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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. )) |
| Write about "Lucky 13." A thirteen line poem, thirteen views on a single subject. I. I still feel like it's happening. God had no answers. They sent beautiful white bouquets. I cried forever. Your death is the only one that matters. II Marked by a hot iron, that cow did not jump over the moon. She gave milk to starving orphans. III A top a secluded mountain, a monk listens to the wind. He attains wisdom when eagles nest in the clouds rumbling with rain. IV A tiny baby owl, a ball of white fluff. A winter storm arrives on the lake. Sadness creeps into his fragile soul as he watches the snow melt in the afternoon sun. He too will lose this perfection. V He counts seconds of silence. Before the baby screams again. Before the man hammers another nail. How many grains of sand will make an hourglass? VI Across the sky, comets streak, starlight pounds away at years. Airplanes are filled with people looking for dreams. They rarely meet death. VII There is a room in one of my dreams. It changes every time. Yet I know it as my childhood bedroom, where horrible things happened. It was not the room’s fault. VIII They caught him burning a neighbor’s dog. After years of sadistic hell in prison, death awakened his sense of true pain. Eternity is a long time to peel off charred skin, night after night. IX Long ago, fields were content when only the wind swept through their wildflowers. Nothing felled the trees. They grew old. Now, does the earth buckle under the weight of machines ripping potatoes from the ground? The land fights back. No longer willing to nourish the folly of mankind’s colonization, men breed pesticides in artificial rooms where sunlight is hidden. Mankind poisons everything. Himself. X I liked Bible stories about blights in Egypt. The American Indian suffered a blight. Its skin was pale and covered in cloth that stank worse than their brother skunk. The smoke of peace pipes was not akin to perfume. XI A child learns to play the piano. His teacher cannot tell him the wrongs notes are not music. The child’s father sings off key, but that voice is his god. How can the notes of god be wrong? XII The music of the spheres makes its way into all of our dreams. It cajoles our memories, we are all ancient. These tunes, sung my mankind, return bridled on top ten charts. Song and dance. It’s all the same. Hearts soar, and feet try to fly. XIII A cat curled tightly in the sunlight. Asleep. Oblivious. Until a fly buzzes by. Cat’s are carnivorous. Thirteen Tales [2014.13.9…a] |
| Write on "The sky is falling" I have a hundred photos of sunsets every one a beautiful and unique masterpiece taken from my balcony vantage point four floors up across buildings in much need of repair I might print them, superpose them and align the bottom thirds, each resembling the man-made dwellings but above, although the colors are all similar some bright, some fading, some ever-changing (for some nights I click minute by minute trying to capture a singe moment of perfection in the slow ballet unfolding before me) and that does not include reflections upon the vast cloudscapes juggled by my windy horizons were I to cut them all into jigsaw pieces, identical numbers for each photo, their patterns would form thousands of new unimagined views of vibrantly magnificent sunsets interchangeable as every minute already viewed every one a beautiful and unique masterpiece hours of jigsaw pleasure [2014.12.9…a] |
| "Coloring outside the lines" sitting in an overstuffed fire engine armchair, here’s the same add I’ve spotted them, those red Nikes daily for two weeks, hours to prepare a legendary trek through Valentine’s fields, maybe poppies and carnations I’ve clothing for disguise a Sox’s cap to hide blond hair scarves and wind breaking fire truck sweaters soft faded jeans like embarrassed cheeks at the beach I become a man from Mars burned to a crisp, painted in raw steak impossible to trek naked to Holland and not be mistaken for an excited window lady client, but trainers to trek so many kilometers can’t be two sizes too large even with feet stuck between two pairs of fat tomatoes impatient for new stock I iPhone Google, results still don't fit my feet I can’t get there on a London bus improbable to float on a forest ripe apple trees there are wine-like waterways, the Betsiboka River in Madagascar would be a fine consolation flying over oceans, through the skies where rainbows would spread out then my reds, tainted with aviation blues would leave me dripping the color purple it was a great movie [2014.11.9…a] |
