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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. )) |
| when I dare to remember her when those images escape with a flow of tears there is forever, and only her infectious laughter a tumbler of vodka or whiskey, her good humor highlighting the surface of her soul like a puff of her classy cigarette smoke below I knew and loved the torrents of ice and fire that shone like the sun and moon from her black eyes with a twinkle nonetheless, she has always remained a multitude of women, all different within the same grace framed by her ideals she is a portrait of every mother, the perfection of sisterhood, the demonstrative lover and my dear departed confidante forever illuminating my memory forever spelled in a name that will never belong to another, uniquely hers she was the friend who gave me so much from her own heart, even when it burst too soon from her black and white sadness … life could not grant her only beautiful wish — to share her waking dreams, but challenged her instead, to take them with her to the next, less hostile world where peace would forever be her home a sad day in May, 1997 [2010.21.6…a] with all my affection for Fique Rolland |
| I am solitary disciple of love stranded in life with a constant eruption of emotion I cannot share, the slightest beauty hushes my heart to a standstill and in that quiet restlessness is a hint of loss grinding my soul to dust that only shedding tears can paste together to restore my breath once more there are no stars in the sky tonight, it is cloudless, Venus alone watches over my windows where I sit and ponder this thing called solitude that has crept into my clothes beside me like the cool aloofness of the city haze darkness has adopted me like a stray kitten but the wounds she unwillingly inflicts upon my awkward steps in our timid waltz have never truly healed, her ever chaste kisses are perfumed with death’s embrace perchance moonlight will temper her charms with the rhymes of a million stars, their illumination ample proof of the long hours that remain until love somehow captures me and I am no longer alone the long hours [2010.19.6…a] |
| a hidden part of me seeks the freedom my every-day life seems to have forgotten I am a boy who runs in the tall grasses beyond the pine covered mountains who drinks, like every other man from a clear stream winding through the valleys I stop to choose ripe berries from a bush in the afternoon haze, I bathe in the sunlight and sing aloud with the wind’s fickle song or the summer rain’s lamentation I am the bird call announcing joyous sunrise every part of nature is alive in my soul… deep inside me these memories are restless the stories of my ancestors agitate my heartbeat as I gaze at a hesitant moon that tries to illuminate the slumbering city which is the only place I call home what I am [2010.18.6…a] |
once as a know-it-all teen I tried hard to guide a horse around sticks and brambles piled in the path he jumped, I fell, merrily he cantered back home and I wore a scarred back for two decades later I met my first true love we found a small house, giddy with happily-ever-after but my career consumed many candles that I burned desperately for months at a time tempted by more, I left for a year, which alas! turned into ten of course love didn't wait there are always puddles in the path splash about and get as wet as you may but as you do, turn over the stones you find look underneath for an omen forget nothing nor anyone try and imagine your life had you not jumped for a good horse can hurdle branches with free reins a loving heart can encourage a different livelihood alone, we the secrets of pain, discover the weariness of solitude and kick ourselves in the rear end, lacking hindsight for the grass is rarely greener elsewhere.... but those are other stories.... the morale of puddles [2010.17.6...a] OK, Not one of my best. I found a Proverb in Joy's blog and tried it out. Too tired to fuddle with anything more creative.... |
| no curtains adorn the window where I sit waiting for the marvelous the walls surrounding it are bare but during the single moment when night beseeches day to lend it just a bit of color to tame the blackness while the yin and yang circle completes its round my eyes watch the silent parade of ever-changing shapes and hues as one blends slowly into the other each evening is unique as from my window I view a perfect masterpiece and if I take a snapshot of these scenes that every night breathe deeply between light and dark a hundred other people become eager witnesses and the communication from my eyes to theirs joins us all in a harmonious sense of belonging as we are each wrapped in our separate visions of the pinks the burnt red-oranges a hundred blues and purples that highlight gray and white cloud images while the anthracite veil quietly claims the heavens just for a few hours a snapshot [2010.16.6...a] |
| white envelops her dreams, softly a gentle voice reaches her ears across the miles of the past that separated them, like a wisp of wind that teases the bougainvillea climbing on the trellises anchoring her life the air carries the indistinct sound of three notes played over and over on a harp or a guitar sung sweetly like a lullaby, encouraged she too sings these three notes and adds three unspoken words between them that always touch her heart a declaration like the turquoise cross resting between her breasts the warmth of the sun, the west wind insistent, like his eyes her hope fa, mi, ré [2010.15.6...a] |
