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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. )) |
| Walking to the morning's destination, listening to the soft caress of Birdie's voice. I watch the wind push everything to breaking point. I almost fly, bouyant like a kite. Cold wind breaks on the warmer air accumulated over the atypical winter. I compose a haiku, debate with my muse whether to repeat the idea of cold in so few words. Birdie sings of pain, abandonment. She shares her bittersweet soul with such modesty. I remember my own words, unusually moved by their impact in this blustery morning. As I arrive, a strange ray of sunlight offers a brief welcome before being swallowed by the gusts above. I do not feel like a storm today. The arctic gusts only tamper with the skin of my face, drying it, beating against it; eiderdown and wool protect offer me enough warmth. I want to flow with the wind instead of opposing it with my feet firmly planted in my sense of myself. I want to wander with imprecise directions, thinking about words I hear and their impact on my own thoughts. I want to cherish each of the day’s destinations. And not wonder if I am late, welcome or outliving my stay. There will be many hours of daylight, tampered and tempered, or not, by ever-changing clouds, before I reach the hours taking me through the darkness to tomorrow. The crowded space beyond my threshold contains little warmth. That I have sought beyond myself. bruised winter skies rushed by turbulence and pain cold hearths what I seek beyond [2014.7.2...b] |
She whispers each word that she knows is important to me. In her eight-year-old wisp of a voice. Sometimes I simply must guess, and hope she has understood the ideas I try to convey to her budding sense of sound. I whisper for intimacy; my timidity has never withheld me from making myself understood; words with their strange power have always been my sword. Other children, the adolescents, think to mumble is their only choice for acceptance. I point out, uselessly, that I am not one of their band of misfits. I’ve been there, done that and every other cliche I can think to define my rejection of their "be like everyone else" attitude. So, I mumble back for thirty minutes and find a certain amusement in their confusion. Not a waste of pedagogy but the next week’s lessons are rarely any different. If they don’t want my advice, it’s find with me if my words go in one ear and out the next. I warn them. I play good cop, bad cop. Especially bad cop. I yell. That works well, but it’s such an effort. They all understand threat. So do I, and I hated it. My psyche deals better with calm, and that usually means I adopt a certain indifference to their lack of desire to learn anything in my presence. I used to think music would unite us all. That there was some mystical common language transmitted by sound that would bypass being human. Either fifty-eight or fifteen. I was wrong. You have to want sound to transcend noise. And sweat like a pig to make sound into music. We can all whisper. But can we all make ourselves heard? those who whisper [2014.5.2…a] |
| My thoughts are not loud. When silence stops. There are regrets, that before the silence there had been no music. I used to imagine melodies in the silence; they were another type of thought, more peaceful, less brooding. Those moments are gone, farther and farther from my present, where silence, the opposite of music, is the only thing which calms me. If I think too much about my music, my tears flow. Their silence is now one of my greatest fears. I feel less and less. I am shrinking. A baby cries. Dogs bark. People slam doors. Forget they don’t need to scream into telephones. Some nights I whine, huddled into a foetal position when pain replaces sound, silence and everything in between. On those nights, I have learned not to cry aloud, whimpering is all my body tolerates. Those nights my thoughts call out to my dead mother. Maternal comfort. How does an adult face suffering without her arms? I dream of becoming deaf. I wonder though, if thoughts would still infringe upon the silence, since I know the sound of them as they echo among the synapses of my brain. It is only in silence that I can dream. Noise incrusts itself upon them. Nightmares occur. Regularly. There is rarely the sound of Mahler, or Debussy, or Chopin, or Bach, in them. My dreams are like black and white silent movies. Only blood is red. I imagine it is my own blood, pouring through my veins, punctuating my silence with my own pulse. One day it will stop completely. Is there silence in heaven? Will all my ghosts there understand that I no longer want to spend eternity talking about the past? in between music and thoughts [2014.4.2…b] |
| A tram passes in one direction. He crosses the tracks, hoping a second one, hidden by the first, will startle him from his lethargy. Anything. One pill too many. A slip of the razor in a sauna-like morning shower. His parents died years ago, he feels nothing, even now. Hatred is a strange curse, burying any thread of sentimentality he knows is there someplace. It pushes him upon a path leading too far from those warm Sundays at the dinner table when he hated to admit he felt like he belonged. He hobbles now, the new shoes finally biting into an open blister. The pain is his friend, old and comfortable. Not like the longing with the tram. He is not ready to take the chance that heaven exists. And that miraculously all his dead people will welcome him with open arms as if nothing had changed over the years. He is not ready to forget. He never learned that one lesson which would lessen his pain. the tram [2014.3.2...b] |
