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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. )) |
| ... or knowing how to read in between the lines. Catherine sees well, and my mood is indeed rough edged. Here's what flowed this morning, and I feel like the day will bring more words caught magically on paper... it tarries not this dismal fluffy cloudburst brings tiny droplets colored in green tea magic, misting the windows, extra wind-chime grace sends soft songs elsewhere the swallows are silent no cars swoop along oily streets passers-by? they too are absent this grayness engulfs everything wet glistens on future fall leaves and my heart, heavy roams so far, like a caged lion's desire to calm desire [2009.10.9...a] |
| What would I do without this wonderful guy? His words, while so different than mine, ring so true to my heart. my walls lament, I hear it in the creaking floorboards like a ghost reliving someone else's aged footsteps I come and go, like a lion in and out of its cage returning for the geraniums that still bloom and the sense of welcome, a secret mystery gifted from the four walls I call home.... to return home [2009.9.9...] |
| their own private big bang of love crashes with jazzy overtones, leaving misty atoms of love in the air that catch the crackle of the first dry leaves it is electricity between them in hushed voices they quietly tune the improvisations of their desire which nightly, explodes in a never-ending beauty like anniversary fireworks in the sky making the Milky Way jealous of their illumination to togetherness later, when the music goes moody they dream, separately, for a while, of catching Cupid's arrows and in the morning count the lucky dents of love, almost piercing their hearts, pinching themselves, they know it's never been a dream... between Cupid and the big bang [2009.6.9...a] For Kangaroos and Joeys, everywhere |
the shutters are closed, they retain soft darkness in the back room this place where I write, meditate, exist – but life escapes me still today, death visits… I welcome the somber words of my tears closed in [2009.1.9…b] today the rain falls, muted and hushed, respecting mourning rites even the silent Pacific greets our tears, leaving salt on our cheeks over the waves near your home, the sun will rise tomorrow the sun never sets without rising [2009.1.9…c] |
| silent, an abandoned checkerboard of thick oak thrones in the shade beneath a silver-leafed tree the pieces of jade and onyx scattered beyond checkmate a picnic basket abandoned, three red apples remain only the shadows of birds flying high above reveal a sign of life, the ocean, distant now has removed its crashing waves of muddy threat to destroy another island, other dreams, other lives leaving desolation as a false sense of peace in a world where children are supposed to laugh after the tsunami [2009.14.8…a] inspiration by Mandy |
silvery light trickles through the clouds pinprick raindrops dampen my skin the gentle fountain falling from gray celestial curtains is like the soft spray of dandelions gone to seed, spreading their laughter to color other faraway images ah, is this the bitter tang of an angel’s tears? as all things surrounding me begin to dry a subtle scent of pine permeates the air like the fleeting perfume of a lover or the wisp of a memory touching my heart, like a brass urn overflowing with rose petals mottled red and white, still searches for a brightness I never knew — your eyes, speaking to me of love… to remember what I never knew [2009.13.8…a] Inspiration by Mandy |
| unhurried, dressed in angelic flowing white linen, she wanders up and down the deserted square, whistling for her Siamese cat behind the ocre-framed courtyard window, a door suddenly slams crushing the Monday morning calm — the pharmacy is always closed under the lazy shade of broad-leafed platanes, the corner café bustles with tourists expecting frothing latté drinks bearing green logos seated near the spritely bubbling fountain, a man removes his blue beret fanning himself absent-mindedly, he wonders: it was a gift from which lady? an absent-minded morning [2009.11.8…a] Author's note: Modeled after Arthur Guiterman: On the Vanity of Earthly Greatness Within these completely independent, but linked, stanzas, I have united the poem with color elements, words describing both sound and having to do with speed. The poem begins with a woman and ends with another; the outer stanzas describe a specific person, the inner ones describe an invisible one and a group of people. The last unifying element is the location of each stanza; the reader should be able to picture a square in a quiet neighborhood. |
