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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 return to that house, your house your offering of three months’ happiness you still greet me with your smile your frilly blond curls and your fair childhood lips with pretend kisses and girlish laughter even though you were only seven I was your big brother and you my little darling we were both alone then twenty years later, I have forgotten nothing but I am still alone, looking at your memories I have come for your wake in your home, time has stood still the kitchen table has the same lace the curtains still smell like clean the madras bedspread somehow has my imprint in its softness I was a boy, rebellious lost, navigating from one house to another in your home, it was only your gentleness that kept me from wandering again your gift of those three longs months a brief haven of peace was all my childhood offered me I look back upon your house where your innocence let me discover myself yet I fled too quickly and only remembered your smiling face happiness was only a three-month dream to return home [2010.2.4…a] |
| in a distant dream a magic blue bottle poured hope into my cupped hands they shone like silver moon beams I was as tall as my shadow and people smiled and laughed content to shake my hand to touch the contagious glitter each night I try to find that dream once more, to reassure my mortality for at dawn, only a grain or two of the moon's light has tainted my cheek with a dried tear stain on my pillow the bottle of sleeping potion is empty now, my heart has shriveled to unloveableness and my body resembles a funeral march I have sought my childhood magic — those dreams and desires — for generations of full moon duets, yet never have I found them reflected in anyone else's eyes but my own.... in the full moon [2010.1.4....a] |
| This isn't good. But it's the only thing that comes out of my mind tonight. It's been a very bad ten days as far as my back is concerned and I don't foresee too much change in the next week. April Fools day has the revision. in a strange house built from cobblestones and shards of time I occupy a dilapidated chair with too many cushions, even so I do not sit in comfort, for I am a broken man with kinks and curves that create horror and pain in my back, I sit at a window, seeking between the curtains a whisper where tears dim tomorrow’s reflection the bathroom mirror adds thirty years to my own vision of my crooked stance I shudder — my youthful silhouette crushed by mysteries and worry — and take three more pills, like chocolate they alleviate nothing but the jingling of my coin purse still, my bones crack like a late winter fire and when I hobble though the once-upon-a-time garden searching for past shadows my feet thud harmoniously with my heartbeat, like so many uneven splashes in evening turmoil that inspire soggy nostalgia for the years when I stood perfectly framed in uncracked mortar not yet twisted by a tainted childhood spent looking over my shoulder to see if he would come back home looking back [2010.31.3…b] |
| casting stones to the rhythm of my breath I listen to them resound within twilight’s echo rippling across the waning hours of night in slivers of wave-breaking silent meditation every shifting of the tide brings a silvery secret desire for tomorrow’s embrace — a kiss of kismet — with genies rubbed from lamps coaxing my mellow-minded muse into a tiger’s roar rich, melodious, crossing continents like the wind my words, the paint of a poet with a movie camera immortalize the moment snowflakes caress the rain preparing the timely sweet return of crocuses and iris reaching for the bluest sky in the timid golden pulse of a warming sun basking there alone with the gentle ripple I do not think about my need for my verse to titillate the page I rhyme and dance, toes digging in the mud grasping springtime’s wet offering like the circles my pebble made last month, cast into the thawing mush of the frozen lake of my inspiration when the lake thaws [2010.14.2…b] "Invalid Item"  by A Guest Visitor Written for the Inspirations Contest, using all of the prompts. |
save me from this darkness the blindness making me stumble behind the shadows that beguile my soul hide my heart in starlight it disappears with your breath a wisp of cigarette smoke after our frenzied dance gives way to stable heartbeats and as I open my eyes imagine me chasing the gates of love in a race to seize fleeting warmth before winter raindrops freeze into perfect crystals searing happy teardrops to my cheeks tearing the ruddiness from hope chasing the salt from wine staining tonight's promises kiss me one last time I am your prince disguised in the nightingales fading song as the morning sky turns from indigo and victorious, I close my eyes and cross the finish line into the deep azure of your eyes blow out the candles… let me dream again disguised in the nightingale’s fading song [2010.27.2...a] |
