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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. )) |
if sunlight graces the chosen hill or the grayish river waters tomorrow on dawn's bridge where I wait patiently your ashes will reach my presence and break the night of my loneliness when you return [2009.28.12...a] a Fibonacci for Ken The form, briefly, contains six lines of 1, 2, 3, 5, 8 and 13 words respectively. |
it was no mistake to let my heart walk on the boardwalk with you along beaches you saw and I dreamed of today no mistake governs my tears freely flowing because now I'm going to those places, to remember you better and send you a silent post card from my eyes' wonder it was no mistake to love you as a brother, the older one I never had, and speaking wasn't a part of it, both deaf and dumb to anything other that fraternal love that united us beyond the skies, the waves where today snow falls it will be no mistake to remember you until my hands stop trembling from loneliness and my eyes dry from forgetfulness no mistake [2009.21.12…a] |
| ah, tantrums of avarice, rage be gone good will to measure desperation the rich throw money from bridges to watch the others dive like angels trying to catch the bills before death enfolds them in a pristine white snow flurry scream, survivors little be known about demise before homeless, frostbite and nickel-and-dime ghosts sing their sickly songs tantrums of solitude ah the pain of hunger! tis the season for grey slush and frozen corpses in stables tantrums of darkness [2009.9.12…b] It"s still very rough. Don't know if it's worth tweaking. |
almost winter solstice, the days linger as snow flurries paired animals loiter, cloistered in zoos antediluvian assemblies reminiscent of Noah returning from the Great Flood twin bald eagle chicks chirp in empty wooded rural parks, visitors prefer the glamour of D & G instead of sketching nature studies with freezing digits, leaving the weather-withered occupants to gratify icicles and clouds with their twittering, entirely silent now, like the night the babe was born in the new year, they will be shadowed performers nestled in darkness waiting for wintertime’s footlights alas, perched on icy ridges they scratch at shriveled berries perchance they are worthy descendants of myrrh and incense even while they preen solitude from dead branches, we laugh and favor other materialistic exchanges, chinking our glasses to raise our spirits for social visits not including December at the zoo trees, you ask? bonsais or brightly decorated evergreens rarely offer a haven to pairs of feathered fineness exit sentiments of good will, few remember those exquisite outlines of gray wings framed in misty eggnog froth a partridge in a pear tree [2009.5.12…a] |
| I have thought of composing a brief anthology of humor. The new idea of Twelve Days of Acrostic Christmas will need a preface poem. Inspired by Kåre's favorite poet, or one of them, Richard Hugo, I have written a letter to my reader. The following is the first rough draft. The indigestion etc. image is still too raunchy. And the title is only a first idea. I am, as always, open to ideas and criticism. Here goes! To those gentle — and patient, I pray — readers about to embark on a rickety pirogue with your humble servant; I would write of Christmas, its twelve days, and the joys brought to us all by a genuinely festive holiday season. Yes, I would take my pen and scribble these little nothings dear to my heart. If I could. I cannot. ‘Tis the Season is no longer a dream, cherished rewarded by twelve months of patience, avoiding coal, trying to be tuned to my best behavior; it has become a farce like the stuffing turkeys are filled with a few weeks earlier, that, along with indigestion, is quickly regurgitated inelegantly several hours later. I digress. We experience less and less of a lingering satisfaction after the holidays. We return unwanted gifts, forgetting the spirit of their offering. So I take pen to paper. And I will laugh gently as my computerized fingers snark at the season which should still bring us so much joy. But so often does not. Santa may prefer I join the local sooty men deep in the mines for my irreverence, but will my sour Humbug-like humor be greater than Red and White Best Bargains beginning in September? I think not. So I beseech thee, gentle people with eyes seeking the glittering top of an evergreen tree, accept my offering of other tales which gently hint at a Christmas spirit I find so deeply buried along the bramble-lined path leading from my childhood to today’s rhymes. gentle — and patient, I pray — [2009.4.12…c] |
the north wind blows drenched leaves against my tiny umbrella, covering me in a patchwork of oak and elm a frigid bluster forces me to a standstill emotion roots itself deep in my throat, like a sapling rainfall thuds against the window panes heavy words that toss my soul with a typhoon-like upheaval my tears do not speak, nor can the heaven’s water sing the song haunting my heart soon the November chill will prevail icicles and geometric snowflakes will delight my senses though these same statuesque words will freeze like the tundra of uninhabited lands caught forever in immobility behind the wish that I had freed them, loosed like an arrow from my heartstrings, so long ago unspoken words [2009.28.11…a] |
