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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. )) |
| a sullen blue mouse sits under a dome the old church spire hasn’t sung for generations the bell’ s copper interior is chipped, flaking turquoise decorates the failing oak floor and makes rain paint the caretaker’s hole, known thus to the rodent population has ropes replacing ladder rungs that descend to musty religion high above human habitation, no prayers mention cheese sandwiches at evensong, such are erroneous tales told of mice only the colored brothers retain certain celebrity when caught scavenging below, they become priceless exhibits in orchid fragrant conservatories, their captive homes are wicker baskets, a quick meal after four days of gouda bloating a servant’s bell rings because the children are distraught the heavy book of grandmother’s fairy tales is so dusty they rarely mentioned the blue mouse [2010.1.6…a] |
| bits of neatly folded paper filled with numbers litter the floor below the computer discarded now are costs relating to their corresponding items displayed above, on the screen where modern accounting tracks the virtual remains of my eager monthly spending sprees without thrifty fiddling or fingering of real printed money the tabled tallies tell everything spelling end-of-month trouble dividing the predictably unbalanced link between laughter and liability I rarely remember where small hand-to-hand spent pennies disappear, like my banker’s smile when I mention not even buying new shoes or a felt hat what I forgot to buy [2010.31.5…a] |
| and on the wind an eagle flies high his tears caressing the rain his memory timeless his heart soars, timed with his wing beats for those lost to the physical world below and maybe, so close to the heavens that is why he flies freely to touch those souls no longer alone in the darkness "an afternoon prayer" [2010.30.5...a] For my dear friend Summer.... |
| when the warm breath of summer descends on our lassitude we are regenerated by the calm of the plains where the winds are gentle and flowing she murmurs to us of the trees and the rocks and unveils hidden rivers with shallow pools that comfort our erring souls she is the priestess of the seasons, answering to the earth and sky, through her wisdom we follow from birth to maturity stopping for a moment to bask in her perfect light summer [2010.29.5…a] Inspired by my dear friend SummerLyn |
| I am no devil nor angel misguided by the eye of the storm abandoned love isolates itself from my heart, often too cold yet I am afraid of death's visit and in pain from birthing once again another of life's ill-destined follies I would ask you to come hold my hand talk gently to me of this or that letting me listen in silence while your voice dissipates my anguish like wind on a misty morning yet you are distant, like so many others and I am only foggy mourning for I have never learned to let my heart speak nor to woo your desire to remain by my side conversations in silence [2010.28.5...a] |
| I cannot return over the same rickety bridge rivers below are swollen and words of forgiveness drown in the turbulence I am lost, weighted with pebbles that seek my pockets for warmth I cannot refuse their comfort though a silence surrounds me magnifying a restlessness that has broken both of our hearts I have forgotten the words to our songs and if you hum the melodies your voice does not light a path towards the rotting planks where my feet wander farther away from the place we used to call home a bridge [2010.27.5…a] |
| thirteen women gaggle like fire sirens about trivia questions when they try to sing — supposedly — so soft is the sound from their now unopened mouths, that melody is lost in their breathlessness no ear can scan the air for lovely vibrations resembling a song about a dove’s flight the bird quickly escapes the floundering harmony to search for his mate, unheard human song would be a tribute to this feathered couple if only their garbled words described something beautiful and resembled, as music would the gentle cooing of love birds…. garbled gaggles [2010.26.5…a] |
with dusk falling words will not cross my lips though you tempt my poet’s heart its gentle beating is content warm and fuzzy, and smiles take silence to new planes I am lost floating with raindrops fingers entwined with yours making a parachute in case a gust of wind tempts our immobility and speeds us towards our dreams we visit thunderheads and watch the birth of lightning fantasy silent white wisps through the electric fog shooting us back to the flash of our love when just for one evening we allow the rest of the world the joy of whispering about our secret stars when silence quiets our hearts [2010.25.5…a] |
