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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. )) |
| Robert, your poetry is not normally this wordy; I've paraphrased the moment’s title. I am not a howler, except of course in the stated circumstances. It’s fun, losing it in the middle of a poppy field, drenched and waiting for the cracks to hit. I however, adore words. Their power to describe, or not. To be mundane. To destroy. Who really howls nowadays? We don’t even get to shout on FarceBrook or TweetWorld. And why only once a month? The legends of wherewolves have mutated to college campuses, and rape - OK here's the real subject now - needs no specific time of day or night, no clear, cloudy or otherwise skies. The act itself creates enough turbulence, thunder and lightning all at once. And in the real world, electrical bolts falling from the sky rarely fall on the backs of quaterbacks humping an early tween blonde (male or female) on the field. Nature is not well organized, not tuned enough to the needs of victims. Were that the case, there would be no more clement skies, nowhere in the world, at no moment of the day or night. Scientists have instruction manuels to do many things. Teaching the weather to come and go still reads like fiction. But can they invent an anti-erectile drug which reacts immediately if a horny guy hears the words stop or no? Put it in beer. Yeah. Beer. after Robert Brewer’s "Howling at the moon during a midnight thunderstorm" [2015.10.4…b] Prompt: Write a "How to [fill in the blank] poem. I used Robert Brewer's suggestion of "Howling at the Moon After Midnight in the Middle of a Thunderstorm." |
| My enlightenment has frazzled into a magnet attracting sand. They don't come for me any more, any fatherly bearded figure would do. I am no longer a God, their God, although their kowtowing to avoid the serious nature of my wrath was pleasant. My articulate conversation pains with their generation of one-word response, mumbled at best. I have invented languages pointed at their closed ears to allow them the experience of deafness. I speak in forgotten dialects for ears dripping in poorly inked calligraphy only the blind might appreciate for the intent behind its design. Violence is the new motto. Prayer and kalashnikovs unite into only disaster. It offers no beauty. I will purchase a secluded mountain top and build a sanctuary. Even the elements have learned to betray. To forget the wise man’s words [2015.9.4…b] Prompt: Write a poem about work. |
| if you believe it’s a choice let's you & me start to groove leave your wife, come feel my moves I'll wrap you up tight a day & a night it's so easy to be gay say you don't like it this way now you'll listen to my voice rap to get you bare [2015.8.4…b] Prompt: Write a dare poem. Or dare to write something you'd never normally do. Poem number 2 yeah i do i wish i was a junky give me reason to delve into this violence rob people for cam money bust into a Jag id prolly get sick of needles sticking into my arms i could get a tattoo or see an acupuncturist yeah who thinks their needles can cure my ills stress they say and a lot addiction i wake every morning with pins & needles stopping movement in my arms wake aint the right word i float from wherever i was to wherever i don’t want to be anymore opium in a pipe a dark clammy room sweat stained yeah thats a good idea for a bit of change but i wont dare do it not like dancing half naked in a crowded bar hate all these bright flashy light yellow ones had jaundice before no fun colors like new hatched chicks no not those ones idiot the ones that become ducks or chickens or geese or whatever has wings & people barbecue with hot sauce hate the color yellow sunlight magic markers egg yolks nasty stuff this shit anything worthwhile like a rolex for a few thousand or a newlyweds diamond for a cruise in the Caribbean thatll relax me oh shit man cant you just poor me another drink yeah do it & let me get over this personal shit when i start fading again? hey doc im feeling kinda transparent [2015.8.4…c] |
| honey, to pump and grind is out of the question attached as I am to the bed (no not your handcuffs) by the electric cord (no not your vibrator) let me finish, love of the heating pad you’ve always wanted a sugar daddy my back says I’m old enough and yes my cane is floppy so can we just for once just kiss lightly before you go sleep on the couch? lacking certain requirements [2015.7.4…b] Prompt: write a love poem, or a non-love poem |
| the exquisiteness of pain jars skin muscle and bones it tattoos itself like a laser into elbow and wrist the burn of ice brings only brief respite one night of demons pounding on doors no metaphor in this image set in motion this renewable catastrophe first caught insidiously gripped by insomnia the stress of wakefulness wearying the mind morning light worse than migraine's slash everything jinxed links together by studies on psychosomatics joining stress with former injury in an unwinnable battle screaming for a jump from the fourth floor I wake in a cold sweat to unchanged reality nothing sleep can't cure [2015.6.4...b] Prompt: Write a things-not-as-they-seem poem. |
| Every Sunday, Easter included, the café turned its walls into an exhibition. Still life is so hard to master; brush stroke genius or photographic precision. I prefer a restrained palette, darker colors, a la 17th century Flemish school. Rich velvets, obsolete objects. This morning there is none of that splendor. Water colors, gouache, a few acrylic works. I sip cappuccino and watch the enthusiasts who settle for so little. OK. I’m a snob. But we’re in Paris. The Louvre, you know? unfelt depths black and purple varnish an eggplant a few hours on a Sunday afternoon [2015.5.4…b] (Prompt: Write a vegetable poem. This is haibun.) |
