Strive to be a 100-year-old oak tree
Jeff Baker
Jeff Baker
Jan 12, 2013      Jan 14, 2013

Whispers from the past
from something that did not last
Emotions that exist to coexist
like permanent ink on a list

My thought process spins in a circle
Yet it feels like I climb up a holy church hill
on a crusade to expel my enemy
that lurks in my pulsing, breathing anatomy

The evil inside, is a part of me
but balance must pursue like the land and sea
Mutualism between a clownfish and a sea anemone
Strive to be a 100-year-old oak tree

Of the 100-year-old glass
Coleman Curry Pinkerton

I watch the airplane,
Thirty-thousand feet above,
Disappear
And reappear
Between the gentle folds
Of the 100-year-old glass
In my windowpane

A low angled light,
Shot from the distant sun,
Finds its way between my red curtains
And forces my thoughts to bloom.

Sometimes I think of what is in the world,
And then what's in it for me,
And the desire wrenches my heart.
And it hurts,
Oh God, it hurts.
Hurts so that I might cry out,
But I hold my tongue.

r
r
Aug 25, 2013

I remember well
The creaking of
One hundred year old
Pine planked floor
And the ticking
Of the 100 year old clock
In my family's old home
Before the highwaymen
Took it with the widening
Of Highway 91
But Mom got her new house
Set back just a little
She loves it and new amenities
At least they didn't steal the barn
Or clock
But I miss the creaking and the ticking
Of my childhood home
On Highway 91
Across from Stoney Creek
My real home

I find comfort in the news
Be it typhoons or drones
I feel like a 100 year old Camus
For he was a miserable little raccoon
Or should I say Morrissey?
But the bipolar king is lost at sea!
I think of Sylvia Plath and her oven
Incinerated in a jar or in a coffin?

I will mention roses in a second
But first, wear your veil
May I eat your cheeks?
I’m your psychopath with style

We bathed in herbs together
The pale breasts that shone
A reoccurring dream of two moons
I believe in reincarnation
bosoms, as the lunar eyes of an owl

Stars, rain, coffee, cigarettes and music
Few clichés, I forgot about your roses
One day I’ll strike the balance
between rhymes and passion

Humble Poet
Humble Poet
4 days ago

Waking early
sipping tea on the porch
watching the ducks on the lake
reading the paper

Waking you up slowly
a little at a time
Making your favorite breakfast

A mid-morning stroll along the lake
feeding the ducks
throwing off our clothes
and jumping off the pier

You pack a basket
I hitch the carriage to the horses
and we go for a drive
on a long country road.

Under the Sweet Gum tree
you read poetry to me
on our blanket
I stroke your long hair
with your head in my lap

While I split wood for the fire
you make dinner
Fish I caught
vegetables you grew

Bubbles and candles
in a 100 year old bathtub

Popcorn and an old Hitchcock film

After making love
you fall asleep in my arms

The summer breeze
blows the sheer curtains
through the open window

is it strange that I miss these days?
#love   #fire   #day   #perfect   #cabin   #ducks  
Protégé
Protégé
May 25

You know I care about you.
That I would regret nothing with you.

If you told me to escape at the crack of dawn to some nowhere place-
I would not hesitate.
You have explanations far to reasonable, they seem idiotic-
but why contradict.

I'm not saying I have a one track mind and that you overpower it entirely.
All I'm saying is I don't mind.
Regret is just one thing I refuse to taint you with.

There are places I would go.
Things I would do.
Thousands upon millions of scenarios we can outplay.

Make new cliches and shatter the sky.
Decide if we believe in our constellations being perfectly aligned.
Then resolve to say everything we did was merely make believe.

I love you.
And I will regret nothing.
Our time together might stop-
so when you see me at tea for our 100 year old reunion,
remind me how amazing we lived.

Show me the images in a whirlwind.
Recount the adventures.
Tell me the secrets all over.
Since we're both good and sober now.

You don't have a one track mind, it's all more like branches.
You've regretted nothing except the lack of expansion and slow timing.

I care far too much for you to ever see you stuck.
And for exactly that reason I'll see to it that you never stop-
even if our 'us' does.

Please just go. Just leave and look back only when you're ready.
Del Maximo
Oct 26, 2010

she exists now in a dream state
unaware of the horror and the passage of time
wind rushes through broken panes
moaning mournfully
floors creak and door hinges speak
announcing her presence
this was her house
once a place of light and love
full of family and friends
cotillions resonating with music and dance
and lively conversation
a grand kitchen to prepare the feasts
of pheasant under glass
a gazebo for laughing in the rain
arbors for moonlit meetings with owls
a pond for lilies and croaking frogs
gardens for picking her favorite peonies
a nursery for her children
all this now nothing but ruins
from happiness to a home for bugs and bats
crawling with silverfish, centipedes and black widows
shrouded in cobwebs
drowning in dust
suffocating in stench of rotting wood and desolation
decorated with 100 year old bloodstains
she never saw her killer
never saw the spurting of her arteries
never heard her children’s screams and death rales
she sees her house as it was
and every night she roams the rooms
calling her children’s names in long, haunting whispers

© October 23, 2010

We were up all thru out the terrible night
sniffling like cocaine addicts
like sick little youth 1930's depression oh the Great
our fat lips hung like dying mosquitoes in the coming brothel of winter and her long scorched dress
that I inflamed with my Vietnam stolen lover zippo of gasoline
in a Sober frenzy of jealousy
now her Glare is angled narrowly at lust
tobacco
coughing up and down side ways in dreams as if I were a butterfly addicted to cigars

we were up all thru out the night
counting our skin cells
watching the television laugh at our faces
He sobbed “how the orange metallic streets
bent to our theatrical emotions on 12th street”
oh the glory of our thoughts and touch was ransom
was devil
was god
was god watching in his leather seat?
Wearing his glasses
reading the Bible?
Or does he read Russian Literature
or does he only read Latin

