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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. )) |
| I am Charlie behind my Geisha face my skin is black, then brown yellow, Martian or Sioux it is every color you, I name terror behind your long dark draping robes, your face tied tightly in scarves you traded humanity to be cloned in heresy hidden in a false God’s protection eager to die and get fucked by virgins in heaven does this prove any worth in his eyes when at your judgement he whispers "my son, did I not teach tolerance?" his eyes of love are not search lamps illuminating your prey as you press triggers against different men killing those who offend you but who are still protected by your God I say you have misunderstood brotherhood because I am Charlie and my opinions my parades my cartoons my thoughts my love my religion my life each detail penned in black ink can never be less than this misguided version of your God's summons as it rots covered in fresh unclotted blood freedom of misguided men [2015.7.1…a] |
The spell has touched my bones. Aching, but that is not new. Feeble, like a baby goat frolicking, they echo life as I once knew it. Slower. [2014.14.12…b] ooooooooooooo °°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°° I sway as music envelops me. A dance floor, an 80s slow. Perhaps a dream of daring, I don't remember days when I did. Dare. Dance. Live. [2014.14.12…c] ooooooooooooo °°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°° On a barstool, legs crossed elegantly, she sang Gravity. On replay she touched me, though I was not invited. Did people melt as much as me? [2014.14.12…d] ooooooooooooo °°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°° The phone doesn't ring. It is late, the sky is foggy and my breath shallow. Still I wait. For words I can interpret as love. Its shadow. [2014.14.12…e] ooooooooooooo °°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°° I have bent and bent. Until my soul has been halved so often it has shrunk to an circle the size of a dime. Was it ever as big as the moon? [2014.14.12…f] |
| There’s enough water, between the rain and our tears. Neither quench our thirsts, I fear. Was there ever a rain barrel in our back yard? The details are diluted now. You never understood my suffering and how it lashes out at the world, whipping especially those who know me best and should know my anger is always turned inwards first. I have never seen you plaster yourself into silence, rolling into an unsuspecting foetal ball as you recoil against my outbursts. I scream and you refuse to speak. I am thunder and you a tiny sprig of grass pushing through concrete. We are not compatible. I am useless and you bear grains of hope. Words written on stray papers don’t ever say truth and we never speak to give ourselves the chance to pry open our individual oysters and let the pearls within - those tiny particles of who we truly are - to grow with nurturing salt water. To discover our sameness. The sea. Have you visited it recently? For me, it’s been three or four years. I miss the saltiness, the possibility of combining all the waters — unseen — my tears as I swim on a rainy afternoon. I let no one close to my interior hell any longer. I cry silently, like wind to a sail. I advance. I no longer have a cap in mind, the wind blows this way or that, and perhaps the smoothness of it all is what I like. I am a solitary skipper. My horizons are most eager when they veer gray. Blue remains the tint of my soul. When did you last look into my eyes? You are too anchored. Heavy. You would add too much weight to my trip. Regret is a word to be ballasted heavily to graze on the bottom of the sea. What wisdom does it gain? To sail away [2014.17.11…b] |
I wanted to dine in the gourmet luxury of Maxime's in Paris I wanted to see the sunset the next day from the Golden Gate Bridge this desire came too late to fly the now retired Concorde I could've seen a Broadway show on a midway stop in New York I would've stopped in St. Louis traveling from one coast to the other I might have discovered, there in the place of my youth the tombstones of my parents though their final resting place has little importance in the cosmic order of things I will join them one day after dying in a foreign land perhaps our souls will meet in a time where eccentric lists have no importance bucket lists [2014.30.9…a] |
| Superstition the living learned to see beyond the earth each window was riddled with fine cracks ancestors could not look in to seed new pain from their passing the earth held their memories wind blew indoors on troubled nights small bells with sweet high sounds hung on trees songs of peace to ward off evil spirits their memories were words of silent prayer from the rafters sprigs of rosemary danced their scent a homage to placate the dead it is thus generations learned to praise life the living prayed to the wind at harvest In faraway places [2014.29.9…b] |
one day they’ll open the door to her room turn on the lights and begin blowing dust from her life as they knew it before her end seventeen years ago as the years pass, they open the door less and less, the pain does not follow that rhythm, her accordion and balalaika from Moscow are silent, in memory on a chair back is a shirt that belonged to me she wore it at my birthday party, two days before her last day, it celebrated her forms snugly, she was always cold at the end the walls are a documentary of photographs taken during her last six months, parties with music too loud, her own sad songs shared while strumming her teen-age guitar although I wanted to, I could never open that door, a place where I always found her inebriated with life, a place with a door to keep love from breaking her heart I keep only one memory, the first time I watched her waltz with her brother her ruddy cheeks beautiful, her eyes caught mine, honing my last moment of her before she left [2014.28.9…a] |
