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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. )) |
| No poetry oozed from the swarming white-capped rain yesterday. The tiny balls of hail hurt, humans and delicate blossoms alike. No umbrella offered sanctuary, buses and trucks in a hurry swooshed puddles of water on already drenched passers-by. Sometimes staying indoors is not an option. Dominating life. The poor must walk to work. They must walk with open bags filled with now waterlogged groceries. Others take taxis, but the turbulence of the wind and the anger of the torrents shook all calm from those closed privileged spaces. From within my wind-rattling windows, I laughed at a TV comedy group parodying a well-known sit-com. Five men dragging Desperate Housewives to hilarious summits. Had I been outdoors on my top-floor balcony, my gut-busting tears would have added salty spice to the ozone-filled rain. More ingredients for a soupy mix. After the deluge, after the storm’s eye had blinked one last time, after this latest uncontrolled explosion, there was poetry in the freshly washed air. Think thick cotton pyjamas. explosions [2014.8.5…a] |
| She deposits her life in a purple leather book, each detail, each thought, each event; she leaves nothing unforgotten. The years she sang in coffee houses in Europe, the men she loved, the men she left, the songs, oh the thousands of songs she still remembers. Music never abandons her. She sits alone on a ten-floor building roof. There is an old wrought iron table and two wicker chairs. The view does not extend far, too many other buildings are higher. Alone she whispers to herself. She sees herself falling onto the marquis below. Lately she has forgotten her house keys. Lately she forgets where she parked her car. A phone number. Her neighbor’s face. She knows the name of this forgetting disease. And while she can, she sets nickels and dimes worth of savings aside in a notebook, for the day she fears the most. One day her strange words will read like the life of someone else. strange words [2014.6.5…b] |
| In the square bottomed bag, three potted sunflowers lifted their heads upwards. The afternoon, perfect and stunning, marveled back at them. Placed behind the lilac flowers along the balcony rail, they turned once again westwards, this time to the left. Their scent is earthy, like fields. I bought them hoping that on cloudy days they will brighten my books as I sit to read. Tomorrow morning I shall watch to see which birds come to sing to their eastward-swaying stems. sunflowers [2014.5.5…b] |
A moment of prologue. The randomness of standing like a statue under a hot shower, praying the pummeling will ease some usefulness back into my knotted muscles. The pain asks me that same question, common to humankind. I wonder. Hamlet did not philosophize, he merely whined. I too love to soliloquize, except lacking his fame, I have no following. I still say live and let live. Make love not war, and the world will be rosier. It’s cliche, but so well intended. In times of strife not everyone can uncover a clogged wishing well. But we can all sling mud and tell each other how bright the city lights have become and the uselessness of so much wasted electricity. Sing a song, even if you can’t carry a tune. The tune in your heart sometimes remains silent, not meant to be shared. But if we dare, the joy communicates itself so quickly and stretches beyond so many of our ill-conceived barriers. I still want to fly to the moon hanging tightly to a kite string. I haven’t learned how. That is my song. The wind will birth its words. I know how to listen carefully. I see my kite in my inner eye, there is spider silk for rope. It is sturdy. I know little about harvesting wind. That is the next step. To study its possibilities like Socrates in school. Windmills were for grinding grain. Don Quixote had the right idea, looking beyond the obvious. I must stop howling like a madman. the wind’s story is just beginning [2014.4.5…a] |
This is perhaps a ghostly vision, a man wearing a death mask, a Pierrot in white robe. They wait in the wings, attuned to the limelight, saluting a sliver of incandescent moonlight. Its hope will be revealed in another twelve days, full, ripe, glowing, stealing the show from millions of tinier sparkles. They will wait to exclaim the most resonant bravos. If only the city lights would dim to allow this celestial diva perfect views from every horizon. Stars are night’s electricity, they have no need to ponder existential questions. They are. They have always been. They will outshine our meagre lives whenever it is they are destined to end. They have no need to recite monologues. The light needs only the awe of silent presence. silent monologues [2014.3.5…b] |
