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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. )) |
| sensual tangos sway in the shadows across the room, his ghost stares at me in dim lamplight spicy geraniums perfume the falling darkness his exotic after-shave mixed with august lust and summer-by-the-sea shimmering sunset hues, a turquoise striped sail floating beyond eye level a parasol offers a certain discretion the bandonéon reminds me of the latin lover legacy of grandfather's annual mexican holidays a sombrero hanging above my bed a stage for dreams to weave words like amor or te quiero in an armor protecting my heart fragile like not-quite-dried butterfly wings rushing towards promised sweet nectar called impatience or desire midnight calls in whispers the empty bed has captured my unclothed limbs but my heart belongs to the specter of freshly shaved cheeks that first fragrance inebriating all my senses that first fragrance [2010.22.4…a] |
| Evolution of a poem. I tried to succeed with Cat's latest idea of beginning with a lone verb. Here's the result: twists, cranes over the crooked branches of family trees flowering in muted feminine hues of grey-blue and fuzzy peach turtle neck protected, bleach blond head spins like a child's top trying to remain stationary in a life that is a genetic jumble of circus performers topsy-turvy contortionism and teen-aged angst produced love songs where death courts vampire eternity in a rouged kiss between two insecure boys first love [2010.21.4...a] à la NovaCat, beginning with an unconnected verb   twists, craning like a flamingo over the crooked branches of family trees flowering in muted feminine hues of turquoise and fuzzy peach neck wrapped in an indigo scarf, his sweet bleach blond head bounces nervously like a spinning child's top seeking stationary stability in a life crossed by a genetic jumble of circus performers’ topsy-turvy contortionism and teen-aged angst-produced love songs where death swells courtship with vampire eternity in a rouged first kiss between two insecure boys This is still confusing, the time line isn’t evident for anyone other than myself. neck wrapped in an indigo scarf, his sweet bleach blond head twists, craning like a flamingo over the crooked branches of family trees flowering in muted feminine hues of turquoise and fuzzy peach his laughter bounces nervously off his bedroom posters like colliding marbles unknowing he seeks balance beam immobility, in a life crossed by a genetic jumble of circus performers’ topsy-turvy contortionism and teen-aged angst-produced emotional ballads where death swells in courtship with vampire eternity — his solution, a rouged first kiss with a love-struck boyfriend a new picture for the family album of ebony leather covered in ivory lace the family album [2010.21.4…a] The idea of the family tree needed balancing at the end, thus the new title. The last line, also balancing the need for color, is perhaps too much. |
| dark billowing mourning has lessened left me bathed in hazy gray peace, though the imprint of its chilly wetness is a dear crackled companion you chose to befriend others love was never a schoolbook text awarding either of us top honors in the thunder-storming eruptions of my dreams, all memories of you have dissipated into volatile remnants burned by my soul’s instinct to survive the anger contorted into creative midnight terror so I could lounge peacefully under the garden’s flowering trees and meditate about the man I would resemble without the metamorphosis into a premature cadaver heart chilled in the wake of your ghostliness those sweet noontime hours bled my heart like the dagger of your absence now I ponder my empty childhood my eyes conjure no images of you you, a magician, whose ultimate defiance was to make both of us disappear into the fog of a word called divorce into the fog [201020.4…b] |
| for a few years you coddled me as I slept fitfully, I remember only the impression of your nurturing arms yet when I most needed their strength you left with no goodbye… we lived in two different worlds separated by silent misunderstanding you are dead now, I have grieved my hate and my love for you this is my story, a common one you never told me yours and had you done so I would only have heard strange words you never taught me but you were not brave enough to speak in my dreams I soar the heavens, I used to look for your trace in cloud formations and rain puddles, hoping your tears would lead me to your special corner of eternity today I fly freely looking only at my shadow dancing with the horizon I am a grown man now with my own nurturing arms and in spite of your absence, I long to enlace someone else’s need in my own protective strength and listen to their heart beat in the rhythm of love in the strength of our arms [2010.19.4…a] |
| and amid the black clouds comes a puff of hope floating on a snowflake angel tears dance with fire though many men may mourn this sentiment is the earth’s as she weeps for her children lost in war, in greed forgetting penitence prayer addressed to the wrong gods her ashes swirl far and beyond our own losses, our desperation like the ice, tears melt the frozen spots in our souls and life floods come again but in this path we find a destiny few wise men could predict… and she dances with angel tears and she dances… [2010.18.4…a] |