the cliff is high over an ocean of tears I will not plunge, I am my own void my naked toes feel the loose pebbles unsteady and inviting clouds cover my heart fluffy novocaine the suffering of a starless night lessened though dreams of a falling star have vanished like the swish of Cupid's arrow whirling past, when I, numbed in a moment of stupor, did not feel its thwang to quickly place myself in its path.... I fall like the last grain of sand time has bequeathed me an angel in the arms of death love’s last chance [2010.22.2...a] |
where kittens hide between canisters of cranberries sun-dried and crisp, they can spy Lady Hope sings gaily of unicorns dipping ladles into the granola pot shoveling bran and nuts into new breakfast porcelain early in the morning kittens wiggle into small nooks under Ikea bookshelves or between the chimney’s logs waiting to be lit, from vantage points they leap at undesired visitors arriving unannounced like an aged prima donna before the ritual of filling the first coffee cup but this granny’s daughter was not welcome and tiny kitten claws forced her back into her cobwebbed cranny where with her crooked fingers she made poisoned gingerbread… phantoms spooked, coffee cup filled Lady Hope can relax spoon dipping in bowls a purring kitten sitting on her lap kittens, granola and unwelcome visitors [2010.21.2…a] For Phantom of Hope, aka UnicornSong, our dear Holly |
| unanswered these bruised, over-plucked heartstrings often discarded like last week’s unread news I regret that my songs espouse the wrong words the volume turned low in mismatched rhythms my saturated mailboxes and telephone lines are nuggets of golden leaves from forests burned by summer insurrection or winter blizzards messages of love abandoned to wither in boxes filled with yellowed postcards return addresses carefully noted somewhere I’ve forgotten, a fantasy or a brilliantly staged Midsummer Night’s Dream I am that different drummer seeking peers in crowded corners of sidewalk cafés populated by troubadours and organ grinders declaiming whatever makes their hearts throb I am Cupid’s last arrow rearing like a mustang cornered against a cliff there is no love without freedom a white eagle high on the horizon sets my future ablaze in emblems of weeping and rainfall I am destiny’s dying ember circus performers tempt the throngs to applaud and release pent-up emotions clowns recite silent poems with painted faces acrobats defy the volcanic cracks of life while trumpets herald inevitable tumbling and I, with book-learned mantras, rarely plummet into nightmarish scenes of betrayal friends long forgotten, their faces sketched into forgotten photo albums of my childhood there was no love then, affection followed the scant verity in fortune cookie predictions triumphant after each season of doubt when white-violent electrical storms pummel against the tear-stained windows of loneliness, poorly cast in an empty theatre filled only with confession’s confetti and bedtime prayers, where hope reigned unanswered unanswered [2010.14.2…c] |
naked branches snow falls capturing red hearts stately elm branches a lonely sentinel for snow fall and red paper hearts that decorate its nakedness a child's valentine cheer otherwise a dreary february horizon naked trees with snow cut-out hearts create sunlight a child's valentine three valentine's ideas [2010.14.2...a] modern haiku, free verse, traditional haiku inspired by peach  |
| blue mice nestle, scatter under thick straw nesting pairs of grey whiskers quiver, scenting pink wrapped chocolate and chilled champagne foolish calendars with winter dates for copulation blotted in a single community warmed by thick chimney pipes they squeak in passionate squalor below, in velvet comfort, other appendages engorge human bastard lust impersonating nightly barons charming cheaply rouged maidens with Tennyson and words of the bard recited in an indistinct mumbling the parlor fire crackles loudly titmice from frozen fields need no inflated eloquence for infatuation’s activities a tale of two tails trailing entwined and twitching in bestiality afterwards, fornication bids exhaustion’s favors humans parry with Morpheus blossoming in Monet impressionism tiny rodents scamper between overturned glasses and cookie crumbs laced with ancient illusionary herbs mice? yes, they were blue bitches and brothel brides ignore the patience and hunger of blue mice a valentine’s fable [2010.12.2…b] |