| magenta cloudburst overflows dark chocolate harborings imaginary whispering orange http://www.nga.gov/feature/rothko/classic6.shtm electrifying white light shadowing black columns fuzzy red leaves http://www.nga.gov/feature/rothko/abstraction1a.shtm splashing squared vermillion a purple mirror white outlined invisibleness http://www.nga.gov/feature/rothko/abstraction2.shtm calm cobalt meditation watery ivory Pierrots Carnaval's carmine reflections http://www.nga.gov/feature/rothko/abstraction5.shtm four Rothko poems [2009.18.11...a] A NovaCatmando Challenge when my poetic muse simply refuses to collaborate. I adore Rothko's paintings, but find it difficult to do anything other than describe them with words. I'm not even close to Catherine's lyricism. |
Author's note. The following text has been available on the static item "Invalid Item"  up until four days ago when I posted the definitive version of these texts. So please click on the above link to read the latest version.ab seventeen hours and five minutes (Paris, October 19th) [2009.19.10…a] 6:30 no indeed, I was not dreaming of machines, when… unexpectedly… your iPhone’s snappy rise-and-shine tune interrupts my private cinema once again an overdose of alarm zeal jolts me from nocturnal ecstasy early morning express trains roll on timed rails to divide us, over and over again on automatic pilot I cut grapefruit halves while you shower, still enamored of my dreams pent-up passion enhances our good-bye kiss on the landing I’ll eat later, sitting in your chair facing the renewed loneliness in my shadow 8:47 cute electronic music outmaneuvers Morpheus’ grip second alarm of the morning I caress the screen creating silence before the sound I prefer a brief call to check on your crowded train I express regrets at your hasty departure and moan agreeingly at your seat’s lack of a worktable to overstretch your personal space, protectively, in the overbearing human bluster of Monday morning inter-city bustle me? your question revives my hungers only citrus and flakes 9:45 Wisteria Lane reruns, recorded earlier, suburban schmaltz pleases my oversensitive Venusian emotivity my Mars self will battle Prison Break’s second season escapades to be aired prime-time on Thursday 11:17 happiness is winning a ten-minute race in an empty grocery store no competitive cart-crossing in the aisles, waiting only for an eccentrically programmed automatic checkout machine to accept my universal payment card it does arms warmed by the weight of fresh fruit I hobble home sprightly in sunlight 12:34 utter bliss: windows opened to golden rays spinach-ricotta stuffed cannelloni steaming gastronomic peace, hotly contested by immobile garbage trucks overpowered by bloated zig-zaggedly parked cars, ground level honking duet with fourth floor grumbling stomach they are nonetheless unthanked urban heroes I praise them silently from my balcony 12:46 captured from window boxes some faded geranium blossoms float behind the fluorescent-clad garbage men while others perfume my own trash basket their natural scent mixes well with chocolate and strawberry dessert, a drop of cognac afterwards? you would say to splurge... I add aspirin just in case of overindulgence 13:08 important: siesta, restoring my harmony relaxing sore back muscles a dream or two after these essential forty-five minutes my own blackbird’s mp3 song-cum- telephone-alarm will offer a compromise between these and other realities the absolute zen of alarm number three heralds the required moment time has elapsed hazily no, dear, you have returned to your world our dreams will not be woven together from the electricity hovering as our heads touch the pillow 14:07 aired late, thanks to overflowing local presentations of national news, Young and the Restless, otherwise called The Fires of Love here on the banks of the Seine soup (tomorrow's lunch) and soap (regular afternoon activity...) does love really mean betrayal? 15:10 fresh-brewed green tea induces other heat the sensual lather of Body Shop Moringa shower gel poetic sighs imagine my nonetheless lithe half-century old body, naked and lobster steamed under streams of lava heated water tattoos glistening with Martian force I cleanse myself of unnamable sins I’ve dreamed of committing, to excite the verse in over-rehearsed solitary dialogue I am Hamlet Waiting for Godot my folly not yet consumed by exorcising Brunehilde or “la cantatrice chauve…” 16:15 on the dot, I place myself ideally along city-bound platform B waiting, I am prepared for my first urban fight today, in a train which hopefully will deliver me at the appointed hour to initiate PartOne-of-the-MiracleCure (personally crafted shoe inserts to set my balance equitably between left foot and right) transporting myself today is so-far less hell than usual pre-rush hour jumble (I arrive, relaxed, ten minutes early…) 17:05 (…five minutes late) finally The Podiatrist, warm smile for the challenge I suppose, his foot-tailoring hands finish leather and cork support for my deflated feet to counter (one day) the roller coaster twists of my poor rickety spine, arthritically abandoned new technique for walking: heel to toe rolls flexible knees, alternate arms to swing ape-style head held high, never feel like a fool 17:42 to vanquish in the second battle… cornered in the local métro