I have heard the wind call from the four corners of life it lifts the rich brown dust and settles it elsewhere, spreading its wealth weathered cactus share their limp shadows with the blazing afternoon sun red-ochre boulders block the horizon I seek solace in the darkness they provide and when the night comes, a whispering keeps me from slumber's depths I remember only a haze of tradition a mist of promise I am confident clarity will arrive upon the rays of the next full moon when I, bathed in silver shimmering will let my need summon the wind's vastness and listen to its crystal rushing, a humming that will usher an ancestor's memory to my eyes a wisdom I feel deep in my bones but cannot yet use to shine light on my own footprints the call of the wind [2010.14.6...a] For SummerLyn |
| wander into a grassy underworld where forests of solar-powered plastic flowers sparkle in early evening dimness climb over steaming tea cups and fur-lined top hats click your ruby clad heels and wake up in Paris, Texas overhead, striped sunsets ask to be consumed like peace pipes or meditation mantras before they shrink into misty memory blow out the candles as quick as a boom of thunder lest the rain and wind storm again and cover your body in a shroud of exhaustion sleep, that delicate addiction, has returned to weave its ultimate escape where you wander [2010.13.6...a] |
| at the end to have even a stranger hold his hand, close his eyes fold his arms over his chest and say a simple prayer not to die alone at the end to catch the white light without the weight of solitude to dry her eyes, to calm her fear to light a last candle together not to die alone at the end to speak of my far away family to dream aloud of angels to believe life was worth it, leaving no trace except a stranger remembering my voice not to die alone at the end to have someone mourn look fondly at a photograph in an album or on the wall a tombstone engraved with love not to die alone not to die alone [2010.12.6…a] |
| he sings of earthly matters a troubadours counting of life to cherish love loss to follow death’s footsteps sweet weeping doth partake all ages of man’s follies his naked breast doomed by a song despairingly sullen jarring the marvels of beauty resounding madrigal and lute... ah death, greet him gently on the morrow, ladies swoon in darkness, let him dwell death, greet him gently [2010.11.6…a] After John Dowland’s song “In Darkness let me dwell" as sung by Sting’s on his album “Songs from the Labyrinth.” YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nH5yDTAD0bo&feature=related |
like razor sharp gashes on gray canvas, the rain cut through my vision piercing through my skin to soak my bones in x-ray suffering even holding the blue umbrella was an effort my boot-clad feet trudged through oily puddles on the sidewalk, allowing my early arrival for a hour’s massage to tempt my pain with relief her gentle hands did not alleviate much of my life’s weight burdening my back its dissention merely rolled around my spine and settled itself in my right shoulder blade provoking more nausea and angry flashes in my blood-shot eyes incapable of guiding me homeward two hours later a third hot shower drugged me in warm drowsiness but I did not cohort with sleep the migraine claimed my attention and jealously stared me in the face for eighteen hours, much like a wicked vindictive mistress without a new bauble to prove her worth pain [2010.10.6…a] |
| The second poem for today. Inspired by Cat's comment in Summer's blog entry of yesterday. the peacemakers continue to believe, when we have forgotten, on their fragile shoulders they carry the weight of light, hoping this beacon shines far enough into the estranged hearts of the lost and erring who have let the doubt of darkness envelop their lives the peacemakers cannot cry out loudly vociferation is so often mistaken for a war song, bringing an uprising of arms from the ignorant who do not listen — yet they cannot whisper for who will listen to a wise man thus? the peacemakers are dying, old age pushes them into the world of their beliefs they leave behind generations of their children who follow slowly in timid footsteps praying that one day the message of their fathers will rebuild a world where unity reigns and no man needs to fear the misguided certitudes of another the peacemakers [2010.9.6…b] a ROAP for SummerLyn |
| varied blues paint the skyscape outlined in deep gray with droopy pink fringe I am reminded of a childhood game finding powder puff animals on a lazy summer day tonight there are mountains and tranquil paradise islands and a fat man-in-the-moon cumulonimbus a lone human character in the scenery imperceptibly a dragon’s tale curls out of the snowy Matterhorn between the two inverted Egyptian pyramids a last orange breath of fire before extinguishing the day’s light and in a half-hour’s time I will be drawn to the silence of black hovering like sleep rewarding a tiresome day my concentration will wane and I’ll imagine a shooting star even though the depth of summer’s heat has not yet enveloped my senses… ever changing, the windless clouds permeate my meditation perhaps birthing those same dreams where I conquer the mysteries of my imagination cloudscape [2010.9 6…a] |