when the northern ice breaks and lightening lava spits and spews, angry and tempestuous mankind is astonished by these apocalyptic visions only until his convenience is displaced and the dust emanating from the boiling entrails forces international travel to a halt it is a shame that human passions are thus hindered, our needs to accomplish any ridiculous endeavor at any sublime whenever deftly postponed by liquefied earthly anger spilling towards the heavens where we pray so fervently that the clouds will not infringe too long upon our eager taps of a pin code purchasing a sensation of liberty suddenly thwarted by a power more mysterious and glorious than we imagine, except maybe those few who hold a certain belief in god and when Iceland’s volcanic core reminds the world of its power multiplied from magma and frozen life is it not our god-of-hot-and-cold-excess warning us by such extreme adventures to measure our selfish yearnings to stop our marathon lives of accomplishment and finally uncover the true goals in our hearts? for if we do not heed the messages billowing in the infernal ashen clouds, they will quickly shade our tomorrows, taking from us any sentimental means to marvel at the sun’s rays illuminating a simple photo of a volcano in its own harmonious need for eruption hot and cold excess [2010.17.4…a] |
| behind the curtains I waited peering occasionally, trying not to let hope invade my heart the narrow sleeping porch overlooked the garden with my beloved yet crooked crab-apple tree and the driveway where I waited for love to step out of the only car that never arrived — instead, I learned the pains of heartbreak now I am old and have forgotten the color of the sedan he drove but as I age I have become more and more like that tree, bent and curved patiently rooted, waiting for other people who could heal my heartache but never decide that my humble demure is a place they would like to call home the crab-apple tree [2010.16.4…a] |
| his empty house rarely sleeps soft lights keep shadows from invading the corners where his questions exist waiting like cobwebs abandoned to dust still, these days he asks strangers about secrets kept deep in his heart he seeks solace in the silence, the sweet guitar strumming on the radio, the soft breath of his sleeping child he finds no answers in this music no response that can be shared yet, he yearns for dreams… and I would tell him, should our paths cross in a shady park in the land where Morpheus masters imagery that the answers also disappear on the wind play amidst the raindrops or hide in the perfection of snowflakes the verse we seek fades delicately into night’s quiet from sunset's rainbow display and the mystery etched in their elusive rhymes slowly illuminates our souls, only when we stop listening for responses and accept that many questions are just fairground attractions to bide the lonely hours until life catches up with the tenderness in our hearts and allows us to believe once more that we can indeed tame the unwritten melodies of our own lifesongs and boldly sing those words we have somehow misplaced the asking boy [2010.15.4…a] A RAOP for Joe |
what are these sad harmonies he hears alone in his silence, this eerie melody circling solemnly like a dirge what has he to mourn, if not the sound itself stored carefully on a shelf of his childhood when he brooded lessons about blessings and laughed with the noise of friendship this slow lamentation drifts from his imagination the delicately preserved remnants of his world-not-yet-exploded into a suggestion of withered whispers he listens to only one song penned by the philosopher’s hand who carefully recites what may and what may not be called music rom the philosopher’s hand [2010.14.4…a] after the music for piano "The Philosopher's Hand" by Terry Riley |
| through the ruins they stagger their soft soled feet barely avoiding the shards of life in black mourning, their arms firmly linked to support the weight of destruction they face at every familiar crossroads it no longer matters who is responsible there is as much destruction elsewhere as many tombs hastily dug, as many unending tears, as many fervent prayers no one has invited death to come and take its share of life and even in the light of day the debris of war leaves a fine dust remnant of the pale light of dusk and the night brings only darkened heartbeats and the heaving sighs of one question... how can tomorrow bring peace? already dusk [2010.13.4…a] |
| red purple reflects in the black waters of the harbor a disquieting color, like bruised blood flowing under the white lighted arches of the bridge no fog tonight, the city beyond is a kaleidoscope of high-rise color yet only the red purple catches my eye making my breath halt I do not sense the deep danger of blue-green or turquoise-tinted-orange waves I remember them closer to the shoreline on other nights when my destiny was caught in the city’s fog-like gasping a thousand souls glide in sleek calm away from the mechanical dreams of the masses I must go away, there is no peace here the waters below swirl with currents rhythmed by three million heartbeats a place where life wastes beyond the colorful windows of churches and office towers yet tonight in this floating coffin of humans silenced by the quivering of anticipation I hope only to survive past the bridges past the still-too-present city blinking past the threat of red purple shimmering my destination finally clear I have chosen the direction opposing civilization over the loud speakers, a gong courts the moonlight the strangeness of this dark sudden sound brings me hope it is a long deep drum roll of time’s dance of seduction a single note reminding me that fate changes nothing a man’s heart cannot grieve the ferry within my dreams [2010.12.4...a] Second take on Steve Reich’s “City Life”, part four “Heartbeats/Boats & Buoys” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FnpgGsDQB38&feature=related |