| Only black and white can paint fear. It explodes the stark opposites of reality. The sound of thunder hammers at my consciousness like bombs plundering life as it leaks pools of red. Death nourishes earth’s renewal. The ashes are too thick. This is a memory, it transcends life and splashes into the spiritless void of dreams. How to define solitude otherwise? We always part, slipping away under dark umbrellas. A reminder of dismal misty days cached in great emotion that start at the cemetery. Deep, open holes waiting to swallow our grief. The first element: earth. On the pontoon over looking the river, they sing Simon and Garfunkel. It is well after midnight. They are dressed in colorful scarves. Between songs they drink red wine and eat apple crumble. There is autumn mist in the air and a warm fire in the pit. Two elements: fire and water. I must escape these turpitudes. Hot air balloons still coddle me with a childlike fascination. Their evidence soars like the Milky Way through my mind. A century ago madmen thought it possible to fly on a kite to the moon. They would have been burned for sorcery. I am not mad, merely a wary and weary wanderer. The last element: air. For my farewell, as I ascend ever so slowly, they will sing songs accompanied by drums and pipes. Sadness would be so trite. four elements [2014.1.5…c] |
More prose. Scarlett  , having appreciated the titles of the books appearing in my last PAD from April, suggested I might use them as titles of books. Alas, I do not feel competent writing such large pieces of prose, but I had planned already to continue writing prose as long as the form interests me.Thus, today's piece is the first "sequel" of that last PAD. It's link is here: "Invalid Entry"  In the leftover joy of bloody star gardens, geranium weeds abound. They are silent tendrils, sweeping to the east and wrapping back around northwards. Long thorns thriving on silver light grieve the dust-laden earth. The most noble essences have long died off from untended parcels, still cultivated by lily-white gloved hands of the ruling classes who, in dying beauty, have barricaded themselves in the grand palaces. The gardeners succumbed to massive pollution, working too close to the source of inevitable decay. There are no replacements. The unemployed youth know they would still starve even if they worked the land. There are no more schools, but they are not under-educated. In the gardens where love dreamed magic trees yielding riches, all is withered. Sunlight, deflected by debilitating meteor showers, labors to leave dim shadows over its prize planet. the end of poetry [2014.1.5...a] |
Will the loss of one hour's sleep keep nightmares at bay? Disturb circadian rhythms with pounding temples? Why didn’t they ask me what time it is? Time to abort time. It’s running thinner and thinner, diluted by ever-dwindling sands of time. The horror of melting ice. Move-foreward won’t stop the bathroom’s dripping faucet nor gurgling pipes elsewhere in the building. Perhaps photosynthesis is the culprit, some evolutionary scheme men tapped into unknowingly. More sunlight equals more vivld green leaves reaching upwards like newborn soldiers protecting life. What a quagmire! Doing more time they bargained for, no honesty in the front lines. No, that ticking will stop time’s quiet flow with a bang. The lucky choose life on a boat, not sailing around the globe in a millionaire's quest for fame. Submarines not concerned with the decline of coral reefs. Or sea turtles asphyxiated by human rubbish. No one comes to play any more. The bullies have found weaker prey. I prayed real hard to Jesus and he showed me a quick uppercut that I never knew I could swing. Now I believe like a metronome every Sunday morning. Got lots of free time to see Madame Victoria. Her crystal ball highlights the devil in life; two adversaries want to bet on my soul. Yes. The dreams. The same each time. They never pan out right. Do I sweat because I forget to open the window? when two becomes three [2014.29.3…b] |
| Deeper into the night, cognac, brandy, pills, Japanese samurai movies. Poison. My demise as a vegetable is inevitable. Seppuku. Too many unquenchable thirsts. Will there be flowers and odes? I read -- each page ten times, twenty -- and forget. Repeat exercise ad nauseum. Like a sponge, I drip with words. Freshly squeezed lemon juice, the pucker of early morning when tea leaves need to be coaxed to throw out their future and a pick-me-up screams urgence. The trash can composts peeled bananas and lemons, eggshells, pepper seeds. Color enlivens inner drab, yes, my soul dresses in mourning. I’ll dare myself to carry bagpipes. Or wear a clown’s apparel. Homo sapiens have removed all majesty from toiling in collectivity. Sixteenth floor, circus of office elevators, the disambiguated calliope in coffee rooms. Cries and Whispers. Exit Beethoven. I attract feeble and insincere. I don’t ban small talk. Descartes before lunch is unthinkable for working parties. Beckett before midnight wafts like whiskey and cigars. Lovely vices. Lovely. Addictive. I fondly remember the acupuncture needles on my first qi retreat. Shape-shifting my energies for eternity, complete dance-cards for tangos and Viennese waltzes. Exit dabbling dilettantes. Lifestyles for a mind morphed into a clear void. Comforting. Unlike whiskey. I still scream at idiots in Mercedes who think I’m a crosswalk turtle. Will they plea-bargain at Saint Peter’s pearly gates? Curse like sailors when he insists the Alice in Wonderland bungee jump has more justice? Is eternal bliss reliving ad infinitum the same nightmare minute after minute? A scratched vinyl of the initial horror. Sell God your soul, maybe it’ll stop. No flowers. No odes. Midnight after awaiting day. Godot will come when I don’t. addiction [2014.26.3…a] |