I have only glanced at her Mona Lisa smile from the eye of a fellow photographer trying to portray her secret trance — perchance one day in another mirror I will inspire her lips yesterday I captured the dance of snow flurries furiously decorating the conservatory’s street-front square trees and cars turning white within minutes of a sudden blizzard eternalized by a quick iPhone click the blight of hours passed, past thoughts about another love’s portrait preoccupy emotional overdrive so frequent when I am alone, I shouldn’t keep my ex lovers on my bed table in such an impressive collection in two days the fable of Valentines will unite one erring soul to another red cut-out hearts, chocolate kisses and the reflection of my own dry lips pursed in an awkward smile, reassuring myself that someone still loves me what I have seen [2010.12.2…a] These poems need one item extracted from daily news, a item from history or a museum, an item in our homes and an item found on one's daily promenade out of doors. The object is NOT ONLY for Cat and I to duel poetically, but for everyone else to participate too. It's too bad that only Cat and I dare to play. |
| I'm too lazy now to go back to Cat's Ploggia and list the elements of this poem as she did for hers. It needs four elements. Something from my daily life. Something heard about in the recent news. Something either historical or from a museum. Something crossed in my daily life. Here's my contribution to what I hope will become a game of poetic tag. the bakery sidewalk is still littered with hundreds of sticky silvery stars abandoned nonchalantly weeks ago by a child on a rainy morning you, like other icons I worshipped, are broken now, like the Venus de Milo glue is useless you no longer reach out to me that need adopts furry kittens I love you does not rhyme with gentle mewing New Orleans roared this past week-end fiery, proud, jubilant like the f-minor tapestry of a Chopin ballade I practice I do not count the stars nor your welcome music is my god, my religion, my salvation life's hurricanes try to decimate our havens to rebuild myself I am alone in dreams purring kittens midnight’s lonely rainfall what rain does [2010.9.2...a] |
such is the brave moment we arrive at love’s door wavering, losing control, perhaps wanting more dreams of phantoms and lovers still condemn our nights in idyllic pursuit, staged under moon’s dim light you lead me to your hearth, we are fragile, and supp in quiet rippling harmonies no song can stop silk curtains sway in a breeze, you gaze from the sill to reach out and touch you — my resistance is nil the garden titillates, swelling summer’s late fires can a promenade quell our hearts’ secret desire? dancing, hazy smoke appears, a haven for moths our wet clothes hang in the silver rays, hope is not lost in our naked embrace words quiver from reason the first time we kissed, I did not think of treason caught by love’s invitation [2010.7.2…a] |
trapped in a Van Gogh tableau she tired of reaching for twinkling slightly blighted, an apple fell at her naked ivory feet her crazy wish on a falling star abandoned for earthly delights — even they were tainted she spoke truths to the worm about starlight's celebrity and secrets recently unveiled leaving her heart melted like gold before her past became an ingot he was not like his cousin, the snake who chose to corrupt the Original Pair his response was etched in the silver light of wise prose scented with loam and springtime promise — a gift of choice hidden in richly painted swirls of inky midnight where only reason could imagine dreams tomorrow she will once again reach for the seventh star apples and stars [2010.24.1...a] Originally a response to Cat's latest poem. |
| “I used to believe in soul mates and waited to be loved, trembling with thoughts of how treasured that would feel; now, I believe that love is a gift best given away.” I stood behind the curtains, a small boy waiting for daddy to return, he never did I must have believed in love for six or seven years like Santa Claus and red bicycles I never had my heart became cold and lonely I have sought his strong arms everywhere and felt their protection only scarcely like when the snow melts and the streets get all slick and shiny with purity it ‘s a quick, quiet moment lasting the time to become a memory and daddy is my oldest memory, the most faded the most tarnished, the most untouchable the most incomplete, the pain never dried I have searched for soul mates, to contemplate daddy’s lost love through other, more willing eyes, always losing this game of hide and seek god and daddy abandoned me, and love — that precious imaginary gift — is only something I give away in furtive smiles or innocent bear hugs that last just as long as it takes me to dry a few tears of loneliness, glad to witness happiness bringing a sweet, tender embrace to another life as a man I stand behind different curtains, content to watch the weather change, to see lights go on and off in distant homes where others have found soul mates and love, wherever it creates a hearth, has come to visit my door is always open, candlelight for warmth my heart timid, my arms strong strong arms [2010.16.1…c] The third stanza has been edited, after Kåre and Cat's comments, with which I agreed. The original reads as follows: I have searched for soul mates, to contemplate daddy’s lost love through other, more willing eyes, always losing this game of hide and seek god and daddy abandoned me, and love — that precious imaginary gift — is only something I give away in furtive smiles, in innocent bear hugs that last just as long as it takes me to dry a few tears of loneliness, glad to witness happiness bringing sweetness to another life |