platform’s crowd I watch three trainloads go by, stuffed sardines marinated in laughter— after twelve minutes isolating myself from the inevitable (agoraphobic coward) I elbow myself into real pandemonium (modest courage) and add my blossoming sweat to the consommé of perfumed stench of the fourth moving tin can together, jovial strangers observe unlikely ratios between six pleated ragamuffins wiggling their way outwards from the maddening plethora of travelers and nine pristine fashion victims hoping to squeeze themselves into pickled rush hour insanity 18:55 to rest, or not to rest there is no question, no empty bench along the pedestrian-only walkway, these two over-balanced feet ache after window shopping quests for silver baubles a leisurely salad-sandwich-latté-and-muffin refreshment --- no, I buck, ducking out of the Star place hullabaloo and find a good Parisian replacement--- the universe’s golden arches have been vanquished by super quality-freshness found elsewhere 20:42 yes, I am aware of their misery even “O Magnum Mysterium” contains sourly noted missives for the gallows this flock of sick jailbirds warbles forgetting freedom, condemning my senses to the cacophony of bald rhymes and odd rhythms I wish for a sweetly tuned “Libera Me” ah, the wasted life of a pianist banging out notes their deaf ears refuse to hear please, send in the clowns carrying guns 22:34 homeward bound, clad in red wool against the night chill sixteen minutes of blank mind reverie, iPod sings of rainbows while Dorothy is eternally clicking her ruby heels your bright smile will not greet my arrival — perhaps if overwhelmingness did not claim your day I will hear rosé-wined laughter splash in your voice if we speak before I fall unanimated on the bed's quilt of rich fall colors and wish, back in Kansas again, for the peace I always find... …in Morpheus' arms 23:35 groggy I answer on the ninth ring you call, still sipping coffee and cognac with colleagues disconnected? I try to add sound to the silences as your chopped voice vaguely clarifies your iPhone has been disconnected all evening you mutter about losing all traceability after a foiled system upgrade… my exhaustion baffles you my lack of questions, or even my surprise hearing your voice when I’m not dreaming my silence must disappoint you, eager to communicate… tomorrow we will speak of technology I promise before slumber interrupts us permanently |
| at seven p.m. eleven candles animate the shadows they spit and stutter, refusing to melt or let their whispering scare away the dust, cobwebs, or tiny grains of stardust left as wishes mixed in the marble refuge of waxy, unlit messages... now the warmth of their light softens them into white rainbows bringing forlorn tales to enchant our eyes, ali baba, cinderella and the wizard in oz where sparkles of wisdom illuminate corners where hope has become murky like sandy sea salt, rinsed by a rain storm shorting out electrical lines and for the space of an evening we speak from the heart, of matters that ebb and flow normally reserved for our dreams on a dark night [2009.1.11...a] |
| Thank you Ken, for your incredible text which I have transformed in my own fashion. Today in the Heart of Carolina it’s the type of day that gives autumn a bad name. Leaden clouds suspended in pewter skies blot out the eye’s memory of the colors blue, and yellow. Late-term pregnant rain drops belie the low fifties temperature, shape-shifting as they tumble earthward, threatening to morph into sleet before splatting wetly against the windshield. Lemon-colored leaves, premature casualties in the clash of the seasons, lie like footprints on the cold asphalt. Westerly winds whisper “winter” as they exhale past my ear. © Kenneth Rhodes leaden clouds pewter-tinted skies my hope of swift flight is suspended my memory of azure and red-gold your eyes and hair caught in the wavering thickness above drops ready to explode too much wetness must escape somehow and condemn yesterday's warmth, swift shape-shifting threats tumble earthward, weaving clear stark barriers on a dim horizon’s time-line between us those sweet heavenly tears saturate the sky morph into sudden sleet, splatter hard against the foggy windshield misted in autumn aquarelle hues and force me to suspend my love from the embers of your embrace fall storms stay my ardor lemon-colored leaves flutter by the windows premature casualties in seasonal clashes, they sulk like so many slippery footprints caught on the cold asphalt though the fleetness of my feet, once set free will splash in puddles of emotion if only these wild Westerly winds would not whisper “winter” as they weave their secret threats along the weeping road separating us... to hurry against the wind [2009.27.10…a] |