black crows invaded our country on my birthday, so young you must go away, such fright we knew nothing of that then four days and four nights they (we?) called it a cattle wagon then (or in retrospect?) we were women and children whistles pierced our wailing cries sirens blaring over the countryside beyond the closed wagon doors already burned, already ashes all ready to be forgotten but we, we could not forget don't breathe call us by our names let pain of becoming a tattooed number sear our hearts burning strange sounding names from no one’s ears our arms remember there was smoke going up in the sky black clouds that cleansed nothing realities we would slowly come to call our own we would not become a blackness removed from our country, to haunt from nineteen-forty to an eternity of tears to haunt, a millennium of ashes we cannot forget our birthdays the crows, invading blackness of mourning which came to be our own dawn has a bitter bleakness don’t breathe call us by our names not a blackness removed [2010.11.4…a] Flarff and poetic inspiration taken from the video featuring Steve Reich’s work “Different Trains (Europe during the War)” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pZRBfRXJyak&feature=related |
| shore in view, life starts again with promise heartbeats follow choppy waves to newness a place where darkness slowly fades twisting need and hope into a rope that joins shattered ends and teetering beginnings splatters of slippery brine allow only a tentative grasp on the unstable buoys of tomorrow a job, a house, freedom to pray yet today the shore calls from a dim horizon of distance between dreams, more and more tangible, and the ever-following threat of capsize as arms hoisting sails weaken while liberty raises her hand in salutation a small statue on the horizon [2010.10.4…a] Inspired by Steve Reich’s “City Life”, part four, “Heartbeats/Boats & Buoys” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FnpgGsDQB38&feature=related |
| Yes, there's a story. One I cannot tell yet. I was up most of the night with this text, actually written in ten minutes because the right door finally opened. Then I spent a few hours trying to make it into poetry, unsuccessfully, and I won't go beyond this point, for to do so correctly would mean exorcising the repeated words so necessary to the whys and wherefores behind this text. it’s okay, little brother, yes, it’s okay to cry every night while you dream, you don’t know how to welcome the tears into the daylight yet it's okay little brother, you can reach out now, you can wake up from a life of nightmares, always the same, maybe today you no longer need to hide behind your wall of silence, behind your playground act of sticks and stones it's okay little brother, you can say aloud that no one came to gently touch your forehead in the night when you were afraid, the monster was there under the bed, in the closet where so often you found a skimpy shelter, he had a name you knew so well, it’s okay that no one asked if you could stay alone in the dark, it’s okay that you rotted there, semi-alive in solitude waiting for the event that would never happen it’s okay little brother, you don’t need to hoard secrets any longer in a rusty tin box with your wishes that never came true it's okay little brother to cry, to weep all the tears in your six-year-old heart, even today when you’re a grown man, it's okay to say all the things that have imprisoned you inside of yourself to spit and strike like a poisonous snake it's okay, little brother to feel sad when daddy doesn't come home any more, to want to yell and scream about your hours of anguish when it's time to sleep and the monster under the bed is ready to grab you and all you wanted was your daddy and his strong arms, it's okay to feel lost even when the sun is shining because daddy’s big shadow is not next to yours it's okay little brother to miss him whenever you must at each hour of every day, for as long as you can’t stand being alone, it’s okay not be brave so rest of the world sees a good little boy, you have earned the right to feel like a coward only capable of running away from life, it’s okay to only want his comfort, as desperate as you feel, whenever the blues come too close it's okay little brother to feel like an empty shell because you can't say what you want, because no one listens to your pain, no one is interested in a child’s silly fears, a stupid child who doesn’t understand grown-up matters like divorce and when love stops, it’s okay for your love to keep growing even if you hide it away with the moth balls and cobwebs buried in a grave where you tried in vain to capture daddy’s love it's okay little brother to ache in the morning after a fitful night's sleep and even afterwards when your head splits with the rhythm of your heartbeats it's okay little brother to hate the world that abandoned you to your fears it's okay little brother not to love people that hurt and mock you it's okay little brother to not be able to catch your breath at night when you howl so many times that the sound gets caught in your throat, stifling, unbearable, stuffing you with uselessness, it’s okay to feel like you’ll suffocate if the love doesn’t return somehow it's okay little brother to peer beyond the street lights, the curtains parted in desperate expectation, when you wonder if daddy's ever coming home again, you don’t need to explain yourself nor invent childish excuses, daddy left us, that’s all the reason you will ever need it's okay little brother to be a baby and not understand why big people lie and cheat and hit you and hit you again, t’s okay to cry when they pound your self-assurance into morning’s oatmeal, and force your tiny curiosity back into the deepest hiding spot within yourself and never ask you to come out and play it's okay little brother that it's taken you all of your life time to come to me and wake me in the middle of the night, and ask me to be your daddy and hold you tight against that monster under the bed, against the monster in the dark against the monster in buried in your heart who's name you've never been able to say out loud it's okay little brother to hate your daddy because he left us, yes, it’s okay little brother, and we couldn't ever speak of our heartache, until this morning, little brother, when you had the courage to wake up with those six-year-old tears in your sad eyes and cry out my name little brother when the night monster returns [2010.9.4...a] |