| I hang on words verbs and adjectives that distill time’s crazy hold on my life, decorations penned in spiral bound notebooks with tiny locks so easily broken, like dreams or promises carried forward from past generations, a chapter neatly finished, but always incomplete tonight I unplug the colored bulbs highlighting dead unornamented branches, sons of the tree that rose silently one year in splendid happiness crystalising the summit of my childhood, the night you disappeared and distress replaced your love too young then, I neglected to listen to your words thinking naively that you’d be around to speak them hundreds of other times and now, older than you were that year I’ve forgotten even the sound of your voice forgotten words [2010.24.5…a] |
on each square of the fifty five pieces I dreamed into my patchwork a garment of life, I sewed my secrets charms and songs, treatises of good will and prayers protecting friendship patches of forlorn love for my ghosts — parents and lovers alike — and circles of emotion for those who still touch my heart the sleeves are filled with poems of tiny written words dedicated to a handful of gentle souls rhyme and symphonic drum rolls heralding my future years on each pocket I embroider tiny leprechaun pots of gold for the precious weight of my past those priceless lessons bound in the pelt of my very being across the shoulders of this great coat I weave in the wisdom of white eagle feathers from my ancestors and an invisible meditation for the children I never fathered an incantation of a dozen cups of wine and half as many treasured animal companions each with their own prints to decorate the elaborate colored silks and brocades I have woven into myself one square for every year, a thread per second a precious button for each day thus I count what others might call blessings, content to offer to my life on this candlelit day, a gift to wear proudly during each of my next waking moments 55 dreams [2010.23.5…a] |
at rare moments when strife catches us in its strange web, we caress rings that decorate our fourth fingers and seal our oneness we rub a lucky buddha statuette or twirl a turquoise pendant gifted by a wise man who speaks few words we reclaim our studious youth with bedside reading to strengthen a budding faith, manuals for better loving oneself and believing in life’s tiny miracles and occasionally when the odds outnumber me I remember the grace of your silent force, your certitude that all is well you, my touchstone touchstone [2010.22.5…a] |
love floats, feather light between two hearts joined into one being the bittersweet pain of blissful happiness unbearable, yet it is the priceless source of our delicate elevation together we become angels but we are not gods, though the perfection that paints all our senses into a single masterpiece is godlike, and with fervent prayer, we are transformed into a miracle, no longer weighted to the earth but free as cloudburst revealing sunlight that glitters with life and promise… we are the unbearable lightness of being we are… [2010.21.5…a] inspired by the title of the book and movie "L'insoutenable légèreté de l'être" or "The unbearable lightness of being." I prefer the French title. And no, I have not read the book, nor seen the movie. Yet. |
| let me sleep don’t pinch, everything is real enough fjords with crevasses and crows feet glare at me in the mirror permanent sinus run off and drool stains on the pillow wobbly spare tires where fab abs used to be gray hair multiplies like rabbits except on the bald spot I still laugh and smile though my teeth must remain imperfect imagine a three-thousand dollars repair… so just let me dream of toy people youthful excursions to nudist beaches skin tight designer clothes on saturday night disco floors not that you’d find any of that in the photo album from the eighties… the photo album [2010.20.5…a] |
I lunch alone savoring lentils and sausages you interrupt with a pertinent question a warm hand shake and ears willing to listen to my response — or part of it — for as a third person arrives, sandwich in hand and offers a smiling hello warmer than the words you sought detailing our common project your distraction shows I watch your face grow into a frown that cries you didn’t catch my answer deliberately, I do not repeat myself leaving you to your small talk about potato chips or whatever tomorrow you will offer your hand again and say hello, and I will — distractedly — mutter a response aloof and distant but I wonder will you understand why I am not eager to speak with you again? someone more interesting [201019.5…a] |