I did not solicit her tears she has no need of another rugged tear in her soul, I wanted merely to understand why she is uneasy with life's miracles though I too hide, a bit, behind words of walls colored with a semi-wash of emotion that leaves streaks in comprehension wet mascara, cheeks with crusty salt patches contact lenses that wobble from too much humidity of the eye, so in this we are sister souls I did not solicit her torn heart, lately repaired beyond life's unhappiness, because I cannot see into the secrets revealed in the depths of her eyes she does not avert them when we whisper and I am not truly blind, seeing her shadows even on a cloudy night, but finding hidden meanings in the labyrinths between us is a task to defy the Delphi oracle, yet my pioneer spirit forges ahead when I speak to her, my words resonate like a cello's c-string, strong, vibrant, passionate and slowly her oyster heart opens, and within is a glimmer of two, not one, shiny pearls waiting for my hands to help her build a necklace when others do not follow her [2010.14.1...a] |
| Invalid Photo #1022043 while sweet sleep eluded night’s visions where darkness’s comfort was desired your image imposed a sense of peace enlightening my bedchamber with hopes for a clear sunrise to honor our friendship Invalid Photo #1022044 insomnia taunted me with secret corners I feared not its shadows for already memories of our conversations rocked me in gentleness more suited to your calm theological beliefs than my perpetual doubts Invalid Photo #1022045 sunrise beckoned me to Fourvière Basillica overlooking the Rhone and Saone where I’m certain your otherworldly intervention parted clouds celebrating your passing in a place worthy of the angel you have become a touch of pink over the gray city [2009.29.12…a] |
| Invalid Photo #1022046 against fading blue and growing whitish skies somewhere deep in Ohio lands nested between Oberlin and Elyria forests of birches and icicles bend under frozen water weight, branches caught slowly weeping single tears, as timid sunlight declares a few minutes of melting may be possible — fur-booted and wool-scarved for sub-freezing wandering alone, a young woman roams her eyes highlighted with a camera lens her smile jubilates a lone deer forgets three red holy berries a sudden ray of sunlight casts shadows in the snow and her final inspiration falls upon thick tree trunks of ice dripping slowly into a single moment captured from the illusiveness of nature’s perfection on a blustery winter day the photographer [2010.9.1…a] |
| melancholia brandishes an olive branch at newcomers no one hears a hermit's song, does it exist if only the wind picks up its modal filament the echo on the mountain's far side is too distorted foreigners live there, they too sing words so incomprehensible we think mumbo-jumbo speak to me, oracle of Delphi, or even the local wishing well, of futures contained in four leaved clover the gypsy lady, in beads, baubles and colored scarves torments the unbeliever with horrible destinies each hermit tries to escape those same events his harmony is lonely nights tending the fire smoke signals, across borders, like clouds are signs that man is not alone, but misunderstood I will not recite prayers taken from any good book the gods begot silence as a defensive weapon when words exist [2010.6.1...b] |
Invalid Photo #1021963 our next rendez-vous will hail sunrise on the twenty-ninth I remain behind to witness fondly those loving souls who sail ocean winds with your ashes, solemnly letting them disperse, to unite with the tanginess of the brine and their weeping my own tears will not immortalize this precious moment of family grief for I will look on it from a distant city crossed by two rivers, in a place that separated our friendship into individual spaces from which we navigated across the airs to speak-write about things which created our closeness as your remains bless the elements relieving them of our earthly grief they scatter along the vast ebbs and tides to one day caress my rivers’ banks… patiently I wait on my footbridge, knowing the precious atoms of your mortal body have reassembled themselves to jubilate in celestial illuminations for my lonely nights an aurora borealis memory of your soul soaring joyously with the twinkling stars… and as I bask in the rouging glow of today’s sunrise quietly, I add your name to my mantra of ethereal people I cherished for only a few moments watching as you, joining them, pass onto further missions to ignite the love in other hearts from a distant city I look on [2009.23/29.12…a] For Ken Rhodes |
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