| Prompt: * “You Do Not Have To Be Good” you did not have to be good perfect, all knowing none of us believed in the god you tried to emulate newborn babes caress your crow’s feet and define you as beautiful we were in love with your laughter we could not reach the dust in the lampshades did you ever marvel as it sparkled in the filtered sunlight from your always new curtains? children will warm to overcooked turkey, thinking its dryness a welcome holiday for the gravy boat we did not see a loss of face when Grandma made sauces we would all have been healthier learning to prefer your slightly bitter dark chocolate cakes we had so much love to give children don’t need sugar to feel special for that, you did not need to create perfect ceremonies clothed, perfumed and seated at fine restaurant tables our world was Friday night vinyl and the welcome scratch on the record New York, New York repeating endlessly we liked the warble in your voice as you sang bedtime songs it never mattered to us you were not a famous coloratura nor an Olympic ice skater nor the unique translater of Finnish to Portuguese at the United Nations you did not have to be anything other than a mother and because you tried so hard to become everything but her we loved your perfections less and less when we play God instead of tag [2014.10.9…a] |
| Write a dramatic monologue I too have the right to throw in the towel, except after your cowardice, none of those you left behind dares open his depression with a dull razor blade. My hands are cold, one transmitting the creeping death of its muscles to the other. My heart has gone cold, after years of pretending that life is cozy and warm. The cozy comes from hours under the comforter, the warmth from a bottle of champagne every night. I don’t cope, but I have honed tools to survive. I have never had your guts, for knives and cocaine and their excesses unfolding like fornication in a steamy rave party. I am too old to fuck my way into oblivion, even though I might have learned from you and your two wives how to perfect it. They live together now, although one has become a man. They’ve adopted a child, you were the first one they lost. Losing you was my first loss too. Then came your brother, my other soul mate. We never survived the implosion of your suicide. Two beautiful souls from the same family. How I miss your parents. They are rotting from the inside, as am I. Did you think of that? Nothing is perfect, it can never be. The notion is society's biggest bane. We all told you, we who loved you. You collected our individual pain and allowed it to electrocute the empathy that always brought me to your side. Yes, I too was selfish. Could you foresee that my hands would betray me and the master of music you always admired would fall silent? This is my death. But I, unlike you, have not found a way to stop the beating of my heart. Though it knows your cold. When will the rest of the world fall silent? [2014.9.9…a] |
| Write a modern rant Form: Villanelle Hush, bitter tears, the end is near my might has come to this final clash I will hang on a rope for all so dear full moon-shine, its song sodden and clear I clamor with vice like drink, more cash Hush, bitter tears, the end is near the whiskey hunts in fields of deer trophies, love and life, I dare to smash I will hang on a rope for all so dear I skinned them too, knife knows no fear not the red flow of torn open wrists, now cast Hush, bitter tears, the end is near for months I tamed this demon, he is my peer befriended, seduced by the river boat’s mast I will hang on a rope for all so dear my corpse has no voice but one I can hear no last words spit to the floor, no last mass Hush, bitter tears, the end is near I will hang on a rope for all so dear her last wishes [2014.8.9…a] |
| Write an aubade. Night fades into the mysterious words conjured by a bed-side book. I allow this, welcoming the emptiness. It is a matter of faith. Hours later, silvery whiteness looks down on us. I have not witnessed the sky's transformation, but have dreamed of touching it, allowing its surrealness to flood over me. The skylights above my bed come alive with the day’s temporary scenery. The cat’s whiskers twitch at passing clouds, more faint than those my eyes will ever perceive. Above the city, dawn colors pastel as the north pole bids farewell to starlight and wishes the sun luck with its charm of heat. Cold winds blow even higher, unstable. We know, the cat and I, to wait two more hours before I stretch along side his pre-breakfast antics. I will doze patiently and he will chase the remnants of the night, moths and pigeons down stuck to the overhead windows. At the proper moment, he will return to knead my chest, or pillow, faithful, before new mysteries settle upon another summer day. Another August morning [2014.7.9…aa] |