| I call him goldilocks because of that firecracker yellow fluffy mop of hair and that’s no compliment he even lisps, poor dear his self-righteous, me first huff-and-puff-blow-the-house-down attitude is worse than papa bear discovering an empty porridge bowl his drunken growls punctuating the wee hours of every thursday and friday morning keep me from my regular rendez-vous with sleeping beauty and snow white and without eight hours of dreamy silence my wrinkles rival the wicked witch’s warts I know nothing worse than listening to his frog-like voice croaking “calm down, old man a few less hours of sleep won’t kill anybody” I jubilate in my threat to take a pair of shears to his odd shaped head and thereafter refer to him as humpty-dumpty — seems like a timely response to his churlishness — and after I send him splattering over the balcony railing with a whack and a push he’d need more than the wizard of oz and a tube of glue to mend his cracks, yet I know at the next full moon he’ll still bay like a feisty werewolf cub and dare to call me a grumpy old man some people never learn… goldilocks [2010.18.5…a] |
| tears streamed down his face not hers — although tenderness touched his cheek guided by her soft hand neither spoke as I passed as discreetly as I could in front of the church steps where their drama enfolded me in its intense silence the sky was a Turner masterpiece brooding blue-grays lighted with pale yellows but I remember only the absence of life in his brown eyes, in the three seconds when empathy wrapped me in his pain how many times have I resembled this youth weeping alone without a friend’s gentle caring to dry the tears on my own face after the shadows of life have brought turbulence to my weary heart on the church steps [2010.17.5…a] |
in the still of night a soft wind carries desire from my heart to yours across the continents until, by a trick of fate we both dream of meeting a stranger, falling in love, asking for a golden circle to complete our reveries under a starry moonlit sky where our vows can be heard by all eternity although I awake alone I am filled with confidence that this solitude is my breviary before my exalted leap onto the wind that carries me to your heart before I leap [2010.16.5…a] |
| he lives in tiny quarters filled with bric-a-brac resembling an odd cross between museum and manicured attic fine statuettes share shelves with glasses filled with philodendron or begonia cuttings books sit piled against the wall their rigidity complementing the suppleness of Turkish floor cushions a collection of empty perfume bottles shares the piano top with elegant contemporary brightly painted cows, five in two sizes the second armchair, where he does not sit to offer him, with a quick swivel, an easy view of either the television or the computer screens is home for unpaid bills and various paperwork or publicity for local garage sales and double-paned windows blocking out the neighborhood houpla black framed art deco posters from the 20s hang on the dull yellow walls side by side with abstract acrylic paintings signed by his hand… scarce visitors find so much strangely assorted eye candy, questioning the various stories intertwined with items striking their fancy that their human conversations rarely turn to anything personal for he would have to admit to monologues with plants, ceramic frogs or an odd cello bow to bide the hours when loneliness forces him to gather other inanimate objects that somehow warm his cold heart inanimate objects [2010.15.5…a] |
| I was staring at the ceiling and then I saw the sky midnight blue sheets became a grassy plane my head resting on a pillow floated calmly on cloud nine with raindrops worthy of champagne, shooting stars mocking perfumed candlelight and the moonlight, its delicate rays whispered of your love, reflecting brightly in the gentle raindrops wetting my eyes from a dream [2010.14.5…a] Inspired by John Adams’ songplay “I was staring at the ceiling and then I saw the sky.” |
| he is caught standing at a secluded four-way stop on a rural road not knowing which way to turn pinned by uncertainty in an x-marks-the-spot middleness half way through his life in an unfamiliar place where he meets his forgotten youth… far away in his abandoned home on a glass coffee table pink rose petals have dried drooping sadly their once promising blossoms broken by a past too heavy with secrets and the lies they engender in the vase, the water has evaporated, like his dreams of belonging, he has nourished so few other souls left no indelible print on a child simply asking to be loved and who would only desire to continue down the street adroitly balanced on a red bicycle, waving at the familiar passers-by who honk at a strange man vested in a navy blue sweat suit lost in the middle of the intersection to a future he didn’t ask to discover streets [2010.13.5…a] after watching the film “Broken Flowers” by Jim Jarmusch |
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