Palms Stain Green

Posted on June 1, 2015 by

50 Comments

 

 

dried leaves garden history ferdinand olivier1

There is a roughness

A quiver, that tells things

The redness of spring cherries

Leaves, autumn raked.

Ears pick up the vibration

Voices attempt to emulate

But, it is the rumbling

Palms search for

The noise is subject to a tilt

A wobble, soft rocking

Oceans become glued in place

Only waves leap up

To embrace the shoreline, littered

With broken shells, agates

Bare feet and seaweed

Who move not by spin alone

Nighttime sand is searched

With the closest flashlight

We women are magnets

We men are magnetized

The land shrinks beneath

Feet insecure, toes curl

Docks built from dunes

Stretch out, onto the curve

The grating nails of wind

Ruffles summer grass

Is a sound never lost

During the length of dry dirt

No blade grows alone

Even if it wants to

Sprouts are wet when bitten

Palms stain green

A dampened grasp plants…

Rows, forming the finite

Tops of trees like spikes, sting

Glaciers melt inside the clasp

Flooding a string of rush hours

Our voices squirt out, parched

Between brittle clay fingers

And electric car windows

Canals are rerouted, rooted to

Fields of elongated greenness

Who chase the trapped sea

Lining the new desert in fur

They die before the kiss is felt

Sucked into concrete basements

Reserved for future invoices

Love can no longer get wet

There is a roughness

A humming, that tells things

The nakedness of new petals

The thump of ripened apples

Touch feels for the arc of the wave

The song is already memorized

But, it is the rhythm

Bones search for

dried leaves garden history julius schnorr1

Category: PoetryTags: , , , , , , , ,

50 Comments on “Palms Stain Green”

  1. You write really well, as I’ve said before. I love the title *palms stain green*.
    The poem fills one up with an unexpected and sense of familiarity which I think is a very precious thing in this vast world.

    Like

  7. I thinks it’s the diction you use and the darker atmosphere, I don’t know why but that’s what popped into my head.. Regardless it’s a great work, I enjoyed it.

    Like

  9. specially these lines-

    “Love can no longer get wet

    There is a roughness

    The song is already memorized

    But, it is the rhythm

    Bones search for”
    though others are equally amazing!

    Like

  11. Pingback: rivrvlogr

  14. Holy Stein!
    I think you are telling me you write somewhat in this theory. I seem to recall a line similar to “the difference is spreading” in your work but couldn’t find it. If not on the right track, give me another prompt to get me on track.

    In the meantime:

    A Hand Biscuit, that is a Palm

    A kind in flesh and a cousin, a pillow and nothing strange a single doughy color and an arrangement in a system to sitting. All this and quite ordinary, not unordered in not resembling. The difference is spreading.

    And chocolate and age are to blame.

    Like

  18. Beautiful. Visual. I love this and find I agree with all the amazing comments left by other’s here too! Thank you for your WORDS! =)

    Liked by 1 person

  19. I like that you think of a song. Walt Whitman’s “I Sing The Body Electric” has always had a profound affect on me. That poetry is a language of rhythm. Can rhythms communicate? I think so.

    Liked by 2 people

  25. I like the “The land shrinks beneath, Feet insecure, Toes curl…”
    it is very visually empathetic, you visibly see the land going away you feel it beneath your feet and yet your feet still remain only your toes are able to begin to remove themselves, you should go but the beauty of it is you just dont.

    Like

  26. LOL. It’s kind of like doing, what’s it called, were you run really fast for part of a lap, then slow down, so you can build up your fast twitch muscles.

    Liked by 1 person

  31. Ok, then. After further study, here is my shorthand response. I am having way too much fun. Stopping now.

    Fiddle heads
    Dew beads
    Porch swings
    Fire works
    Smoke signals
    Camel

    Beaches sand
    Can Crete?
    Towers rise
    Moons phase
    Castles fall
    Ivy

    Lather
    Rinse
    Repeat

    Liked by 1 person

  35. Oops. Did not mean to send that yet. What that means is that I am not sure I understand. So maybe I will try to figure out before nagging you to explain. Probably be good for me.

    Like

  38. This poem is beautiful and captures so much in its words. I always like to have dirt under my nails and green grass stains on knees, this is what gardening means to me! Smiles, Robin

    Like

  39. No blade grows alone, even if it wants to..I think of John Donne “no man is an island…” Love your writing as always..

    Like

  41. “Barthes concludes that an ideal text is one that is reversible, or open to the greatest variety of independent interpretations and not restrictive in meaning.”

    Liked by 1 person

  42. You are correct. Nature must be allowed to ebb and flow as needed. There are reasons why Nature ebbs and flows and We are foolish to believe We can forcibly lock Nature in. Foolish of Us to lock Rivers into only one River Bed and forget that Fault Veins run under both sets of River Beds. Even more foolish for Us to steal Water from The Earth and expect Nature to Survive. Your words are Wise.

    Liked by 1 person

  44. Roland Barthes, when speaking about visuals,said there are non-coded images and coded images that can be represented by the same reproduction. Advertisers use them all the time. All you have to do is find an ad in a glossy magazine and there they are, sitting right in front of you. Perhaps, the uneasiness you feel about agates and shells so close together, then the comfort you feel about cherries and apples, is an example of the same thing? Interesting take on the poem as usual, my friend.

    Liked by 2 people

  45. Something about putting agates so close together with seashells and seaweed feels jarring to me, and it bothers me. Maybe because I grew up agate hunting during summer vacations on the shore of Lake Superior, and your poem does’t feel like my beach. On the other hand, I love, love the thumping of the apples! True to life, and I can smell them sun-ripened and juicy falling to the ground. I like the spring cherries too. I love the delicate sour ones which ripen earliest.
    Will have to return to it later and try to understand it better.

    Like

  50. It’s when reading things such as *this* that I feel I should stop writing altogether because others do it so much better 🙂 Not that I will stop writing, it’s as necessary to me as breathing, but….very, very nice 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

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