| Write a persona poem. I hear these sounds, clearly outlined for specific timbres. I would sacrifice my ego if musicians never performed them. If the commonness of our souls led them to a perfect empathy if they remained silent for eternity. I have imagined them. It is enough. This is the music I wish to spin into orbit so that in trillions of light years someone else something else can discover its beauty and weep like each stroke of my pen plucks a note from the blood of imagination. This is my prayer a vast lamentation to Los Angeles before gluttony for gold brought the masses and fame destroyed the angels of the hills. A homage of yearning for simplicity portraying the invisible. I choose not to hear this death the gunshots claiming children the incessant swirling on ten-lane highways the obnoxiousness of human beings as they rape the earth to posses it. The decibels escalate. They do not drink the rainwater. They have not learned to filter the salt from the ocean. They bake in the sunlight instead of capturing it to illuminate of future millenium. They build museums to deify their objects. I mourn the starlight. These hills were the original temple. I hear the thousands of church bells resonating throughout the city the surrounding villages clashing with the waves of this ocean which must one day explode and lose is pacifism. Inevitably. From this spacious land, they will not recognize the original sounds confused with noise. I cannot blow anything sacred into this whirlwind. I am breathless. I have given my life for these unhearable music. But my godliness, its melody of plain chant this I leave in silent turmoil. not a Hollywood film score [2104.6.9…a] |
| Prompt: Odes & Ecopoets & you. I cannot, indeed I will not, write only haiku, limericks and other teeny tiny, shorter than short, fit-into-a-Tweet poems. I hear "short and sweet", have done that quite a lot, but my inner and outer voices are spacious. Ask me to economize paper to save the rain forests. Ask me to recycle the paper I use, dutifully scribbled, or electronically printed, in a psychotic recto/verso fashion to eliminate the waste. This I can, and will willingly, do. I am verbose, I like being well dressed, so don’t ask me to buy less items that decorate my body and help me beyond my sense of uselessness and invisibility. I won’t. I talk loud, like the thunder over a mountain and its echo all rolled into one. The flow of my words must be allowed to remain as constant as the Amazon, the Nile and even the churn of the arctic ices as they fill the oceans with milleniums of frozen fresh water. These sweet words, ideas, exchanges with friends, sorry imitations of psychology and philosophy, I cannot dry them, their myriads of meaning, nor make a recycled selection and turn myself into a poet worthy of the great deserts of the world. What on earth would I do with all the unwanted, duly deemed unworthy words cropped out of my creative processes? They, like any other thought, have the right be summoned and understood by royalty and commoners alike. And properly recycled — I believe the technical term is edited — they will occupy reams of paper that I’ve been diligent in saving. I do not conceive my words to be birthed only in tiny houses. They are mansions, museums and perhaps one day will become my mausoleums. End of Rant. "Worthy of our praise, He Stood Proud beyond a lifetime of effort, so carefully honed that only one two-page poem was left to posterity. He was the defender of global waste, his motto, a tree for a word." I am not this man, never wanted his brief fame, and certainly am not interested in shutting up long enough so that it will become stellar clear to any mortal moron out there what I truly mean to say. I am not God. Even He, in his eternal wisdom, thought it best to remain mysterious. Ode to an ecopoem [2014.5.9…a] |
| Write about a Pulitzer Prize moment simple men rarely find themselves at red carpet events, toasting along side the "crème de la crème" witnessing what may become history in golden gowns, she was framed shamelessly by paparazzi seeking the personal glory when a single click of her every movements might claim them a journalistic prize she was our fairy tale princess we admired her humility for being a willing mirror of life we would never know as she reigned over her spirited flames in Paris’ splendor, there is a dark cathedral of our collective mourning, where she found her eternal illumination from such a moment the split second her freedom ended at this place the simple man collides with liberty in reverence filled with flowers and poems of love recreating minute after minute the reality forever stolen from a single famous but stagnant photograph she was our flame of liberty [2014.4.9…a] |
| Prompt: Life on Mars, caught in an unwelcome environment. She cultivated only roses in her gardens, blood was her favorite color. Her nightgowns, her ball gowns, her satin sheets, the stains from my hands on her pristine white dishtowels. I was her garden slave. She treated the garden dwarfs better. Polished and repainted yearly. That was her job. I did everything dirty. She never gave me time to pay attention to the buds, the blooms, the beauty. She blamed me alone if I came across the stick of thorns. Slaves were allowed no gloves. It did no good to cry, nor to complain of the pruning shears' blisters on my young hands. Mine were cut out to be those of a banker, like daddy and his daddy. I hated her rigidity opposing my destination. On rare summer nights, when she hadn’t passed out after drinking Ouzo all evening, she would call out "Look at the man in the moon!" I was the only regular garden sentinel for his once-every-month white-painted, full round face. In her legend-filled world, the man in the moon was godlier than the tooth fairy or Santa Claus. I hated him because he never granted my wishes. Years hoping for the same wish: a piano, to become the DJ of sing-a-long parties for my friends. I remember one tune, "Fly me to the moon". I would have flown to Mars to escape the contagion of her gardens. Except, you know, the red planet. I hate red. farther than Mars [2014.3.9…a] |