| I sit at the window, shivering and feverish, wishing the darkness would swallow this pain in a relentlessness for which I would gladly sell my soul rain has failed, its downpour washes over the bile in my lungs cleansing nothing, unwanted now the land is gorged with stagnation clouds cough and spit vileness in fits of sickness, dousing poison where there is no room for sweet breath, deep and restful while sleep pouts with disdain I count the hours of loss belching out sour after effects of too many ill treatments rest has fled, for dreams bring drowning and mudslides and life quits so suddenly too quickly nothing remains but bitter bodies and torn souls toiling not to succumb, like warriors waiting for death an illness [2014.23.1...a] |
my father, say no prayers for her she lived in light and feared its darkness she did not believe she will no longer wake from tenebrous fright and face the wonder of the next bright new day addicted to laughter, frivolity and champagne her dreams added spice to each sunrise swift feet carried her over continents like a gazelle she outran every shadow she did not know what to believe yet bolder demons were never distant they caught her at sunset when all cats are gray she didn't believe in churches and stained glass but succumbed to other powers of temptation she let herself drown, spiralling downwards so much easier than remembering the light she forgot how to believe she left no children for future souvenirs nor hope in the tears wetting her tombstone never looking back, life was her only prayer in death only silence whispers her name one more life [2013.31.10…a] Prompt: write a poem of endings and beginnings. |
unnameable darkness damp, stark, marked by my fear, anguish bloodied bruises I share spider corners under the tool table bare, unpainted concrete floors above, the thick wood splintered and rough with other marks of hate twisted, virulent ideas weapons I might use one day if pushed into other corners beyond hell beyond humiliation beyond salvation for she taught me my own evilness awakened my devils my desire to strike quicker than venom hammers, pointed rods screw drivers, a heavy power drill, the wood axe I curse in the unlit blackness words I was never taught vomit forth from the depths of abuse afterwards I weep a parallel explosion of pain as my ass welts and bleeds unnameable [2013.30.10...a] Prompt: Write about the hard stuff... |
caught between heaven and hell she lies here alone beneath marble richness she lived too fast, too champagne too luxury, too love intensity governed her everything was her motto excellence and damnation beauty and beasts for the love of one she sold her soul to the other and lost her path caught in between her battle is done though no peace remains pray for forgiving pray for the arms of angels and not the curse of eternal questions in memory of Victoire Issajoux [2013.29.10...a] Prompt: write an epitaph NB: French TV has just lost a colorful character from "Plus Belle la Vie". |
a ray of morning gold eons of stars, moon silver I am a castle called life the ancient oaks on every continent celestial orbit the sun setting just once in the east miracle I am reality's dream unspoken truths heard only in monastic silence the first flake of snow the most ancient glaciers covering the highest summits I am death and each reincarnated soul I am love I have no name but unity none can compress me into words that define I expand into each breath and the patience of a single rock waiting for a drop of rain a chance of eternity [2013.28.10...a] Prompt: a poem "who are we?" |
a slave for time not rhyme I'm trying to save an hour of day its light spreading way too thin, spinning uncontrolled, from each pole's soul north and south, easterly, westwardly soft melting candles stuck in brambles from the black woods, hooded by leaves falling from tall emperors called trees a single extra hour for cedars and pines who don't seem to care about saving a dime meaningless in their grave seams of time there's no crime to eat lemons and limes oh the woe of breakfast behind slow clocks fast unwinding these last minutes the moon still travels with the planets in circles, like three handed time bandits ticking, picking, clicking and mixing hours with decades, lost in arcades with games for the lame of heart set apart like red cabooses braying like moose and timid squeaking mice tweaking trite phrases: did you turn back the slack in all of your clocks? extra time [2013.27.10...a] Prompt: writing a rhyming poem (liberal adaptation...) |
night sweat-drenched sheets tormented my slumbering youth with unpleasant routine still hidden deep in my closet behind boxes, the off season clothes - her collection of finery - wrapped in long thick plastic covers she never followed me there yet I was not safe no one was willing to challenge her reign, to step in and stifle the fear-hurt-pain nor delay the inevitable humiliation for not being perfect... I still cower though bravely I ruffle my pissed-upon feathers I shout louder as she did, anger following us like a destiny to cower [2013.26.10...a] Prompt: write about a family member |
a touch of gold to end night's gloom wind songs chiming in the chimney swallows diving outside the windows the cat following from indoors new swollen buds on the hibiscus a cup of steaming green tea fresh bagels and strawberry jam my sister's long letter, reminiscing on our long dead grandparents a tear for the time she spent writing remembering and loving life as she does... so many little celebrations a new day [2013.25.10...a] Prompt: write about a celebration |
