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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. )) |
| winter ends slowly with spring-like sunshine a single crocus bursts forth, a robin searches for twigs nourishing new hope, remembering life 1) winter ends slowly a single crocus bursts forth nourishing new hope 2) with springlike sunshine a robin searches for twigs remembering life the month inbetween [2009.28.2…a] A Cleave Poem, using two haiku february fog, white puffy cloudburst too close to my window sill I see tiny snowflake stains wet winter wonders like flurries of stars 1) february fog too close to my window sill wet winter wonders 2) white puffy cloudburst I see tiny snowflake stains like flurries of stars on a saturday morning [2009.28.2…b] A Cleave Poem, coupled haiku |
a zest of elsewhere pinched with ticklish reality you laugh, but your eyes betray your desire only to kiss their sweltering spiciness tells me chapters of betrayal, verses of passion and to be protected against desertion and here before you I stand unable to promise you a moon which orbits tranquilly around your inner and outer beauty filled with your zeal for life a gusto for tomorrow’s extravagance that my stagnant tears of sorrow cannot quell a zest of something [2009.27.2…c] |
| When David heard that Absalom his beloved son, his flesh-of-flesh was slain he went numbed now to the bone up into his chamber in a place where only emptiness mattered over the gate and wept; death consumed his paternal tears and thus he said as he walked choking leaded words from a deadened soul: "My son, O my son, “How can fate steal my son’s heart from me oh Absalom my son, how can I not pray for your liberation would God that my loss go not unrevenged and I had died for thee, that your ethereal soul claims my empty life, oh Absalom my son, my son my beloved son…” my son, my son [2009.26.2…b] A Cleave Poem Now a Static Item: "Invalid Item"  by A Guest Visitor based on II Samuel, 18:33 See "The Cleave Poem" for a few explanations about the particular form of this poem. I've taken a liberty in the required, so to speak, presentation. |
| the wooden pews are empty of human attachment the gods have descended one too many times and people no longer believe, I know I no longer do believe, in warmth for my cold hands to hover in hope the love that another man fields like a stray ball cannot land plumply in his open hand tomorrow, another empty day, will the bells ring louder than they did as a child when I could still dream of believing? many men have tried to step in your invisible gait I have waited peacefully for your likeness to appear, godlike, worshipping at my feet the good book is covered in dust, it sits, forgotten in an old maple desk, in the top drawer, nonetheless so many people have told me about believing, telling me that this word is gospel, as if I cannot think or feel, for myself, the hidden messages in words centuries old, messages from those who were closer to a place then resembling heaven I cry, because the greatness I feel around me does not surround me in warmth, my heart is cold the church is empty now, after you have left it taken, born on strong shoulders I never knew to be placed in the ground where heaven begins I would return to this place of worship to mourn my place exists somewhere I have never discovered it was never close to your heart, your love your life, like true belief, had outcast my timid attempts, my feeble budding love, when I fled the reflection of my face in the stained glass visions of life conquering death on your gravestone I will never cry, it occupies a place in my imagination where love's faith blossoms on cold winter days when the light shines low... empty wooden pews [2009.24.2…b] inspired by Morten Lauridsen's Lux Aeterna the latest poem in the ALB, JR Poems |
waking to walk towards tomorrow’s lights found across the bay San Francisco's promises she joins those who endure where hope means yet another year I hear her song, unencumbered joining all so many voices who will run, not walk towards the path of survival from a dream [2009.24.2...a] © alfred booth for Catherine D. |
| Untitled for the time being. A quick sketch for Kåre's blog today. Inspired by the painting he selected for his plog. his white marble eyes, unseeing blinded by time's grazing overlook a blue upon turquoise vista of twisted clouds, mottled sea grass and yellowness as bright as any sunray maybe the village below remembers him when he was a mere mortal poet before he left a stamp on colored verse stealing the variety from nature's clemency and penned immortality as wisely as any sculptor caresses dried earth [2009.17.2...a] © alfred booth |
dreamlessness lacking outlined 3-dimensionality deep and shallow shadows seeps weeping and sallowed, I’ve flat-lined again heartlessness nearing an end, appearing as a round trip on a one-way street bookmarked in time missing — lacking seconds on one confirming my demise does this resemble unconsciously (the artful monastic ramblings of heaven) (or the nimble thwartfullness of hell?) lifelessness S-nesses [2009.13.2…a] Ã la cummings |