| Write a poem about a bad day. it started with a bottle of Mumm's and outlandishly divine munchies Nadine was an excellent hostess I knew the mistake was great when I accepted a third glass of Pouilly Fuisé a rare 1997 vintage the same year of a sad passing truly, she did not haunt my mind she was my past the other four partygoers are a more carefree here and now, so a good time was had by all, except the throbbing in my temples, reminiscent of migraine, torticollis, sinitus or the pain from extended weeping so it tears at my senses this afternoon after morning's lemon juice and paracetamol green tea to drown an elephant and a bleak smile when you ask if we can stop whispering reasons for whispering [2014.2.9...a] |
| Prompt: Write a poem that takes place in a bus station, airport or train station. the first time, seventeen years ago I had just buried my best friend there were two stations in your city you greeted me at the second instead of kissing me for hours you held me in your arms showing me your patient love as I wept in grief... in two days, seventeen years hence I will take another train from this station to return to horizons further north where my dailyness unfolds without you I have grown accustomed to leaving our love, our life together, its tinge of sadness on the platform we will wave goodbye no longer do I share my tears departures [2014.1.9...b] |
| his unborn children never viewed life through rosey colored glasses outlawed generations ago, their reflections never proved theorems or prayers life was a long, easy-flowing river First Truth: only newborns can account for each star in the Milky Way Last Truth: their great-great-grandchildren drown in the stench of toxic waste its finger-sting the burp of its bubbles nightmare visions of thick oily smoke never tasting of mint chocolate wine life is not a daltonian coloring book of blue and orange, pink or green they were not born cloned robots Shakespeare was, in contrasted reality, the hidden progenitur in Bethlehem, praise be to Puck! he, the father of modern perfumers, could sell guano as face cream in a sugary voice bellowing against superlative poppycock supercalifragilisticexpialidocious his melodious Sprechgesang glorifies audatious Sixteen Chapel palettes he was blinded by birth life, deprived of its natural elements, rages like elephants mourn their tusks in China, trinkets bear sortileges oh dread! a continent of sterile children Last Haiku tongguo dianran yanwu (lit by smog) zhege kan bujian de yueliang (this unseen moon) ertong siwang (children die) this unhued poem of artistic endeavour is society’s wine life allows growth so that death may conquer light years of verse were all his sonnets of unrequited love penned for the lovers he found in the morgue? life has an indentured bite of fourteen slant-rhymed periods lillies wither for the soul mates of our humble troubadour The Only Prediction the Gods assure that his descendants will speak in tongues flower-glazed teeth chattering non-sequitur verbs chanting to magicians with floating umbrellas in discordant reading, the book of Ezekiel flatters the monolithe of the modern psyche: who / what / why / when / where? ils verront la vie en rose their stems will wave goodbye like faithful kindergarteners following Hansel and Gretel’s gingerbread trails they, burned-to-a-crisp slaves to poetry no one can comprehend still respond the number of stars? only one – they call it light Where are the children? [2014.28.8...a] |
| I hover like a cloud stalking blue. Casting spells. This place is my soul. Already the call of winter claims the night air. A red balloon has crossed horizons and continents, reincarnating itself in children's laughter and adult's wishes for rejuvenation. Its landing here is an omen. Too many birthday candles, too many electric lights suspended from the rafters and the trees in the yard. A folding card table of gifts, one for each guest. All have red balloons to replace satin ribbons. I blow out the candles, one by one. Conjuring a wish for each. The house has morphed itself into a shrine, billows of incense, hundreds of candles. We dance to eclectic Tibetan meditation bowls and festive Mariachi singers. There are no taxis to or from this lonely place. I will take my life with me, flying higher each time. I will catch floating the rouging of sunrise and sunset. My wishes have taught me to acknowledge the deep-rooted sentiment that this is the year of my death. Shades of white and red [2014.24.8...b] |