| A poem where there is a surprise concerning unexpected weather... the French doors do not lock they are old and fasten poorly a protective armchair sits against the inside wind comes from that side of the house violent, twisting, it carries the rain well the garden is always green one night late, the phone rang we left too quickly, thinking of love emergencies rarely wait two weeks passed mourning beyond our borders took unsuspected tolls we did not forget the cats but the spare keys were not in the potted plant out doors we thought about a few days waiting bedside at the hospital they would sleep, perhaps the toilet seat was up her death took longer and children wait and cry and sometimes forget other important things she mumbled her important things prayers and returning to her mother’s arms a strange monsoon heralded her passing with devil’s winds pushing against Saint Peter’s gates chez nous, in another country the kitchen flooded via the french doors our cats survived lapping fresh sweet water branches crashed other window panes curious whiskers sniffed new garden treasures beetles, slugs, butterflies and perhaps mice returning home we all must do this one day the cats wagged their tails like dogs returning home [2014.27.9…a] |
| A poem combining two different things and a marriage as he grows older he still cuddles up to Teddy he nibbled off his button eyes (promptly sewn anew with stronger threads) the three buttons on his bright blue overcoat (thimble again) he never thought to chew on his nose, thumbs and toes delicacies he found in other cuddlies Teddy is almost human, he has been my companion for fifty years now cats are less faithful than dogs but my cat will always follow me if Teddy travels in my arms and if he can, he’ll drag Teddy into a hiding spot where he’ll hiss if I approach I call this love in today's debates on marriage equality man weds man and woman espouses woman some self-righteousness has people fearing my cat might marry Teddy everyone who knows them agrees they make a cute twosome all about love, part 74 [2014.26.9...a] |
from the meadow, buffaloes appear and graze on treetops careless that they float in ether and the leaves they nibble are higher than my house soon their green feeding will change to a fall of crackling orange cover on tin roofs they do not see me in their reality they are a spell on my imagination while I bask in mottled sunlight and one day when we all dream these clouds will become as unique as the people who seal our hearts in love or a moment pondering the origins of shooting stars origins [2014.25.9...a] |
as I do to calm myself on these occasions I look for traces of sunset deeply bruised purple clouds outlined in brilliant flashing pink cover the horizon in larger-than-life splashes a visual exactitude of torture's vice like grip on my skull an explosion of voiceless screams too painful for words swords piercing each neuron beheading me from thought my feet are not a swift steed and will trudge for a half an hour to reach reluctant peace in my bedroom I glower as the beautiful gift above fades unlike my throbbing temples rain still falls no coolness short on appreciation [2014.24.9...b] |
| Inspiration: After Stephen Dobyn's poem "How to like it." I can wait, oh yes I can, for the nights to cool, for the misty softening of the mornings, haze drifting from places outdoors, to others indoors, seeping under my window frames and gently ventilating the curtains which were up to then warmly glazed like satin down comforters two seasons away. I can wait for the greenness surrounding everything alive to pale, to yellow and finally to burn like orange/red summer fruit. I can wait for the ominous winds to return, the cooler ones (which this year, if I speak in truth, have rarely stopped blowing my direction (but perhaps there are other reasons for that)) to toss and turn the now wilted stems of those same leaves and create colorful ballets as they dance earthbound. I can wait for the furnace to crackle and spit heat through the pipes, for afternoon pots of steaming hot tea, for flannel shirts and fleece sweaters to add thickness to my bone-thin frame. I can wait for this autumn that makes me more aware of the springtime of my life when I affronted the elements in forests and on mountains. I can wait, for these new slippery weeks to remind me of my vulnerability. I am not like the trees that wither yearly to maintain their inner souls in a dormant syrupy state. I do not have that talent. The seasons of my body take their toll slowly, in increments larger than months. I do not know when I will enter the White One’s taciturn diminishing. It is enough that each morning a bit more graying hair fills the brush and my skin cracks in tiny ridges of bark. How can they not weep each year, allowing their beautiful greenness, which reaches past the clouds towards the light, how can they not mourn this loss? How can they not mourn all year around, knowing how temporary are these gifts? The Gifts of life [2014.23.9…a] |
| First word, same word in the dark, I curl up like a baby begging for sleep to rock me in the dark, bad sounds come at me I bury myself under the covers I cannot smother myself in the dark, they scream but her voice is loudest we all hate its shrillness in the dark, someone gently pushes me closer to the wall, my sister more afraid, as distressed as I she trembles and I am not strong enough in the dark, we tip-toe silently to the staircase we have learned to be mice we watch daddy leave behind the beautiful Christmas tree I am just six years old in the dark, I sob until sleep overcomes the wet pillow in the dark, I pray to become invisible like him in the dark I try not to care that he is dead now rattling old bones [2014.22.9…a] |
Write about an ordinary daily, but mundane, task the cat paws at a kitchen window always the same pane the inside is now clean he likes wetting his paws in the sink so his soft pads swipe clean the outward view like I should do leaving small traces as would I I have no special rags for the task beyond, these French doors open onto a beautifully tailored, narrow balcony its delicate wrought iron rails landscaped with flowering garden boxes and ornamental trees further away from this haven, across the street are views upsetting to my sense of loveliness slovenly people who spit from their high unadorned windows onto grasses below where a thick collection of cigarette butts turns the garden brown as I stand at my kitchen windows I prefer this slightly blurred view from not quite pristine panes the cat the other hand, obviously does from the kitchen window [2014.21.9…a] |