I and I were up all last night
guessing Morphine
using the Sister's pay-phone copper to connect with silly 3 eyed hipster hookers
their eyes wide and green with white salt like a dirty lake
that you stumble upon drunkardly with a laughing Angel
High on Cough Syrup and mortality
amused
exhilarated
passion-ated by this new opportunity for Adventure's drawback which is death or Boredom

MY innocents
is deteriorating with Age
like the alcoholic richness of 100 year old Wine
sadly
money monday
didn't go to church
hope that lady with wisdom in her hands forgives me

then I ate
now I starve
clutching at the windows
painting a boy staring at me

wondering if I were real
As I wonder if his thoughts are my own

We were up all night
translating the moon's shadows and hiccups into finger paintings and strep throat.

past the 100-year-old tree
Raj Arumugam
Raj Arumugam
Oct 11, 2010

a strange day
it was full of strangers
when I went for a walk
with my spouse by my side


past the junction
a stranger shouted out to me:
“Help me!”
and I said quite readily:
“But I need help myself –
so how can I help you?”
and I continued on my walk
wondering at this strange world


past the 100-year-old tree
an octogenarian stopped me
and he said:
“Son, can you tell me which way
to Harvey’s Street?”
and I said to him:
“I don’t know Harvey
and so I don’t know his street;
and by the way, maybe you don’t know,
but I’m not your son….”

and past Kangaroo Point
a cheery stranger all teeth
he shouted to me:
“Good day!”
“Oh, great!” I shouted back.
“You may be having a good day
but I’m having a strange day,
I’ll tell you that!”

And past the Greehimn River
a helpless old lady said:
“Ah, kind man, could you pick up
that walking stick for me?
it’s mine and a young man
just now kicked it off my right hand”


And I said with no second thought:
“Oh, old woman
pick it up yourself;
your back is already bent
so half the effort is already there -
and you think I walked all the way here
so I can pick up a walking stick
for a strange old woman I don’t even know?”


and I turned to my spouse
who was with me
all the while and I said:
“Hmmm…what a strange day
with all these strangers…”
and my spouse answered speedily:
“Who are you, creepy stranger?
Why do you talk to me?”
And straight my spouse
walked off from me…


Hmmm…and indeed a strange day it was
with all these strangers one meets
and who walks so close beside

Savio
Savio
Apr 15, 2013      Apr 15, 2013

A dream over due
1999
september
it is august
the flies are insects
growing the Vice apple between the graying chicago winter fern of the vagina
towering
empty parking lot super market trees
brown
baige
negro and autumn
skin like apple sauce
dancing inside the mirror of Lust and his Sister Fresno California
On a Payphone
At a Fuel Station
Lights all Blue
Lights all dull
dullified by the gasoline
the cigarette butts that collect in the mouths of mountain saints
Capture Zen
Burn all the books that led you too led poisoning

I am Van Gogh
Scrapping off the dried paint of my walls
of my women
naked in my bed of a hope factor

I am going insane
and the stars do not mind
the Clouds seem to be careless
Vagabond seasonal weather Kansas

Everybody is on the Train
headed to Dreams
100 dollars a ticket
Give me your Wallet
your Sister
your Sins
your nights and your day-shadows bouncing off walls and mailboxes like school-boy toys
your
you're
Insight
Outsight
Farsight
Downsight
Glancing at the peripheral French Decedent girl with black hair
hair black like wet once lit cigarettes

God, smoking a cigar made in The Ol' Great West of timber and the elderly gasping away their lives as a window sits neatly with tundra flowers
and a cacti that never dies
Winter comes in a Van
Full of soup
Full of the Dead Children of Days on in
Full of Dogs with rabies
Full of Cheap women
who gave up on 7:30
and washed their hands in the juices of an Apple Eve sank her yellow teeth into

Savage
Savage

Headlights heading towards Home
Towards Late-Night Television

Oven on

God and Satan
Spooning on the water bed of America
America the great
America the greed
America the want

America the me
you
her
Dog
Pigeon on the side street of NYC push town till suit bye Death

Coffin constructed of Iron and Filled with Wine
Coffin made by a young man sitting in his jacket
smoking a neat cigar
smoking with Gin
Gin
Gin
Gin
The Fireplace is where we may have made Love
But the Heat was ours
and the Torn down back door back yard Tall 100 year old Tree
has left
only a Stump
A beginning of its sprout from a seed
to a Giant
to a home for Birds and Flies and ants and rodents

I am in the Tower
Drinking your Whiskey
Drinking the lipstick of a woman who has nothing to do
so she falls in love with the Shadows of night bricks
of City Street Walls and streets
Swerving
entwining
Curving
Doubting
Ditching

Like love it self
Left out in the Sun
Left with the cacti of Old Age
old hands and old eyes that quiver like melting ice in the 90 degree Texan weather

We run to the fountain of Youth
but the gates are closed
The Pool boy quit his Job
and now the water in contaminated

Drink Vinegar
Drink Chlorine
Clear the mind
the hairs on your chest
the Teeth in between your Chin and Lips

It is no Longer Time
it is no Longer Past
Future
Clean
Dirty
Washed
Murdered by a knife

It is no longer 1AM
and the Sky wants me to wake up

But the Coffee Machine is crooked and only works if I hold it at an angle

Goodbye Crows of Brooklyn
I'll be on the payphone collect call to subconscious

I'll be on the road
traveling with my hair
traveling with Life
traveling with Destiny and Hope and Emily Tennessee

5 dollars a gallon

 
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