| for two years his sleep has suffered by the "bitch with her brat" as she was fondly known in the building one howling for eight hours every night the more responsible banging ruthlessly doors and cupboards beneath his bedroom in postpartum depression's exhaustion he too was sleepless now addicted to pills, which often were useless he developed sad psycho-somatic pains undermining creativity furthered by his nimble hands neighbors were helpless in negotiation suffering themselves the same extreme fatigue the police recommended a lawyer and a court case money lacked cruelly then one day, instead of the complete works of Samuel Beckett previously ordered from AmazonDotCom a rather heavy book-like package arrived with a revolver inside one answer to a prayer [2015.3.4…b] Prompt: write a machine poem. I chose the idea of "deus ex machina." |
if it were truly a choice I would have fallen in love with him the first time his voice made my gut tremble his heart twisting tangos "Chiquilín de bachin" su voz llena de sensualidad god how that song kills me YouTube makes it worse, I stare into him his brooding lover’s eyes, suave poised stance, so sure of his power everything so foreign to my slightness so often a confidant’s mistaken quality my body never learned the rules of sexy I fantasize about his deep voice singing lullabies, his reassurance contrasted with mother’s girlish shrill I too am no songbird, I listen to him "Rinascerò" wishing to be reborn into my own legend tonight, with the jukebox playing I’m not afraid of my wet cheeks never fully understanding why I let him grab onto my soul I’m that little guy, alone at a corner table eating beans gone cold at the diner [2015.2.4…b] Prompt: Write a secret poem. |
| I fall into step singing silently Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy Bette Midler version I'm insolent whispering her words under my breath like in lunch line at military high school when they screamed silence yeah they know me and didn't change my love I won't be goin' into no Indiana restaurant I never did lisp and my six-foot plus-sized frame makes anybody think twice bunch of God fearing Hoosiers anyway, what're they gonna do with me, some other gym jocks and a few picket signs those people are the eye sore my Jesus loves me just fine I pray to him every night good Mexican boys so damned hard to find didn't do no good [2015.1.4...b] Prompt: write about resistance |
time, like weavers’ threads, knots between fingers so easily an hour becomes a bouquet of ikebana six months, the birth of a symphony four years, the dome of the Sistine Chapel on my coffee table, a book of French chateaux in the Loire valley, once-in-a-lifetime destinations naked feet knead the thick pile of the hundred-year-old Persian carpet, its mastery of contrasted blues lozenges evening arrives and I stretch out on the soft wool my religion is starlight, counting the millions of seconds between its birth and the moment light calms my senses perhaps this is the only prayer needed when seconds become miraculous [2015.31.3…a] |
| Interflora sent yet another oversized bouquet, a mix of oranges and reds this time, overbearing on the piano with six others. In truth I had tears to stifle. I could not cross the Atlantic to bury her and have come to hate the assumption that bright floral compositions are a good stand-in for funeral wreaths delivered directly to the cemetery. Hell, I don’t even know where they chose her final resting place, if ever she could. So — the doorbell, chocolates? from my best friend, the card says “at least you’ll get happy highs eating them…” I stare out the window, throwing wrappers on the pedestrians four floors below. conventional solicitude [2015.30.3…a] |
| Separated by continents and joined by YouTube live technology, modern haiku-ists read their short poems. I followed their travel agenda without a school notebook but could not memorize more than a few beautiful notions of freedom. I wanted to push pause and savor the words with book in hand. There were no cloudy skies evoking unique Australian wildflowers. I didn’t really expect to find them in today’s verses. An Englishman living in Japan discussed rituals and how they are countered by art forms evolving into the twenty-first century. My own haiku do not yet fly like eagles who see each detail. painted geisha Carmen with tulips whisper dutch beyond tradition’s frontiers (haibun) [2015.29.3…b] |
| two pairs of circles focused on the moon waiting for clouds to frame it in silver haze a ghost waking between worlds of unformed words silent, I'll be alright do you remember us friends walking, freed by love opening a coloring book black on white waiting for a rainbow magnified, each line hides a labyrinth of possibility coded in DNA spirals or binary ones and zeros our sad dance in falling leaves and I still miss you silent, choose a new page the proper pale colors perhaps a flower in a vase printed later in 3-D because below on the sidewalk seen from a single square pane of glass only weeds break through concrete most of all autumn memories [2015.28.3…a] |
| the sound spreads a sumptuous layer on the air resonating higher and farther than a cathedral the photograph freezes the ensemble singers, baroque players the organist and a hundred shining pipes as if to place magnificent sound in a simple frame where time stands still hoping our imagination might extract it somehow even in prayer silent words transcend the echoed whispers of religion and project themselves into places beyond comprehension where they harmonize with the force of life and loneliness is vanquished by the quiet refrain of a childhood song things that cannot be caught [2015.27.3…a] |