| I have no fear of losing the sun and moon in the merry-go-round of Saturn's rings my dreams predict planetary explosions cataclysmic meteor showers of apocalyptic finality no, I have no fear I gaze no longer at shooting stars their wishes are for simpletons though the promise contained in the Milky Way keeps the world's population prudently believing in destiny and its jokes — instead I write haiku about the planets drowning on the sands of time in a stark thirst only fate's tears can quench when I found them — the golden and silver orbs — I was bathed in childlike innocence and fairground carousels a favored occupation on a saturday afternoon but afterwards, on sundays we read the good book and frightened of godly disapproval believed still the astronomer's tales that Saturn's diaphanous rings were like cotton candy, albeit food for the gods no, I did not fear losing the sun and the moon which contained a false sense of calm before the birth of a volcano's smoke and the sick acid tears ruining the land a smoldering hellfire just under the surface as a child I still believed in merry-go-rounds and their innocent magic that, I never learned to fear fears in the good book [2007.16.11...d] Part of the original Merry-go-round poems "Invalid Item" by A Guest Visitor |
| on this cold winter’s day I stand barefoot on a narrow balcony looking out through eyes blurred by emotion seeking an unknown part of my past six floors below and four thousand five hundred miles away — the place where you rest — my tears dripping on the grass mix imperceptibly with the falling snow and the vapor coming from chimneys on nearby buildings and houses I perceive only the whiteness your world of angels timeless and pure on this cold winter’s day, not unlike the morning eleven months ago when they put you in the ground I can finally begin to recite, in a choked whisper a hundred volumes of sweet verse I never shared and let my heart beat steadily with the celestial rhythms of mourning and show you the depths of its sentiments hidden for the lifetime that has separated us a lifetime away [2009.8.2…a] Another poem in the series written for my late father. |
a sweet song of another man tipped me over the iceberg, your voice never said I loved you so much, leaving a trail of emptiness a volcano of pain, thunderstorms of need I was shattered you were blind to my light to the beauty of its illumination my rocky path of enlightenment was not softened to fine white sand by your presence at my side towards that light my companions were loneliness and tears yet I have survived without you though I loved you so much so much love [2009.6.2...a] for Mandy for Ken for a six-year-old boy I knew well |
| Several poems in the Ginsberg American Sentence style, after today's blog entry in "Invalid Item" by A Guest Visitor Aside from the rain pitter-pattering, my green tea has gotten cold. My electric kettle could cure my thirst for hot liquids, or so I’m told. Alas, opening its top, I am appalled to discover its surface covered in mold. green tea [2009.3.2…a] They dream of new fangled telephones, modern ways to keep love alive. They whisper, they fondle love songs, this is their virtual vocal jive. They will prevail, today’s Gloria Gaynor proof that love will survive. telephone blues [2009.3.2…c] When his pain vanishes, sunlight can stream through the dirty window panes. Clicking his heels together, he discovers himself freed of his chains. They have rusted in springtime’s stormy rains, paradise now starts to reign. pain-killers [2009.3.2…d] Welcome to a world where sexy creatures read poetry in the bath. Covered in luxuriously scented lather, who cares about math? Serious subjects should be avoided when lovers talk in the bath. romantic subject matters [2009.3.2…b] |
rivers flow and ripple orchards grow sweet ripeness no words do I hear, though a dancing melody now guides my lonely heart daylight is a hymnal igniting fervent hues the hours tick peacefully as I stroll, wandering towards my late fatherland meadows boast rainbow scents mountains host white-capped dreams I don my hearty shoes farther than tomorrow is where I’ll find my hearth going home [2009.31.1...a] This started off in the Irish "snam suad" form, but it became too restrictive. There are still the rhymes in the first two lines of each quatrain, although they have now become internal rhymes from one line to the other. Also, the fourth lines now contain three-syllable words. I've added a syllable structure, nonetheless. It has nothing to do with the form that inspired the poem's birth. |
wheezing, even after Purple Mountain's majestic teas, thirty-seven steps later the sun too is nowhere to be found he dropped the book close to Twilight on the first floor landing, it melted in moonlight's watery reflections where all the geraniums are frozen even the plastic flowers he put there to decorate the withered stems have wilted... wheezing resonates in his cozy room like the hope of a fast-growing amaryllis spurs spring to outlive the snow and the cold hearts wearing dragon pendants flowers on the sill [2009.27.1...a] |
quiet, my heart! soft rain is in the air, clouds heavy and oppressive quiet sounds surround the morning, as sleep seduces my humble self quiet blessings that music and paradise titillate my senses quiet, let me lose myself deep within fleeting scenes of words and dreams quiet zone [2009.26.1…a] For KÃ¥re Nothing dreamlike about sitting in the sun, baking till lobster red. The hospital nurses are cute, even seen through puffy swollen eyes. Lots of T.L.C. once safely home; no seafood tonight dear. cause and effect [2009.25.1...a] |