| caught in a dream his pain lessened slowly just enough for him to take notice of its absence the thumping rain had dimmed, the blood in his temples flowed with a calm soothing flutter and the morning light filtered just enough to create a haze over the make-believe mountains a mist over the loch were his demons had drowned and that tell-tale numbing in his heart the night was coming to an end he would awake alone once more he opened his eyes suddenly caught in the reality of heartbreak or merely the persistence of lumbago the pain of stretched heartstrings is no less than that of a man who desires to walk upright forced to resign himself to a premature curve of old-age.... after the pain disappears, just for a while [2010.8.4...a] |
| ...and several hours before dawn still wandering aimlessly in a wise man’s disguise of meditation I peek beyond the waterlogged corners of my old friend, a faded indigo panama hat to discover a cloudless three-a.m. I circle back towards my own dark garden with its ivy-lined walls and empty the rain-filled hammock between the oak and elm trees there, I lie watching the stars between the not-yet-budded branches of early springtime, thinking of all the stories they tell us, of all the mathematically insane combinations of words each one could represent, its twinkling a far-away message of whatever would become a balm for our hearts for my heart I do not feel its heaviness now, amazed by the poetry in uncountable stars and wonder, as I feel the sandman’s approach, if any single mortal could learn — after a lifetime of watching their slow transcending ballet — all the shining combinations of winking hope they carry nightly in their secret missions across the sky in those long hours before tomorrow’s pale horizon… when the calm returns [2010.7.4…a] |
| beyond midnight are the sounds of rain, a quiet pitter patter an irregular swoosh of car tires on the wet pavement, people hurrying to their homes before the promised deluge the full moon has come and gone again, its magic measured in broken dreams blinking street lamps resemble giant winged images perching on the still naked tree branches exotic birds woven from soft cotton threads or folded silk papers also wait patiently for the miracle of the first leaves, and somehow, they never become soggy the rim of my panama hat catches the slow dripping of rain as I stroll through the darkness below the dim reverberation of orange-lit rooms facing away from the street, this light casting strange ruddy glows on brick walled gardens hidden further beyond, I imagine sitting there reading a fable about a man in the moon or listening to girl children sing soft songs warning the deft field mice —beware! the swift silent wings of a white eagle, his piercing cry a quick punctuation to the gentle, unrelenting rainfall — my cumbersome gait slows and yet I am uplifted by this spring wetness crowning the evening with dark shadows; my eyes see into the corners where promises are born and I smile knowingly although there is no one else awake at this hour to see my upturned lips midnight in the rain [2010.6.4…a] Revision:11.6.2010 |
| time for forsythia, daffodils and cherry blossoms tiny sapling buds of a rainbow of green children laughing on a merry-go-round brilliant blue sky contrasting human joy with the perfection of nature, I capture this freedom on film, hobbling here and there for I am an old man examining things not for the last time, but in a way to remind me of my own happy-go-lucky days when I could still run like a deer through the spring meadows oblivious of old men who sit resting on park benches trespassing upon youth [2010.5.4...a] |
| bells toll to rally faith glad congregation in fear we resist the temptation to ask questions of our hearts wondering if our own sons could conjure such devotion across the crowded piazza eyes meet, a charnel seduction this moment must escape them while other faces are piously lowered bells of faith toll they too are tantalized by hymns of joyous blessing, yet in their pain will they ever find sanctity in the death of their own sons never to rise except in the prayers caught by the knell of mourning a fable of three days [2010.3.4...a] |
I cannot witness their departure my heart is not valiant watching powerless I cannot listen to children try to bravely allay their blank-eyed sobbing my tears would join in sad chorus and I too will spend a lifetime asking why cursing destiny and everyone else I cannot summon the strength to calmly watch fear claim their faces and I am not a god to offer clemency though the look in their tender eyes brings a certain wonder to my soul I cannot choose in their place the angels who must face eternity alone, and those abandoned who must remain weeping at the injustice of a claim against pure and trusting hearts filled with love and devotion beyond even the love in my own heart [2010.3.4…b] after an idea noted [2009.29.10...a] |
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