to goodness tree hanging from a long fat branch set at the right angle letting the body sway in the nights wind and sway in the witch’s howling and sway in wailing of the innocent left behind until the dawn quiets everything and the carrion comes to sway and dance in more civilized strangulation after the Devils of the Quick Fix step in someone has to cut the body down and I wonder what does he do when he waits before he examines the lifelessness in this poor bloke’s limp body before unsheathing his thick knife to attack the rope I wonder does he count seconds count minutes count hours by the tick tick tick tick of a metronome to save him from boredom to stave against fright and insanity does he feel this pendulum sway slowly hither and yonder hither and yonder hither and yon does he worry about his soul? the tree of death [2015.17.4…b] Prompt: write a swing poem |
| the science of love sucks you know like proving things with generations of intelligence available to figure out emotions, hormones et cetera, et cetera no one has created a successful pill most of us flounder like salmon swimming upstream and we all know what happens after that these overly intelligent men prefer useless things like a yet smaller division of a neutron - if they dig deep enough they may indeed discover what can only be God these details are useless for the common man for he does not preoccupy himself with drivel that can’t control the rainfall and sunlight cure cancer or AIDS keep road rage from striking too close white cops from killing unarmed black men you know most men just want great sex every night useless is a point of view [2015.16.4…b] Prompt: write a science poem Yep! You guessed it. NOT inspired. |
| my pain pushed me like a steamroller that's a shitty excuse your face dripped with exhaustion the first thing I noticed when the cam clicked on yet I pressed on and didn't listen to prove that for once I could be as savvy as you but I was wrong, I just hurt too much and in my stupid wrapped-up-in-myself way I made you cry stupid [2015.15.4...b] Prompt: take an adjective, make it the title and write a poem |
| I know broken. An expert with glue. Vases. Words re- quiring separation. Love triangles and the triage after friends betray trust. Who goes, who stays? Yet broken souls, like the one mamma crushed with a hair brush, well that’s another matter. There is no glue. It’s magic doesn’t work. Just words, words, and more words spoken, spit, sworn as we lie on a shrink’s couch and pour tears into our wounds hoping the salt will cauterize them one last time. All I can tell you about the outpouring of tears is that I welcome their sting, like a hornet's, like a swig of vodka when you’ve eaten too much lobster, caviar, or chocolate and your gut cries stop. At holiday time, I totter on the high precipices above the sea, thinking about that final crash. I return yearly. there is no magic [2015.12.4…b] Prompt: write a broken poem |
| 2055. Scientists have mastered harnessing weather and saved the planet. To celebrate a century alive, I will walk in the most unusual garden created. Another Dome Project, Stephen King invented the necessity. Smart Screen publicity mentions butterflies and hummingbirds lead our pilgrimage. Bridges in wood or stone link the spaces, under which a river flows, changing, like foliage and temperature, from the most brittle of whites to the vibrancy of flowery hues, to the impending death before the reincarnation man could not abolish. The intenseness of summer, its deserts, its beaches, its green forests no longer burning annually. In this perfection, I cannot choose. no more death unless it is granted us a vision The future is a prayer [2015.11.4…b] Prompt: write a season poem |
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