| After a photo by Rodney Smith. Prompt: back in time even the giants allow her peaceful floating she commutes with silence a human bonsai fashioned by the gods for their contemplation dressed in mourning she cannot return to those years of wonder, of excitement of simple dreams her reflection rights itself and in an ethereal equation she stands tall, upward towards heaven awaiting death's promise to be captured in a watery black and white eternity floating across time [2013.22.10…b] |
the time is ten thirty-four on the twenty-third day of the tenth month, in the thirteenth year of the third millennium I will take a train in four hours and thirteen minutes (twice for thirteen in less than one minute) the duration of the four hundred sixty-five kilometer trip will be precisely two hours and twenty-four minutes then I will have seven days with your two arms for warmth our four legs (plus the four legs of the cat I bring with me) to explore the city with two rivers and four banks (lots of multiples of the you-and-me type two) a place where love can grow exponentially into infinity how to count love [2013.23.10…a] Prompt: Write a poem about numbers |
| Prompt: write a poem inspired by one of the following photos. There were four or five. The one I chose follows the poem. The photo is by Robert Rauschenberg only one way, upwards, to glory, to salvation even cast in marble, the spiraling twist of Babylon it too has a power to seduce I am unworthy of either, doubting each lesson that has come to me book - the wrong one - in hand I ponder this paradox of saintliness it is not I who creates yet I am trained in the ethereal my feet are an anchor for reality I find only a labyrinth what I seek is centered there yet as I wander, I cannot contemplate my destiny and my power to do anything but observe it I am a tourist seeking wisdom ignorant of my own value clean cut, well groomed, respectful will this moment be immortalized by children pointing at my wavering footsteps as I trudge along a path imposed upon me by the simple study of ancient beauty? a student [2013.22.10…a] |
cold not like ice but lifeless a heart burned by love [2013.21.10…a] Prompt: Micro-poetry, a la traditional 5.7.5 form; no more than 17 syllables. |
oh my tender companion do you see the water glisten on my fine green petals and the ruffled edges of my large pink flowers? how I adore sitting near your square silvery edges reflecting the perfection Dame Nature bequeathed me your flat mysterious depth enhances my fineness so well catching the truest rays of sunlight so that I may prosper doubled, as a Siamese twin by your nearness you are my garden, my haven against wind burn and insects you are my eternal light do you rejoice in my closeness as much as I in your reflection? tell me, dear friend one-way appreciation [2013.20.10...a] Prompt: write a love poem between two inanimate objects |
tuned and ready for Bach suites, a priceless cello the center piece of a room painted pale yellow a potted hibiscus, wintering there, blooms rose I ask only that it survives, not that it grows the crazy black and white cat thinks of catching flies on the wrong side of the window panes, none will die this afternoon rain and clouds battle against blue it's been too warm, not right for a dinner of stew a little night music played on an old Steinway to serenade a full moon and its silver rays later midnight clouds will return, they often do and I'll dream alone, though with the cat, we’ll be two of a cat [2013.19.10…a] Prompt: write a poem with rhyme |
| Today's effort, disguised behind the prompt "write a bad poem" is a bit of nonsense. There is a rhyme and reason, unlike "bad" poetry, whose wasted effort offers no usefulness. witch's spells, poisoned mumbo-jumbo, a sick mind of delirious one-syllables tra-la-la, etcetera and caesuras Ceasar salad, extra nutmeg with a fat portion of pudding KIng Lear waited for Godot all these centuries I could have told him Hamlet's ghost was God but people think I'm invisible even with my hand raised begging to answer stars fell into my soup splattering my appetite their letters spelled words in a language not yet studied juggernauts, Brazilian nuts bolts locked into place prison nut cakes, spewing four-letters in a rigged game of scrabble, or scrambled eggs to be or not, forget-me-nots tying the knot in thick vines with thorns you should not have taken the rose shouted the Beast everything else was yours for the asking can I have love without sadness, this bad, mad world shrunk to fit through a drain pipe washed away like millions in a tsunami only amen was heard clearly drain pipes [2013.18.10…a] |
like gibberish rules must be invented sounded out phonetically pronounced with rounded lips and seared into the heart until tomorrow or next week she changed them red the new despised color indifference to getting the spoon in between the smiles dutifully reciting yesterday's rules and so you become a puppet, a frightened scarecrow with flimsy arms willing to point any direction unsure which is the best though thunder clouds always follow closely you grow old, trying to forget the nonsensical words and accents of foreignness that hint of falsehood you hope to ban them from your own language and create honest prose to define your manhood life is a game, and the winners are never the honest guys who memorize their heartache rules of a dictator dressed in red lace frills not a game [2013.17.10…a] Prompt: Write about the games we played (spiteful prompt...) |
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