| I rushed back, every corner a finish line for once my time would have pleased you neither instinct, survival, nor love gave me wings enough your fifth floor rooms were empty, save the comforter sixty-four blue patchwork squares with orange flowers under which we slept each night for these last months I do not remember how many days I wept, curled in the warmth of our memories it did not matter I did not run to the lake where I carefully folded my clothes on the dock hoping this hunger had weaken my body I could not sink, following my heart after your last words [2015.26.3…a] |
| pain popped up on my telephone home screen the daily dictionary word a strange change from furtherance, nonevent, gibber(ish) mal de mer (oui je parle français) or beamish all very good rare but couth words few possess in daily conversation, I wanted to paint the garden fence a distintive color, something to set it apart from traditionally overbearing white and a hue not present in the floral variety planted years before and then pain popped up, distracting, upsetting perhaps a spinoff of seasick, is it possible the telephone also advocates nowadays "pain" as an in-the-know alternative to simple bread, I don’t know so many people eat baguettes and croissants why not "pain du jour" just like "soupe (with or without E) du jour" pourquoi pas Parisians saying pain instead of "douleur" but this procrastinates my paint problems, zut alors! or might I proffer "problèmes de peinture", but stop I gibber about noneventual things surrounding the garden painting would have soothed any pain the afternoon might have felled upon my aging "faiblesses" once the color dilemma resolved, although it’s a pleasant occupation to watch unusual flowers like helenium and poppies, noting the beamish nature of their red-orange hues against a cerulean sky with few clouds maybe a fake cedar varnish -- the planks were cheap furtherance between words [2015.25.3...a] Author's note: "pain" in French the nasal vowel "ain" is pronounced like hand in English, but without saying the "nd" at the end. "faiblesses" is weaknesses. |
| in a creative ballet long overdue rain drops reinvent beauty the land sighs, satiated it is not enough for rivers to swell and lakes to deepen no frenetic Rite of Spring rhythms tapping in the tin of the slow filling watering can or on tile roofs this is soothing music certain research proposes Palestrina madrigals singing as background to inspire abundant growth gentle sounds of rainfall are all I have to coax tiny seeds, planted in fresh loam by the garden fence to bloom into long-stemmed cosmos, helenium, tiger lilies and California poppies to dance when the wind returns as will brighter skies seduced by floating clouds choreographed by contemplative silence songfest [2015.24.3…a] |
| purple haze animates a graying sunset otherwise the north wind hasn’t let up and daylight didn’t do a job on the thermometer it shivered on the balcony pretending I was the apple tree content for extra photosynthesis to open new buds with more bravery my cheeks rouged like burned fingers no matter, it happens easily the medicine cabinet has its creams I have no potted flowers, although the forsythia yellows more and more the winter jasmine offers no white fragrance perhaps it is tired of simply surviving, leaning through dim-lit northern barriers if I had southern light I might try a potted bird of paradise, or some other exotic orange western clouds have come now to thicken darker spots on evening’s intrusion masking the silver spots of Moon and Venus though I did re-charge the camera memories not kept on paper [2015.23.3…a] |
| no rain, eighty-ninth day we tiptoe through fields of priceless flowers hybrid orange heleniums floating above translucent gray/green stems that catch dew like cacti once did aridity swallowed rivers and lakes blue skies taste of pasty synthetic gloom we survive, laughing and crying more new natural extremes evolved bi-polarly to temper our tampering with everything formerly sacred culture, historic artifacts and religious temples have collapsed, their glue-like structuring of societies never renewed, perhaps irreplaceable life with a capital L is indestructible DNA mutates more easily, adapts quicker than cockroaches, and we wish our golden days were as short as our great-great-grandparents yes, we dance on death’s door and invite his company when Morpheus visits the rare nights internet connections frazzle and we are forced to sleep before three a.m. having seen too much [2015.22.3…a] |
| artfully spinning, wheelchairs reinvent rhythm in a movie-picture waltz on a waxed gymnasium floor their competition style handling follows downbeats syncopated by the laughter of grandchildren in party hats and orange balloons the wind follows crazier patterns, complicated by savant mathematicians and their formulas for speed affecting everything from sunspots to tidal movement, to the lean of high-rises flowers sway, creating disorganized bouquets from abandoned fields overgrown with color they java, they samba, they jive, they fox-trot outdoing kaleidoscope diversity clouds come and go, sunset, moonrise bright blues and bruised grays vie for memories while magpies dip from still naked branches stealing bits of this and that for this year’s nestlings as lightning drums a response igniting the smog the master chef adds a pinch of so many other things corners them in a blender of time bakes on rare afternoons scented in jasmine to make sure everyone dances till midnight perpetual movement [2015.21.3…a] |
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