| darkening haze, silver rays slow bouquets of clouds raised from moon song silver rays slow through bordeaux hues bright glows falter, sowing storm rain through bordeaux hues water spews forth tatoos the earth, bruise from the storm bright glows falter as bluster claims bantering sound stirred in trouble sowing storm rain with profaned peace coxswain beats woe, chained to fury bouquets of clouds, angry shrouds veil sea-proud vessels loud rumbling claps angry shrouds veil white curtailed light on hail-stoned breeze, sails bend, flashing sea-proud vessels, death dispels hope and quells all rest, bells sound warning loud rumbling claps, swift time-lapsed flares whitecaps of froth scrap the silence raised from moon song, south wind’s long quest still bongs resound, throngs plead for grace south wind’s long quest has not blessed salt but pressed those tears dressed for demise still, bongs resound like hearts drown fear in pounding waves bound from heaven throngs plead for grace in boldface prayer outpacing time lace spins from fog darkening haze lifts this crazed fear a maze of light, glazed sunlit gold when the west wind blows [2009.10.8…a] The overlapping form, outlined by northernwrites is separate from the Than-Bauk couplets: ABCD // BEFG // Exxx // Fxxx // Gxxx CHIJ // Hxxx // Ixxx // Jxxx DKLM // Kxxx // Lxxx // Mxxx // A!xxx |
drunk, he lies face caressing the pavement shrieking obscenities into a pothole rolling as if possessed by his mother's ghost the traffic cannot advance, obviously people lean over balconies, intrigued time stands still, an imminent warning the angel of death laughs aloud at Fate's joke endgame in the street, part one [2009.4.8...j] he is no troubadour, but his suffering is more real than any poetry, his is not more timeless than his inebriation oily pavement stains his face, no tears can mix with the earth’s dirt, his soul is filled with disgust and decrepitude there is little rhyme in the nothingness he feels checkmate, part two [2009.5.8…b] oh they may laugh, surmise and judge him, behind their windows perched high in homey comfort sharing drink or white powder a secret, well hidden sense of unworthiness they do not see the ease as decline happens he has fallen farther than their nightmares castling does nothing, part three [2009.5.8…c] from this vileness he stumbles slowly his fingernails, pried from the flesh have never grown back; thus his numbness one upon a time he courted beauty, jealousy sought him with her vengeance, his weakness was to believe in human goodness now jeering strangers stare and point fingers a king as a pawn, part four [2009.5.8…d] below the street empties the crowd disperses I hear whispering, muted mocking I would have preferred 911 sirens I do not understand my own tears I feel sacrificed, like a bloodied lamb remembering things I should still forget for I watched powerless, and could only wimper somehow I am losing, part five [2009.5.8…e] he staggers again, falls bleeding head unconscious now, silence quiets the crowd later, the medics, too late, will pronounce the hour no, this is not television’s drama, we are not warring for power, people are still not interested in saving the soul of an insignificant man powerless, his secrets ferment even his death king, a miserable life, takes king — part six [2009.5.8…f] |
I might dream of whipped cream covered men slippery… adult nights holding tight muscled might jittery such nonsense great pretense onyx knives predicted old men too sing youth blues late curfews evicted the mind sets nightmare nets silk-clad legs imposture eros wanes while sex planes without reins composure yet I seem to redeem torn garments unravelled… from the sights groping heights spinning plights raz-dazzled during the wee hours [2009.4.8…k] Snámh Suad form for a NovaCatmando challenge |
| when the lark cries, moonlit sighing he tries to sing silent sadness moonlit sighing, unfleeting tears, songs bring questions, wings now rested he tries to sing, alluring bird a king aloft, spring’s memories silent sadness, swift confessions suppress gray clouds, bless tomorrow unfleeting tears, which endear him his sphere is not mere verse, but joy songs bring questions: rich visions, new bastions of life — shun not these chords wings now rested, new paths spread far ahead, freedom threads the future alluring bird, heaven’s words catch wizard’s lament, blur emotions a king aloft, whispers soft fears at scoffed folly, often distant spring’s memories: will it’s breeze soar appease longing, tease his pure heart? when cries the lark, his song, dark like Petrarch sonnets, sparks true sadness the lark's sadness [2007.22.1...a] Elaborate Than-Bauk linking couplets Revised version finished 1.8.2009 A thousand thanks to northernwrites for more excellent ideas in the revision process. |