| Even after an hour's work yesterday, I couldn't use Sheila's phrase. This morning brought changes, enlightenment and the title in its place. Here's the revised poem. You won't need to read the first version, unless you're real curious. layers of black, velvet and taffeta frilled lace hankies, tear stained and make-up free, hidden black garters, girdles, dull anthracite silk slips swishing on skin that was so fondly caressed by the silent ghost who even now answers her... they see nothing but a woman taking up more space decorated in layers of black petticoats, fair-weather raincoats, mohair sweaters in case of chill she soaks up stupid condolences like a used sponge layers of everyone else's uselessness her silent screams stuff her, bloat her lungs her tears stifle her appetite and when she needs to weep, the friendly shoulders shudder discreetly, aghast at such familiarity her wet cheeks still, poised, she poses center stage refusing to adorn this dark poisonous role where the uselessness of these layers shines in fake footlights she never wanted, had always discarded... against her will, she is fatly layered in omnipresent thick blackness she is alone, conversing with memories joined in widowhood like thousands of other invisible women layered in common black, cataloged forgotten misunderstood fat widow [2009.22.10...a] for Sheila |
| layers of black, velvet, lace frills, tear stained and make-up free the garters, the girdles, the dull anthracite silk slips swishing on skin that was so fondly caressed by the silent ghost who even now answers her... they see nothing but a woman taking up more space decorated in layers of black the petticoats the fair-weather raincoats, the mohair sweaters in case of chill she soaks up stupid condolences like a used sponge layers of everyone else's uselessness her silent screams stuff her, bloat her lungs her tears stifle her appetite and when she needs to weep, the friendly shoulders shudder discreetly, aghast at the familiarity of her wet cheeks still, she is center stage, playing a role where the uselessness of these layers shines in fake footlights she never wanted had always discarded... now the thick blackness is omnipresent, she is alone, conversing with memories joined in widowhood like thousands of other invisible women layered in common black, catelogued forgotten, misunderstood useless [2009.22.10...a] for Sheila |
| daylight filters through my dreams I sit against pillows, cross-legged water logged by the tears or rain drops leaking under the window sill — I don't know iPod's sad songs reverberate in my soul along with other aches, more lucid and pressing I don't know why the winter birds sing at noon before the first snowfall announcing bitterness that settles in my back's memories of unhappiness I’ve forgotten these shadows, yet they call loudly through familiar pain I don’t want to know as though the whistling of the wind, the winter birds and the rain all had desperate messages hidden in the wine and roses falling through the gaps between my bent knees filters of sediment [2009.18.10…a] |
| among the turbulent indigo the desert skies spin sand imagined by men drinking wine while women, clad in silk are merely beautiful ornaments glistening in the moonlight... the gods whisper songs none hear any more, except the colors of sunset, sunrise faintly reflecting moods so far away from the simplicity mankind would weave from their book of dreams.... when unicorns sang [2009.11.10...a] an offering © alfred booth |
| The rain, which has finally escaped the clouds that have promised its wetness for a week, falls in rapid sleek white lines, like a cartoon animation, the speed of which is surprising. Thin streaks of water bounce off umbrellas, sidewalks and car tops. It is a good rain. Steady enough to wet the ground, not harsh enough to roll off of it. This combination of gray skies and thread-like white lines tumbling down from the heavens pleases me. Under my blue umbrella I wander the streets, not avoiding puddles for I have remembered to wear shoes without holes in their soles. my feathers dry joyous autumn rain a duck at heart Now, in this quaint happiness, my soul is whole. In my slow pace along the street, one may find a certain calm joy in my stride. Today I am the rain, and the rain has cleansed the cobwebs from the shadows that have been waiting patiently for seven days to be revealed under just this sort of grey light. storm shadows nothing much happens until sunlight returns rainfall [2009.5.10...a] a Haibun |
Invalid Photo #1021305 beyond, they cry no more after harsh hours of twisting wet sheets, hand wringing torture, in this day where machines are never repaired beyond these walls, they let loose their secrets finally, these abandoned girl-mothers, apprenticed not to motherhood, but to painful tribulations, washing scrubbing, hands to blood with little repentance, no love no forgiveness for sins begot upon them by fathers, brothers and parish priests beyond these walls they suffer no more, certain shipped off to other lugubrious places certain, the old, forgotten dropped casually back into society with a pack of clean clothes and a few dollars for a room somewhere in town beyond, these unrecognized sisters of Magdalene pray no more, the laundries are burned now, their ashen bricks never to be forgotten beyond, they do not know what to do with the freedom their children will never know the walls where they cried [2009.30.9…a] The Second Magdalene Laundries poem Originally written in 15 minutes for the "15 for 15 Contest" The photo was taken from http://www.abandonedireland.com/mc.html Click on it to see the larger image, it doesn't seem to upload in the XL format! |