on my shelves are dainty porcelain bowls filled with stones, from beaches and long solitary walks in distant forests glass ashtrays — I do not smoke though if I did I am certain to collect matchboxes — are filled with colorful pebbles they remind me somehow of the expression "ashes to ashes" perhaps I should've collected bone fragments and become a dilettante paleontologist there are at least 60 frogs, glass, marble, wood sculpted from rock and precious stones three stuffed teddy bears, mascots of childhood a small picture of a clown gifted 40 years ago three rooms of walls are filled with postcards and posters bought on a whim I have dreamt of owning a Monet or a Picasso if I amass ordinary baubles is it because the flat spaces around me would seem lifeless with a handful of costly antiques? these little curios are my lifetime reminding me how I still age childish and joyous with a few more pretty things a collection of trinkets and bric-a-brac that are mine to hold and touch perhaps this resumes my life to have more shelf space [2014.20.9…a] |
| Villanelles & Dancing in the Dark under hidden stars she drew the hangman's last breath a prayer to end this war fortune was not marred by her black solitary quest never a friend to hidden stars she spent her soul on feathered tar and questions answered with a guess she cannot transcend this war a tent in a pauper’s yard the coals are cold to her weary chest asleep under hidden stars nights of wandering for this scar brought her a coil of rope, the best her prayer will end this war a swig of wine, a fine cigar the noose is tied and welcomes death to sway under hidden stars now she has ended this war the last knot [2014.19.9…a] |
| Water must be an important element in the poem.... the wind pollinates bad vibes when a campfire ignites forests you know when red water falls from the sky like swarms of goldfish – damn! yesterday was the twelfth, Thursday – that it's your house gonna go up in smoke you pray for the first time since Sunday school when you still believed he'd bring you scuba gear it never worked don’t take bets on it working now it's a cumulative sort of thing sometimes, like now, you dream of resettling in Bangladesh and letting the monsoons cool this threat and then the big man upstairs answers after you sweat for a hour with torrential rainfall not felled from airplanes a decent solution to a bed-of-coals type problem joss exists after all and you start to breathe easy, in out, easier for one heartbeat or so, the wind still twists and turns, rain drives like a race car you live on an over-constructed hillside as mud shifts, the first boulder thunders reasons to believe [2014.19.9...a] |
| in the new moon's covering of thundercloud turbulence I surround myself in bleakness pillowcased in its softness you have stolen my journal and learned secrets I only write tonight there will be a tacit bargain in the bedroom staged as a temple of black perhaps you will see a new light in my soul and let it guide the guile of your fingers across the corrupted twists in my spine we will both pretend I feel no pain and you will love me as gently as Christmas snowfall for this alone is your gift in exchange for this intimacy I will forget these last events in the life of my red leather journal and caress the perfect boundaries of the only guardian I allow boundaries [2014.17.9...a] |
| "Sweet Sixteen" As many lines in a poem, Quatern form. what can I whisper to you of love do not buy or sell it, nor cheat its fancy although some scrupulous men do so avoiding heartache with delicate charm our first kiss lasted for hours what can you whisper to me of love these memories still make me tear crazy old men in need of affection the heartache of sweet sixteen is no greater than twenty years later what can I whisper to you of love my secrets won’t grow in your garden some swear by Valentine’s and roses and search for soul mates in moonlight two arms entwined to keep us young what do we whisper of love? a few lines about it [2014.16.9…a] |
| A free write, with little editing, on the theme "the poet is the priest of the invisible." dream songs have no words they remain trapped in brain synapses and, asleep, are rarely spoken aloud reciting, like children, a series of sounds that are not yet songlike for that we become actors drama is royal transformation of speech the notes, they too are invisible between the winds of Wuthering Heights and the waves of The Old Man and the Sea they are notions, common sounds like birdsong and train whistles having little to do with Mozart’s genius we awake determined to remember this invisibleness to let it migrate somehow and as we turn to our listeners (lovers, parents or mental health experts) we realize that what is tangible from the exquisiteness experienced while unconscious dries quickly like sweaty hands it is the same with poets we chant illegible mantras to the glory of these thoughts images and dreams we dare to spell out the unthinkable in brightly swarthed canvases that children will learn to recite wondering why "e tu, Brutus" is better than "and you, my brother?" the truth never spoken is that none of this matters catching images is essential what we do with them is only a prayer things seldom said aloud [2014.15.9…a] |
| Sonnet I tell you, lost from battling frenzy, reasons to survive. Faltering foam deserts insomnia’s waves, its passion asserts while slashing death's shutters with fury. The storm is silence retreating, inward bound to be brain-locked by great labyrinths of uncharted despair few tears can rinse. Heed not this summons while caged in this ward. In morning’s fog-filled form, I touch bruised skin, wring out drenched bedsheets, then face the sea. The sands are desperate for loveliness. I too revolt against this place I have been. Mix not strange smoke with wine bottles in threes. These dreams rarely revere Sunday's sweet mass. The consequence of indulgence [2014.14.9…a] |
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