| weightless and maybe I’ll find some peace tonight constructed on famous Route 66, a building folly strictly decoration, usual purposes: none housing, sheltering a conventional structure the one-act play, a dilapidated boathouse may manifest singles charts over decades or, as an 18th century french landscape garden often representing Roman temples, insanity, craziness or madness in the arms of the angel, fly away from here However, Madness achieves this in a shorter time period surrounded by weeds the story’s valentine unfolds as a waltz a euphemistic term with classical virtues or ideals a spectrum of behaviors characterized by abnormal mental patterns "Talley's Folly" story: one night, lives two semi-permanent, severe, unlikely sweethearts, Matt and Sally the original Indian inhabitants of the area even from this dark cold hotel room Talley farm in Friedman Missouri. set attractions scandalous rather than being disgraceful an unusually prolific Fourth of July, 1944. Lebanon the most prominent band initially called The Wyota Inn will run for ninety-seven minutes no intermission and the endlessness that you fear completely refurbished with comfortable and elegant atmosphere, Chinese temples Egyptian pyramids, becoming a danger to themselves here illuminated by work lights and the house lights, encountered an informal instability trees untrimmed gardens and paths overgrown revealing their most painful secrets you are pulled from the wreckage of your silent reverie the set artificiality is obvious Langford Wilson announces the play the audience, having no intention of encouraging courtship you’re in the arms of an angel, may you find some comfort here… essay on folly and certain places dear to Allison Crowe [2009.31.7…f] Flarf Poetry composed from lines downloaded from various internet researches, no extra words added, original texts simply cut and rearranged "poetically." |
| Okay, here "feeling sorry for myself," so cliché, becomes "sorry feeling for myself." The other six are textually respected... I do not hesitate to open the gate greeting the rusty lock, red paint chips this garden has been kept well thick moss hides the luster of youth vines of roses and wisteria climb iron-laced pergolas and trickling fountains here I remember the taste of falling rain the sweetness of salt brine, or the vapor of green tea brewing in your old red kettle this sorry feeling for myself evaporates from the well where my wishes vibrate I’ve time enough to wander through fallen petals their perfume pacifies my heart as it capers along soft paths sowed in suffering grains clutching the leather billfold, mountains of memories, old yellow photos of time speaking to my personal religion of truth pausing beneath the oak tree, my heart swells parting was never spoken from our lips until eternity, for those words, I will wait the taste of life [2009.28.7…a] Written for the Inspirations Contest |
| a brief hesitation while the gray wind speaks mocking hinge squeaks, dead leaf swooshes I open the gate, the shimmer of its flaky rust still recalls the ruddy lack-luster of youth lost another rainy day, engraved decades ago into my fragile mind, mesmerized, like an automatic recording replays the innocent taste of falling rain mixed into my salty reminiscence chiding my cloudlike stance forever the sightless man behind the moon feeling sorry for myself because my reflection was never as golden as yours I’ve had time enough to wander in my labyrinth of sentimental journeys, yet as this reverie has left me white-knuckled and shivering, I shake myself from my mission’s thundering power of intimidation, and clutching the leather billfold — your only legacy — I discover my life suspended in desire as I stare at marble memories pausing beneath the oak tree where today your gravestone becomes a new hallowed territory for my embittered soul hallowed territory [2009.27.7…a] Written for the Inspirations Contest |
| beyond the drapes, night veered purple cloaked in royal velvet warmth he refused princely blues; midnight had not yet decided that anthracite was necessary to calm his cloudburst shadows although he tried, so many stars could not be counted their brilliance stained the evening gloom in tones of silver shimmering ivory the hours brought peace, whispering pain subsided briefly, wine had bought its inebriating freedom temporarily, yet he waited until the dawn’s magenta would cover him in soft silk reminiscing praying it would thaw the ache of his grieving heart minutes of welcome oblivion before another day before oblivion [2009.23.7…ab?] inspired by Lynn McKenzie and Kåre Enga |