| I sit at the Steinway playing Chopin. I have opened the lid so that Joy, dressed in red sequins, could not lounge upon its shiny ebony finish. Leroy would paint her in reclining there. She, in that diva position would succeed in tempting me to accompany her in soprano acobatics from "La Traviata." Sixteen of us have captured the freight elevator as our vessel. We are not cramped together in just any vertical tourist bus. Mistress Beck, our Research Direstor, has asked me to play appropriate music for each changing vista as we scale the south-eastern corner of our high-rise in its spacious, one-way glass cage. The commoners at ground level see only a mobile turquoise box. The official agenda of this escapade is to capture dragons; a silly adventure for non-believers. They were not invited on this expedition. Tamara and Karl honed the guest list with the proper melodies. We have food for a few weeks. It will be easy to squat a penthouse powder room when necessary as the building is curently occupied only by the two hundred gnomes hired to construct it. They were not immediately re-housed after the completion. Our legal representative, Judge Hawthorn, negotiated the suites on the first ten floors for their permanent use. The overly-optimistic promoter lost a couple of billion dollars when certain Russian would-be titans declared their first embargo on American goods and refused to elect residency in New York. We Friends of Dragons are searching for at least one dragon who's expecting. Unhatched eggs are like sharps and flats in music, adding mystery to ordinary cadences. They are the perfect resolution for social conflict. In protest I have reluctantly eliminated Rachmaninoff and Tchaikowsky from the entertainment slash enticement program. My companions cringe at dissident music, so Prokovief and Chostakovich had already been exiled. Once again. Dragons have a distinct taste for Romanticism. I myself prefer the unusual and extraordinary. Our dragons will dominate the world. Introduction to Impossible, One-oh-One [2014.8.8...d] |
| partly cloudy, southwesterly wind shadows veil and reveal subtle hidden things passers-by are rare, less friendly than the intimate gusts that tossel leaves and grass I savor the lushness in the air after so much rain, no fires will marr this horizon, this morning's peace is the prop for a magician's trick uncertain and surprising a single red poppy winds and dances against a stationary stone wall a man with two timid children says hello between two cigarette puffs I smile broadly, briefly existing as a ray of sunshine outside of my own shadow a single red poppy [2014.10.8...a] |
We dabble as weathercasters, spying on the skies in search of certain dark, ill-boding cumulonimbus formations. Then we bet on the violence and precision of their explosion directly above us. We did not expect to amuse ourselves thus for these summer months. We rarely evoke the beach, long trips in the car to four-star restaurants, walking in forests or climbing rubble-filled mountain paths. I am not a do-it-yourselfer at ease with a spatula and plaster. And you are stuck with crutches. So the two of us watch over the clouds for thunderstorms that force water beneath a cracked roof tile. I alone anticipate emptying containers placed strategically under the last storm's water-logged ceiling. Of course, each flood path is different. flood relief [2014.8.8...b] |
Chinese folk melodies sing from the radio, remnant of piano pieces I once played under the cherry blossom bridge the cat tries to approach mysteries beyond dark skylights tiptoeing back and forth on the stairwell's acrobatic thin guard railing, he never jumps neither up nor down a silent white owl in the snow my glitterless eyes are not dilated in excited curiosity like his but seek oneness with a darkness that troubles him so I know the music of my dreams so easily kidnapped to follow the day bright ribbons for Buddha songs from the radio [2014.4.8...e] |
| The moment fireworks leave the sky in gray haze. Counting the hours, we waited til sunset. Is it time yet? Then a long dinner, blue still fading. Walking to the park instead of cramped like sardines in the car. People cluster on high vantage points, year after year neither change. Colors explode like cartoons at the cinema. Larger than life. The magic never lasts long enough. Or perhaps there is never enough money to make such amazement last a lifetime. The walk home cannot be solemn. We are all excited and trying to memorize the beauty, to be remembered in the morning, vivid images shared with absent friends lucky enough to holiday at the seashore. Night's darkness descends hours later and blights our consciousness. For once this was not a dream. Rage against the dying light [2014.26.7...a] After a painting by Hiromasa Takahata |
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