| The garden is silent and empty. No birds. Perhaps it is too late in the day. I talk to myself slowly and deliberately, a person in quest of time. The trees stare back, placid. They don’t have the answers I seek. They excel sharing wisdom, although I have not written books. I read rosebuds, early creepers and spots of moss on rock paths. I listen to stagnant water in the basin, notice a sunken chip of bark and sunflower seed husks. The gardener comes in two days. I have been reprimanded for helping him on the odd days of the week. Tuesdays are ideal for mulch and pruning. It has been thus since I was a child. Those habits have pushed me through decades. I have never forgotten the sadness indoors in the room of windows. Always looking towards something else, another season, another opportunity, something brighter. In that room I was never filled with silence. I welcome it now. A snail. A butterfly. An few empty nests. I have no children. Books do not count, for they are constant like the days renewing themselves. Their stories are like photographs, unlike memories which fade and augment, as the need is felt. Their faces always smile. Like children. An owl hoots. I gather my blanket around my shoulders. a long night [2014.26.3…b] |
Calmly, in her velvet Victorian interior, she poured her last cup of porcelain hemlock, having planned so carefully to fade into eternity this night; while hell's whirlwinds heckled ill-fitting shutters and unbalanced roof tiles, cursing loudly with the garden's wind chimes like confused hooligans too drunk to realize from which directions their blows flew, kettledrums impaled the night with the might of a Molotov explosion when the old oak tree finally wrested itself from hundred-year roots and crashed like a million splinters into the gazebo, finally reducing it to glass shards and an old maid’s memories. when the moment comes [2014.26.3...a] |
I bathe in his tone poems Grieg Lyric Pieces danse while sunset battles clouds each minute rings rare a moment of sound and sight I hover, insignificant like the piano’s resonance etches harmonies into silence I dare not break with tears like imagined purple reigns upon grey like thrones of distant kings he, with his nimble fingers is royalty to my ears accustomed to such music its magic contains life breathing into a world of souls seeking peace after Håkon Austbø [2014.23.3…b] Author's Note: Basically, the Triversen form is a six stanza poem, of three lines each, where each stanza must be a complete sentence. It was developed by William Carlos Williams. |
too little time for pertinent rhyme lazy, a sunlit daisy soaking up leftover moonshine waiting for next moons of full blues we pay tribute to our muses in (alas!) little-read tribunes which rarely amuse I offer only small thorns of tall-stemmed roses, imagination creates the details to curtail lengthy monologues of fine mockery epilogued in twelve lines twelve, entwined [2014.23.3...a] A RAOP for The Dew Drop Inn Katya the Poet  is once again hosting the PoemADay writing spree in April for National Poetry Month.The link for her forum is "Dew Drop Inn" It would be nice if people stopping by here to read this RandomActOfPoetry would participate this year. |
| pink sunsets soar over still unearthed raw diamonds a hundred dark dusted hands grasp plastic reeds how not to breathe oppression they swear at the sun, yelling poems of volcanic suffering written in white ink on clouds moving so quickly across their meager lives they are our scribes these scarecrows with rose-filled hands secluding doubt while blind horses gallop deleting prayers flayed skin-deep into our souls occulting dreams planted as garden labyrinths magnifying death into parks of marble and oak we take their flowering romanticism and crush it with our swift whispering mantras they float like opalescent haloes, hovering like eagles in search of a lion’s mane cloaked in desert similitude roaring through sand storms, ingrained in our smog-fragilized pores we drink the mist from cold mornings as it settles like starlight in the palms of our parched hands time hurries to busy itself through destiny’s throes like the circumference of the universe birthing infinity’s promise in a single syllable offerings [2014.15.3…b] |
| A soft voice, a woman’s singing a lullaby to her child. The sound wafts from below, disturbing my concentration. Ten in the evening, I try to become one with my thoughts, letting them ebb and flow over my consciousness like water on a beach. Tingling the pebbles of my muse. Hoping, like the quiet changing displays of any sunset, that I can avoid thinking about such tender subjects as loneliness, satisfying my bank account and dealing with the chronic pain that moves around my back like the wind on the Sahara. At such a simple distraction shoulders cramp more than normal. Her voice is lovely. I do not like to admit this, for she normally brings me more strife than anything else. I do not know if the child is a boy or a girl. I have never seen it. It screams; it does not simply cry. And the woman seems to have little patience. Hearing her lullaby was the first humanizing thing I’ve perceived from her since june last year when the child was born. Being the witness of a glimmer of humanity from this woman does not give me enough positive vibes so that I might relax into my evening exercise of journaling. I do not know why I simply did not change rooms and