| zoom to find OM, relaxing with the giraffes and eagles who no longer soar high... but our hearts, they soar they zoom when we love [2008.15.1...a] |
they stand steadfast cast in copper alloys toys for dictatorships clip the heart from the earth birthing wars of supremacy seas of hatred red is the color of blood-spill until steeled soldiers replace humanity insanity, blasphemous claims aimed at proving religion is an engine for ultimate peril carols sung for the planet’s death bereft… Agamemnon [2009.11.1…a] no more tears of laughter from the chosen Ambrosian fields of paradise eyes with less and less twinkling mirth birth an inkling of distrust rusting away the people’s good humor more emotional craze praise brings awards for thoughts of eradication nations are lost and dispossessed jest not against harmony swaying peace increase this endless strife a knife for Jerusalem mayhem caused by man’s belligerence fences made from gunpoint become prisons sons plot for the survival of the ancient clans hand over Palestine? “for Thine is the kingdom…” alas Jerusalem [2009.11.1…b] For Inspirations, prompt n° 2 “swaying peace” |
| slipping, almost unbalanced an ungainly glissade sends her toppling spread-eagled on the winter-colored pavement the sting of tears freezes her cheeks as ungraciously plopped up on elbows trying to appear dignified she calls out to a well-bundled passerby cushioned in bright fleece and down but equally unsteadily footed tumbling in less comfortable conditions her would-be rescuer, nimble and fit, ends up equally bent out of shape covered by snowfall and frustration after hot chocolate, bruised egos fading they will laugh, for bundled so tightly her knight in slippery armor an acquaintance of her youth, now an out-of-town gymnastics champion divorced for the second time she for the first maybe love can take the sting from the icy hand of winter tumbling on the ice [2009.8.1…b] written for "Inspirations", prompt 4 — icy hand of winter I know your aching heart parting sorrow, leaving you here, veering about without cheer austere, bereft, to be left behind pining in unspeakable chagrin spinning in folly after our last kiss bliss blushing red each cheek soon streaked, tear stained with regrets fretting a tight hold on my emotions shunning time to I say I love you too often, you have refused to believe me used to my disappearing, again, when I break your heart our last blissful kiss [2009.10.1...a] written as an Echo Verse blinded by tears, into the night I wander, alone surprised by your love’s sudden flight, I ponder, alone there was a time I knew about illumination in my ignorance, I tried to fight yonder, alone I sequester my heart under the weeping willow in the shadows of moonlight, I am bolder, alone my dreams foretell harmony from heartbreak, now I wake clamoring in dawn’s misty off-white splendor, alone tears forgotten, I return to await Cupid once more dressed in the cloth of love’s rites I embroider alone solitary embroidery [2009.10.1…b] a ghazal written for Inspirations, prompt 7 - into the night I wander |
| is there anything more beautiful than your eyes telling me of your love? we chink glasses of champagne, exchange solemn words for the new year omitting our private resolutions but nothing is more important than that look of love coming from the depths of your eyes another first day [2009.1.1...a] |
roses aren't always red although the well bred among us have bled on their thorns, shed tears, (like forget-me-nots on a cold winter's night) when, alone in bed shadowy dreams tread on the golden threads of a troubadour's happiness, read and accepted, these honors, he said acceptance dread [2008.31.12...a] Written for Ken's blog today all identity can only confine me pre-defining my heart as it outlines my soul in clichéd verse terse words that proove only that I groove with rhyme climbing higher towards the discovery of who hides behind the face in the mirror.... questions of identity [2008.31.12...b] the closing speech of The Troubadour's Golden Digest, 31 december, 2008 |
melancholic funks can only fix little dabs of mourning while the early sunlight gathers strength in our souls ghosts disappear slowly unwillingly for our hearts are the hearths where their wispiness lingers so we shed our quiet tears maintaining a dreary vigilance over fond memories which never seem to get caught in the winter snows, rarely warmed by midnight cups of steaming coffee mocha colored ghosts [2008.30.12...a] inspired by RainbowApple's blog this morning I am not motionless I stand, teetering, waiting for the image to fade no prayer voiced with mercy ever grants release to my weary heart I let minutes pass, hours float, then days nothing remains the same behind my blurred visions in the mirror, I wonder how early morning fog can meet the steaming shower bringing a wet melting sensation to my eyes any apprehension I had is stuck in the haze of my reflection there is no poise of majesty a slumping stranger stares back at me each morning thick sickly mint drips from the toothpaste stained mouth where musk stained words can no longer escape the froth of my insanity morning fright [2008.30.12…b] First draft of a poem for Stormy's Newsletter |
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