| like every evening, he sits in darkness ideas swelling, he spells out each word supposed to describe his emotions they fail, lacking punctuation a dusty strip of sunset beneath powerfully turbulent thunderclouds inspires a monologue on grayness drabness lacks splashes of primary colors when finally nature unleashes her wildness he stares at the streaks drenching the windows surprised at the wetness on his cheeks he remembers, his father left on a rainy day a blue ink spot mars the page, he has drifted into a place built of clouds and sorrow where he tastes his love for lightning rods ablaze in words, his pen burns through page eight frenzy spent, he underlines passages about mourning people he has lost hours turn towards the owl’s plaintive chant perhaps the sunrise will be less murky page eight [2010.8.6…a] |
from deep ocean blue clarity light allows curiosity to float to a place of calm and nothingness after the luring of promises by so many people unaware of the marvels deep within their own hearts… looking thus at the sun’s rays salted and belly offered skywards maybe the hidden moon will be the sudden guide into the excited commotion of a common marketplace where among other oddities hope is for sale within the casual smile of a brown-skinned jewelry vendor convinced that a woven leather bracelet is the object necessary for quiet meditation to cross the boundary between suffering and illumination other sides [2010.7.6…a] |
| dark hours envelop the familiar in a murky fear of jumping from rampant skeletons and their siren songs to the unknown void of a soul trying desperately to find a healing path lit in something other than rattling poems of midnight within the breath of invincible winds starlight beseeches the planets for more reflection, knowing all along that there are solar lights along the path that need only my presence to place their gentle rays in orbit around my spirit still navigating blindly between yesterday and tomorrow there is a pallid shadow surrounding me I patiently await the strength when my own inner light finally explodes poems of midnight [2010.6.6…a] |
| three hours before sunrise two more until the neighborhood rummage sale brouhaha dream-like peace destroyed in instant nightmare clashes from windows opened against the torrid summer heat racket wafts upwards from the dim-lit street turned into vast no parking zone tow trucks creak and cringe lifting recalcitrant vehicles abandoned by lazy owners human displeasure augments the din sweet dream wishers bedded two hours earlier vocalize irate frustration angry fists raised powerless cars disappear one after the other before the rummage sale [2010.5.6...a] |
| the key leaves deep welts in my neck its weight a burden, crushing my heart rusty and oversized, it jams, breaking the lock nothing penetrates into the musty darkness thick black ash is my coronary arrest my veins are stuffed with whiskey and cigarette no enlightenment is framed on nights where the full moon illuminates my sadness I douse the candlelight with tears, like a blind man I trace white chalk outlines on the earthen floor my raspy breath limits the walls I have built steaming the windows, no one taps on the pane no armored shutters clang and bang in the wind my cage of betrayal’s rotting planks is still solid violent and crazed I explode into lightning the temperamental eye of a summer storm in that premature calm I pace, curved and ancient reckoning myself to the spinning call of a black hole soul-searing pain tears at my throat the key burns brightly, snaps free, powerless too late to disappear without regret I jump into a million light years of my past and in that one crucial second I trade the chains of life for the freedom in death beyond the locked door [2010.4.6…a] |
| later in the season, the droplets will sizzle on the sidewalk below, now they form dull puddles six times I have filled my tin watering can nourishing my potted balcony rain forest a lazy bumblebee circles about geranium flowers wetted by my evening ritual, I sip lilac wine swallows dip in acrobatic pursuit of insects yet moths always find the way towards my lamps soon the bats living in the eaves above my balcony will replace the skydiving birds with as much grace reclining comfortably behind opened windows I meditate on the wonders of ever-changing light tonight there is a pale orange sunset, the first one decorating june’s skies, clear, sunny and seasonal summer heat will arrive soon enough, suffocating the city by that time I will lie on the beach, naked and tanned far from the hustle and bustle, I will ask only that falling stars illuminate my evenings after june’s sunsets [2010.3.6…b] |
| I hold a large moss-covered stone its flat surface speckled with shiny emeralds I mistake my richness, my fingers trace its heart-shaped outline, soft and warm the gems whistle for thieving souls for safety, I must hide them in deep pockets I cannot both protect and ponder my future while embracing such marvels a wise man ignores my tiny tokens of wealth needing a doorstop, he asks to buy the rock a gate, propped open by my big green heart allows every man the freedom to come and go casually he says that I may contemplate emeralds only behind locked doors suddenly I see loneliness, my hands heavy resisting the curious that covet my good fortune saddened, though I fear a pauper’s life I toss the shiny green gems into the flowing river I cannot converse with silent jewels so I appease my solitude with a moss-covered stone a wise man’s treasure [2010.2.6…b] |
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