[Embed For Use By Upgraded+] bound behind brick walls, they wail polluted women espousing wickedness they scrub with tiny bloodied hands what were never their own sins their virgin bosoms tainted stained by the dirty instincts of men and here behind these walls the other women, costumed in deity daring to call themselves pure, innocent, of grace indenture them until death may politely remember them who are the heathen females spewing the pestilence of hell’s breath? weep, lost babes for innocence and youth captured for no fault of your own in the Magdalene laundries they were never novices of faith they wail, weakened until other angels offering a final clemency, come to separate them from their ordeal they have not learned vows of peace in this Home of the Good Shepard, where the other women, costumed in deity have hardened their souls, creating true unredeemable temptresses, they bide the hours praying only for their final breaths knowing how it will be, stuffed into cloth bags buried in haste with no bells, no memory where are the children born against their own wills from these misunderstood loins? dream, lost mamas of innocence and youth punished for no fault of your own in the Magdalene laundries permanent sins [2009.21.9…b] UnicornSong told me about Joni Mitchell's song. I did a bit of research this morning, and came up with the following YouTube, where Joni gives her public a bit more information about why this song was written. Thus the inspiration for this poem. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8S2hv7uVxxY&feature=related |
| The advantage of embedding a video is that it will permit my readers here to listen to the musical inspiration while reading the haibun prose/poetry that evolved from it. The music is a piece I've played for years myself, but have never had the opportunity to record. [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] paths through summer moss white lighting wood framed bronze bells songs of muffled feet Only in the moonlight do they come to this place, in silence, these painted women, to share their secrets with the shadows rustling in elm and wisteria. The temple bells ring no longer; the eldest priest is dead now and the snow-capped mountains hovering above remember only the crystal clear ringing, not his face. Mountains do not occupy themselves with human souls, only the songs carried by the wind’s mourning. These painted women would graciously forget the faces of their past, the haunting, daunting episodes of treachery, betrayal, friendship gone wry and love worthy only of tales of the unmarried. They cannot forget. Instead, they wander vaguely with ghostlike steps over the stone paths leading all to the old pond, silent now except for the occasional splash of a frog. Could he be the princely reincarnation of their bitter dreams, still waiting for that magical embrace which brings happiness and reincarnation? Other than the women, few travelers come here. There is nothing for strangers to remember, the eerie beauty found here is too unfamiliar. It is a place of the past, veiled in secrets only the select can remember. In a few years, only the latest generation of sprightly water creatures sharing the pond with the elm tree shadows and the royal-purple water lilies will whisper with the wind the rumors time has gifted them to keep. Once long ago, a famous poet sat in meditation upon the banks of this pond. In his youth, he dreamed of his own legacy and offered the priests a gift from his pen. Painted in swift strokes, his was not a painter’s homage, but the story of the life returning generation after generation, unaware of the temple bells which no longer toll for anyone. Now a single sound remains to break the silence of this place, to remind these women, faces painted in shame, of those strange and gentle spirits who once graced these sacred grounds. old pond in autumn shadow frogs and lilies remain faithful graceful splashes “le temple qui fut” [2009.17.9…a] Of course there was the inspiration from NovaCatherine, but also from a piece of music for piano, written by Claude Debussy, from which the title is taken: “Et la lune descend sur le temple qui fut.” …and the moon set over the temple that once was. |
| A haibun. In spite of everything, I have loved you with uncommon passion. Each morning I do not hobble away, crooked, bereaved. I gaze at your pillow, touch it, caress it even, dry my tears from its turquoise satin, this place where our lives lived in lustful and restful harmony. I disagree that the Master of Doom has sleek white hands: his gestures are forever untidy. Even today, they leave shadowy prints on the creases of the bedclothes. I breathe, going through the motions of living without you, harmonizing my emptiness with the rituals of our life. I burn, alone, loving your memory when our bodies were so perfectly tuned to our charnel desires. The Promise of Time will maybe smooth over the wrinkles your absence has brought to my life; yet each morning, my roughened hands will caress the sheets, the patchwork of your soul, and the pillow where our lives lived… colorful crackle between doom and tomorrow autumn’s wrinkled dreams from your turquoise satin [2009.15.9…a] Written after the poem by e.e.cummings: in spite of everything... in spite of everything which breathes and moves,since Doom (with white longest hands neatening each crease) will smooth entirely our minds -before leaving my room i burn,and(stooping through the morning)kiss this pillow, dear where our heads lived and were. |
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