abjectness is a form of inroads
toil the Woodlands Trust
all hail no coppiced beeches,
my first sighted R.S.P.B Avocet
the perplexed scale comparable
to competing blank stares,
clueless and unconscionable
suffers Nature's either
this stranger's words on my screen
reminding me of me
In my stomach, a sinking
In my chest heavy. Shoulders
want to crunch into each other
want to erase
leans bone into back
back-bent behind birds and beeches
Dreaming for seasons, I
miss the sun
miss the days I numbed myself while it was cloudy
even with a good chance of clearing up before noon, I
in your words
don't remember any of them
The flavor of my thoughts
What do you say to the corpse that is lying in your grave?
You learn to accept that you're still here.
You look yourself in the mirror and decide each day that you'll
shake love out of your living limbs
into the earth
with each step.
You become grateful for the beat.
move with me
Living is beautiful. Beauty is loving what you see for what it is.
I love you for what you are
because I've come this far.
that you are beautiful
And spread love with every step
I knew a man once who could read the trees
He'd stand in a field with nothing on
And look at them for hours
(He couldn't talk to flowers)
But he would pour over every branch
Trace every knot and feel their bark
He translated a sycamore for me once
But oaks and beeches were his favourite
He said he just preferred their type.
The elbow bends told him of seasons
The trunk's tilt told the prevailing winds
Their denseness in relation to their neighbours
Told him all manner of gossipy things.
The colours and the hues told of the soil
The moulds and lichens the local fashions
He'd tell you if they'd ever been frightened
By hippies, chainsaws, axes or lightening.
And as I looked on, I realised something
As I read his naked body with no clothes
This man was obviously a stark raving lunatic.
The sun exits, ever so slowly,
down behind the heights of bursting-into-leaf beeches
as gym-shoe-running children
are called in to supper and to bed.
Voices sound from balconies and neighbours' gardens
while blackbirds bid, contentedly, the day farewell.
Lawnmowers cease their whirring sounds
and clippers, rakes and hoes clank in wooden or plastic sheds.
Fragrances roam the evening air,
invading every square metre with terrestial joy,
and cigarettes are passed around
as the face next door has ceased
being a removed nod and smile.
Eventually, the curtains are drawn on a happy ending
while tentative talk succeeds in silencing
any riotous upheavals that might occur
in the night's discourses and dreams.
Sing in love to the world!
That mystery is from the shadows hurled!
Into darkness and into light!
May in harmony we unite!
Sing a song of woe and gloom
that ever emphasizes our painful doom!
Let joyous ponds with lilies fair
entwine with nature and Nature's hair!
Let silver streams of moonlight clear
enlighten us on our unending fears!
May together the night and the sky
bring love and joy that cannot die!
May tunes high strung and beeches far
bring joy to us!
From Gaia the Fair!