leave her singing. I had not heard the baby all evening, so the lullaby logically would not have lasted long. And even in the throes of her bouts of infant screaming, I have never heard the mother counter with a lullaby. Perhaps tonight is the first time enough calm descended between the two of them that she felt relaxed enough to sing for her child. Why could I not simply leave the room and return ten minutes later? Is owning my life so important that I can no longer allow the slightest unforeseen elements disturb it? I seem to have become selfish and heartless. I can not reason like this and flow with the moment. My life has less and less flow in it - I have become a creature of routine. Perhaps her lullaby did not remind me of my own mother singing to me — these memories, if they existed have exited my mind — and let myself become nostalgic. Instead I pull up a Verdi opera from the depths of my computer’s memories and turn up the volume. If I must be distracted by noise, or even someone else’s unwelcome music, I prefer it to be of my own choosing. Perhaps the child will come to like opera. Was I always so centered on my own well-being and incapable of truly putting myself in someone else’s shoes? Why can I not forget the turbulent run-ins I have had with this woman because of the noise resonating from her home to mine? I have no children. So I have never been in a position to develop first hand any tolerance for the way they take over adult lives. I am in control of my life and when external forces try to supersede that control, I roar like Katrina in all of her disruptive power. And once I begin my offensive states, it is impossible for me to remember that I call myself a pacifist. Do peace loving individuals get angry? Do they lose control of their emotions? I must say yes on both accounts. They say passive agressive nowadays. I can become red in the face when angry. How passive is that? And is this the face of a man who preaches love, not war? |
| It’s not just the sky that is gray, you see visible particles of gray floating in the air. I guess this is true pollution; you can’t convince yourself it doesn’t exist if you can’t see it. The wind has been cold, even though the sunlight for the last few days has been working overtime to produce the illusion of heat. I have braved this restlessness enough times to have consumed too many pots of hot tea to warm me after my excursions into this pre-spring weather. Forsythia is in bloom. Several incredible magnolias and other flowering shrubbery decorate the neighborhood. I am not a horticulturist so I do not retain botanical names. This naming of things is a precise art form. IN general there are too many syllables to retain. Quite different from people’s names, although each time I encounter her, I ask myself if her name is truly Elise, like I’ve told myself for the last six months. Perhaps if I saw here three times a week instead of only Wednesdays. I would so like to keep a true garden in my golden years, as if they could shine brighter than the imprint I’m trying to leave now at the end of my career. Menageries of people have always frightened me. I wonder if there is a form of psychology in planting the right types of elements in the proper soil with the proper cardinal expositions. My mother kept rock gardens of great variety. She knew every possible plant that could acclimate itself to such conditions. I did not inherit her knowledge, which was perhaps only book-learned — there were no gardening books in her rare shelves of intelligence, knickknacks testified only to her love of beauty — but I hope one day to prove I inherited her enthusiasm. She pulled it out of the clear blue sky. Her parents were true city dwellers and would have spurned being caught with dirt under their fingernails. Perhaps it was a generation thing. My father’s parents were equally disinclined to create adventures with the outdoors. They at least had a garden and a front lawn, meticulously taken care of by a wonderful black man named Tom. Life took me far from homes with gardens, to a building with a long and narrow balcony. I do not deal well with its constraints. The noise. The clutter. The incivilities that one can ignore if they are across the street but take up so much energy if they are on the floor beneath your bedroom. It all adds grayness to my days. I do not need to look beyond my windows for it and feel betrayed when I do. But it is selfish to complain when I can scrutinize elm and maple buds growing by the day, and wonder how early the ginkgo leaves will be this year after a clement winter season. Even if I must reprimand my cat for eating weeds in the pots. It is a modest version of Eden I cultivate. I should invest in more decorative crockery, though. [2014.11.3...a] |
immolate my tears sway their execution hurricane me, throttle me excessively, sparsely be my lover rarity like moonshine on Piccadilly Circus, buried like artifacts of a clown painted smiles overstuffed boots idiot you’ve never been Hamlet with canned rations for folly dust particles retain your brain render your eyes useless sparks of dismal normalcy despicable tracks along an abandoned tramway cloudburst swans and swallows mate for life summits and scenery imagined, ignored, ignited ignoble family absent taskmaster and omnipotent mistress of pain epiphany, tombstones ashes and acid rain the idiot [2014.19.2…b] After today’s poetry newsletter. Concerning "Chance Poem (aka Aleatory aka Chance Operations aka Dadaist Poem)" The original list of words was: immolate, execution, hurricane, sparsely, lover, moonshine, piccadilly, artifacts, clown, idiot, Hamlet, rations, particles, render, sparks, despicable, tramway, cloudburst, swans and swallows, summits and scenery, ignoble, taskmaster, mistress of pain, epiphany, acid rain |
