I don’t really know who you are.
Kids use you like a monkey bar.
You let them bask in your cool shade.
All of this without being paid.
A tree, unappreciated.
To this dull life, you are fated.
Unknown, unloved, longing for change.
You are limited in your range.
Dear tree, I now know who you are.
Your love shines as bright as a star.
They'll try to shake you; don't be swayed.
If you fall, I will be dismayed.
Give up? I'll be devastated.
Be more than you're estimated.
While although they might call you strange,
do not become disarranged.
Dear tree, you are big, strong, and tall.
Do not let them be your downfall.
i feel like someone else
i cant remember, though
these bones paint a picture
that i know i've seen before
i can see, curiously
all the fallen leaves beneath my feet say,
"hey, i've got a real big thing to show you"
i'm lookin through the trees
and they're talkin back to me
they're sayin things that show me how it needs to be
and i'm lookin into me
and i see things i dont quite understand
but i'll be damned, if i dont dig deeper
this looks like somewhere else
it seems so familiar, oh
and with the breath of a dragon
when the wheel of a wagon
gets a turnin dontcha know the world just keeps goin' round
i'm lookin through the trees
and they're talkin back to me
they show me why to question, who i seem to be
and i'm falling into me
and feeling things i cant quite comprehend
but in the end, it'll all come back to me
The house was big,
Too big for a divorced family of four.
It had sickly, pale yellow siding
With cracking paint and a long archway
That led to a round, asphalt-covered
Most days the trees
That rolled out into the little valley
Alongside it were barren and spiny,
And you could see through them, all
The way to the quiet road that cut
Through the growing houses
If you were lucky, you would have seen
A few kids shooting airsoft guns,
Running through the fallen leaves,
Leaping atop all the muddy mounds of dirt
Next to the creek, but they
Have lost contact
If you were to climb up the little green hill
That rose just next to the mouth
Of the house’s driveway,
Cresting along the edge of the cul-de-sac,
You would see a greenhouse,
Brown, with splotches of dirt
On the windows.
If you opened its flimsy door,
Which was usually locked,
You would see all the uncut tomato plants,
All the sage and spices,
And you would probably wonder
Why they were not harvested
But the people who owned it
Usually bought their groceries
Rather than grew them.
The dark pines outside my home
as dark as they are tall
they hide what they won’t show
dark at noon as dark as midnight
They hide a little bit of me
a good bit of you, but not us all
they hide what I don’t want known
dark secrets held in our hearts dark
There among the tall dark pines
bones green with moss and leaf fall
they lay there, but hid, overgrown
dark roots entangle bones half-buried
These pines sway only on dark winds
winds that blew like that sawblade time
when you tried to go from me, to go to him
dark words met dark mind met dark dirt
Three years now, they fed on your dark
my dark, three dark anniversaries mine
your bones there hid, but I can still feel the sin
dark past there hid, now in dark trees eternal
Those dark pines outside my home
so dark they won’t let moonlight shine
I gotta stay, make sure it stays dim
make sure the night stays hid in these dark pines
In the hue of a spring afternoon,
Where the bright whites splotched
Saturated with oranges and yellows,
The blur of green bled through,
And came into focus, came into view.
Sat there, in front of the house,
Bottom-framed with stone,
The tree itself stood by
In all its humble roots.
He came to know every family that moved
In and out over the years,
And through all strengths of weather he stayed
To live another day; day after day.
It was around this time of year, however
The waving breeze flips and turns around his leaves
On the branch ends with a knowing gesture.
The orange and yellow sunlight rays flicker through
Projecting its shadowed figures across the trunk,
And the light show in between.
The tree enjoyed it all,
The only time of the year it saw itself again.
And it would only see itself again, day after day,
Day after day.
I can't read all the books,
or be all the people,
or live all the lives.
But I can feel every tone,
shade and hue,
and every variation.
Fill my lungs with mountains,
and grass and skies.
Watch my life branch out like
a moreton bay fig.
Here comes lonely
and I'll feel every tone,
and shade and hue.
There's no way out of my head,
so I'll devour the rain,
beautiful and annihilating,
full and terminal.
shade and hue.
It could be the comprehensive blow
of short sharp needles to my torso,
or the merciless ache
of looking at a sunflower with one eye shut,
or the unrelenting urgency to walk
the map of another.
there are spaces,
where leaves use to be,
and now afternoon air moves between,
and there are dusty birds,
who flutter to the sound of the rain.
It's cold here, but it heightens her senses. The rustle of the wind in the fallen leaves and the crash of waves on a distant shore tell her she's at home. But this dream is a lie. There is a huntsman on her tail. His mark is untraceable. But to her it's undeniable. He is here. Silent, patient and resolved, her would-be captor knows her as his own reflection. She is aware of intentions, but also of his hesitation. So, in spite of being in his sights, she paces on. Steady, her gaze remains ahead. And though the ranks of cypress trees pass one by one, for what seems to be eternity, the search for her moon moves her on.
not lost because only those
who choose to be lost
are the ones who feel most free.
not found because those who
find themselves stranded on mountains
peaks that steep with cliffs
so brief they threaten to
collapse the body with snow.
But dirt tends to cling
to those who dare
themselves to fall
hitting pine trees
and mulberry bushes
hearing buzzing bees
and small white thrushes.
Pressed perfect leaflet papers
printed in black-and-white.
Squares of thin tree bark
scattered on the table.
Your warm, rough hands
fitted in tight gloves.
Your wide smile
teeth like pearls all
clustered nicely and
I can't help but swell
a bit inside
the twist of your lips
and the flicks of your eyes
with a nose that changes
shape in the light.
But it's not your face
that intrigues but
the organ in between
the space of skull
called a brain
which you use, delightfully so
expansive and ever expanding.
You have an eager fondness
for learning and retaining information
and it arouses me.
Like the frailty
of those printed papers
your knowledge like
a streamline submarine
diving through dark waters
slippery and unafraid
to get wet.