Tag Archives: Trees

Aftereffects Of Fire

Here, where fire once raged

Our voice is diminished

As if our speech leaves through

Lungs weighing only of paper

And this trail we have carved

To stand next to old giants

With charred arms

Comes with symbols and words

Revealing deepened ruts

A string of infinite finites

 

With sunburnt shoulders

We watch the eyeless sun

That harsh gardener….

Pierce through a ghost canopy

Wishing to reclaim its spent dust

Thinking only of its collection

….Cold baubles of gravity

 

All witnessed by the moon

Who never blinks once

While we lay naked

Underneath its glow

In several forms of desire

Waxing, waning,

Silver, blue, and crescent

Its face constantly upon us

 

That burning face in the night

We claim as eternal muse

And use as fire for the poetic

Inventing expressions

To lay upon Luna, leading us

To scramble and patch together

scrapings and scratches

Producing representations

Of a once noble fir

Which lies deep in our lush memories

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Fall And All

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Photo by Andre Gide

“This sun is beating down too hot, too early. Can’t you see how this new spring is fooling the trees? They like it at first, unfurling their leaves in premature green, then July hits and they think it’s September. It’s so much like us. Sometimes, I swear we build things before thinking about repercussions. Because…

Everything is alive with voices, exploding early. Spring is turning into gibberish. I wait for summer to simmer things down. It’s difficult to focus on one voice. But, if you can single one out, it tells you something passionate in a way you’ve never heard before. I listen to your voice. Can you listen to mine? Because…

I wish I could touch you like the sun, with a heat hotter than you’ve ever experienced. But, no one can touch all the time. There is a quietness, a moon, the black universe. The sun is not letting us rest. Because…

We need clouds. I don’t want a whole bunch of clouds all at once, just a few in phases. Let the trees have their green for a while, before they fall into mounds. Our kisses remain wet. We build our lives with consideration.”

Distant Trees Know No Names

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The look feels the distance, travelling

Upon waves of heat, blurring perception

Future weeks are lost in the haze

I am the lost street, blocks scrape my skin

And cannot be disconnected, unplugged

 

I am only electricity, a time excuse

For the ways and means of my light

Watts and bulbs burn, emotion cauterized

A tangy burnt metal, my night’s tongue

Distance buried somewhere in the Wild

 

I am a head full of wilderness, burning

Firebreak drawn in the dirt, to distance

Flames from jumping, tree to tree

Body spits, sizzles and cracks blood

Paints my face a fallen gravel dance

 

The gutters sweep me into the drain

One slippery finger on the grates

I am the one who sees you pass by me

Your anger trailing behind you

Mine always, always forced into distance

 

You grab the coniferous branches

They regularly snap back in place

April makes no difference. Deciduous

Always the cruelest month for words

I am the distance of winter, city birthed

 

Distant trees know no names

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Word Knots

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Span of index, arms weakened

Rambles upon wrinkles, I am

Pressed between Earth and

Air…..Flow upon my continent’s

Systems, scattered over ranges

 

Puddles flirt with thirst, Lakes,

Mock the drought of my

Throat, Reservoirs dribble…

For My body is a gathering

Of harvests from the oncoming

Winter, the divining rod dust

Only Scent lingers, eternal pine

 

I look to the snow, Taste

The season, a melted past of

Garnished greens, grays, and suns

 

Hearty robin, ever alive, steam

Floating from her beak, Nest

Built of water, sticks, and mud

Her Feathers, wisdom’s movement

Lay upon my words, a slow worm

Snagged from frosty grass

Scrawled black upon the field

Desert letters made of tree knot

 

Symbols smeared / slants of rain

The blue, blue liquid cleanses

Meaning, shot out of innards

The words, worms always

Cut in two, the clay I am

 

My eyes, lids nearly glued shut

Begging for preservatives

Or the relieving thought of

A connection to moisture

That will keep words moving

My wet hand through dirt.

Pain rides up between thumb

Finger, Palm and Lifeline.

My arm is silent, swollen.

 

 

 

Language is oil now, dug

Dug, deep under my nails