| The outcome was unpredicted. Fingers twisted and scratched instead of sweetly manicured. Positive upshot: the chest of drawers got glued back into one single functioning piece. The new hair salon was filled with three charming old ladies. I was the only male. We all wanted to be the first client to inaugurate Suzanne's new location. As I live closest, I got there first. I think she, the scissor mistress, put all four names for eleven o’clock. We became instant friends, although we shall probably never cross paths again. Later, the before lunch serenade had Bartok sounding too much like Chopin. The inherent grit was absent. This Hungarian sweetness must be tainted by schizophrenia. Then the atmosphere is right. Bleeding fingers left stains on certain patterns of keys. Is twisted and scratched a start on mental illness? I left three old suitcases, covered in dust, on a street corner leaving a huge hole in a cabinet. They disappeared within twenty minutes. Too many candidates compete to fill the blank space there. Perhaps a lottery? Another list? Would anyone want my disjointed life even if I gave it a way with a million dollars? Who would trade place with this uncommon musician/poet/philosopher/unrequited lover? There are nails — little carpenter tacks — in my desk, coming loose, pushed back into their holes regularly. They are not decorative. Nor useful. Perhaps I shall pull them out and paint the desk. It needs it. It has never been renovated, upgraded, improved. Original white paint chips and flakes regularly into the vacuum cleaner. Tarpaulin. Four colors of paint. One for each leg. Shellack for the wooden top that is still in good condition. The holes will show, but charm comes in many shapes and sizes. Brushes. Various solutions to clean them. Perhaps the leftover paint could be used on the front door project that’s been hanging around like a dead vine for the last few seasons. Covered in dust and crumbling leaves, it’s been a long time since someone called me charming…. Now that would be a pleasant surprise. Totally unpredicted. motivation caught tumbling with bed sheets tie-dyed dreams from a journal [2014.18.2…b] |
| Outside: The sky is less bruised this morning. Perhaps more peace. Less wind. Inside: I shiver in solitude. Outside: No hustle and bustle below on the streets. The city has taken a vacation. The cold weather snow congregates elsewhere, here spring tries to arrive. Inside: A warm cup of green tea. My hibernation seems to have finished. Outside: Jays, magpies and pigeons claim the quiet air. The balcony’s trees have not attracted sparrows this morning. Inside:I would mate like birds - but there are no other wings that catch my attention. I have not choreographed this kind of dance for many years... Outside: An uninvited cat meows on my doorstep. His human mama would cringe if I were to offer him my hospitality. He is not allowed to wander. Inside: My solitary black-and-white tom is preoccupied with birds swooping on the other side of the glass. The sound of another cat doesn't intrigue him. Only the winged creatures allow us to dream of freedom. Outside: The afternoon clemency lingers in silence. No children’s calls disturb my contemplation. Inside: I have erased the blues from everywhere except my eyes. Music grows from my soul. Outside: The sun has set in peaceful tones. I am not a painter like the sky. My small human hands could not hold jewels as vast as tonight. Inside: Beauty gives purpose to the evening. Calm reflections. A reason to hope. oppositions [2014.17.2…a] Thank you He’s Brian K Compton for the inspiration... |
| I have waited. To speak with you again; we have forgotten our voices. Printed words are rare, sterile and devoid of intention. You have another life beyond our memories. Beyond the years that unite us solemnly like family. We were once close, like siblings, like lovers, like keepers of secrets. Monks praying, tending to the garden of their Eden, respectful of life’s gifts. We carefully removed the thorns and weeds of the space surrounding us; there were many. We planted borders of flowers to bloom in all seasons. Taking us in each direction we imagined for our lives. Perhaps that garden is still colorful, year round. Even today. Perhaps other people walk on our stones. I grow older, more silent, wearing the years like a monk’s cloak, although I have left the prayers for others. You never understood. Like an old oak, my limbs grow stiff, waiting for the fatal wind to break down their last vestige of strength. I leaned on you for so many years. Time’s crutches bear me less and less well. Before I die, will we speak again? Leave me to the ocean breeze, my ashes dusting high cliffs of heather. Will you come for me then? a forest of time saluting through dead branches another full moon strangers [2014.11.2…b] |
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