| calmly, she walks towards the golden bridge bathed in the afternoon’s rose-of-light auras towards golden auras, the afternoon bathed the bridge, calmly, she walks in light-of-rose still her strides lengthen, churning between rainbows and thunder claps which power her dreams churning, her power dreams clap and lengthen her strides which, between rainbows, still thunder peace filled with moonlight makes her heart summon life vibrant, she is the gate over waters reflecting hope from the bay she is filled with hope-reflecting life, moonlight over the bay her heart makes the gate summon peace from vibrant waters still, rose-of-light peace strides over the bay she is the water’s churning power which makes golden auras lengthen from her afternoon summons: hope, the bridge between thunder claps reflecting her dreams and the gate towards moonlight bathed in life, she walks her heart calmly filled with vibrant rainbows to run in the moonlight [2009.15.7...a] A paradelle for Catherine |
| inert, alert I watch in the darkness or whatever comes to disturb my dreams averting my sensations to the night's embers forcing me from sleep overt, subverting my peaceful status is filled with reverse impetus diverting the black shadows to the blinking red behind my still-closed eyes, immobility subverts images lets them revert to their monochrome status the expert diverts ‘twas a mere toggle in the night’s cinema the morning light will pervert my brain converting my self to the certitude that reality might be better (at least calmer) such an effort… averted [2009.11.7…a] |
| oh my dear, how I fear the black of night storms may rage, winds may blow oh dear black storms of may night how I fear my rage, may the winds blow unreal thoughts disturb my precious sleep nightmares threaten late evening's peace precious sleep! late evening's thoughts threaten nightmares disturb my unreal peace calm cannot arrive 'till dawn's early light bird call only echoes in the ominous dark only ominous bird call in dawn's early light cannot echo the dark, "till calm arrives in early evening's light, dark nightmares may rage oh how I fear ominous storms of sleep my unreal thoughts may blow black winds 'till the dawn's echo arrives late night cannot threaten the precious calm only bird call disturbs my dear peace night paradelle 7 july, 2006 Here I've decided to eliminate the repetition of the first and second lines, which, in the original form become the second and fourth lines of a six line stanza: a-b-cd here should be a-a-b-b-cd |
| he, the magnificent, pondered the purple weeds which called to a mischievous U-voo–La he knew it a strange name for pseudo-hobbit like creatures speaking flutter, who reincarnated after the ebony nightingale invasion, his forefather, daddy Jae-RR-Tee(OlkIn), thought he’d penned encyclopedic volumes defining all the half people speakeasies — but the muddy creature was neither quick as molten lightning spewing out of crumpled eggplant thorns mulched together for a wickedness tune nor cursed by the resultant lazy Ra-bbit-sTwo lethargic allergic reaction after eating snail soup antedotes so, in the aftermath, he, Gandolf the phoenixed, wondered at the hourly will-flowerness of folk-lorened speakeasies too quick to jammerslink with deceased moon walked rock idols, after all we are the one was never the best slogan against war and peace his feathers itched, like human counterparts with pso or such, tar brought the sleeping dreams potions were no longer relevant, staffable white streaks through the sky brought ill creatures to bloom with the night orchids, sand filled lakes and dunes of hoarfrost… ah, for the tales of a wandering troubadour phoenixed tales [2009.9.7…a] Written for Master Harper’s Second Challenge necessary words (or their phonetic equivalents…) Famous person - J.R.R. Tolkien Strong verb - flutter Common noun - lightning Uncommon noun - uvula Adjective - lethargic |
chastised for the images floating around a sweet-water mere surrounded by cattleya cattle traipsing over the delicate petals stop to drink occasionally in the deep ultramarine retired emeritus poets leave indelible imprints on nimble scholars and troubadours like hieroglyphs in musty tombs catalogued in library rooms filled with stuffy leather we, the pseudo-erudite photograph lochs of nestled purple pine happy retreats for antediluvian lake monsters though naming twilight’s stars is an obscure occupation like farming viridian lichen or dying leather fronds when wandering deep scented Peruvian forests or the Catalan vaqueros’ mountain homeland we have sought enlightenment, the sunlight leaves shadows in our need for undreamable dialogue where words are merely locked into the simplest expression orchids are only pretty exotic flowers northwestern tales [2009.3.7…d] inspired by written conversation with northernwrites |
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