amber leaves whispering at my feet
and the trees old and young
white bark with black scars
I try to look for you
but you hide like wind
and I listen to the rustle of our home,
from me as always
from someone getting older
your kisses swim in the air that I can smell
and the scents of forest floor
my dress is made of petals
that are all browning with age
like my eyes
I wore the cold like your breath on my mouth
and your quiet sighs to my forehead
like wilting flowerbed thoughts
and I threw you into the wind
like burning letters
silence ticks like a clock inside the world is us here in the room we enter to make music with the joining of hearts I kneel in tenderness not getting lost in the rustle of sighs singing tunes known many times before the faster we approach we laugh
The rare rustle of
It’s only a weekend
Kind of thing,
And feet like
The news with
As soldiers clench
And politicians sigh,
Their heads suddenly
Sugary and delicious.
Gushes of breath
Break the silence, a breeze
Of oxygen down her
Have fled the woods
And it is time
To take off
The sound discreet
As they paddle along—
In mending, charm
Them with gray eyes
The brittle gems
That droop from
I discard my metal
Upon the thin
Branches of willows,
A fever rising upon
My worried skin—
She says it’s all right
But the feeling is
Stretch toward the
Air like ceramic
Cups and it’s
Flesh upon my
I can still see
The silky white
From hot red
Gums, hunger so
Wild you could
But the monsters
And I can take
You were the nurse who came to stay
to care for a sick woman who died,
leaving you to marry her farmer husband
and finish the raising of their twin daughters.
This was the story you told me
as we walked to the general store
under leaves dripping from a summer shower
as the door of day swung closed behind us.
You introduced me to the storekeeper.
A tall woman who, like you, wore an apron.
The store smelled of flour. And, when she opened a jar
on the counter, of licorice, which she called anise.
You bought sugar and a box of tea, which you paid for
from a small cloth purse that held no bills, only change.
You let me carry the groceries home.
I felt grown up for the first time.
As darkness grew complete we sat on the porch
drinking the tea with the sugar and a bit of orange peel.
You talked as though I was not a child.
I imagined your life as it was and mine as it might be.
Later, as I lay in bed neither asleep nor awake,
from the barn came the rustle of an owl’s wings.
Yesterday folds our vital documents
into its briefcase and steps
onto a busy street.
Busses lunge on asphalt, rolling
knotted muscles and emptied pockets deeper
into roads where dogs and paper
blur the lines between news and shit.
Lovers, condos, taxis, and sidewalks
pray to scrape up rent.
Tomorrow crouches, ready to spring
and thrust us back into the boxing ring.
I sit at the end of the Earth,
an old, fractured dock worn by water
cradles me and fixes the scene.
Yellow sails swimming the Jetstream
hang on to the red dinghy whose wake
sets my eye on the far shore.
Coney isle ‘cross the murk-warped sea
holds ancient homes like tapestries
hold ancient threads that you can see
in some museum for a fee.
For the residents at Rosses Point
this is no end –
it starts their children’s dreams
and holds them to life,
roots them in communal grasses
that grow and will always grow.
I didn’t know
that where the weed-stalk masses
life’s abundance would overflow.
But where are their riches?
Cast in ditches by roadsides where
three hundred years of smiles,
vein-pulsing beliefs, busy thinkers,
sweet upswept streets,
all put wealth – the heaping of coin
upon coin till nothing can breathe –
aside and laugh. They live;
happening as they survive.
Inside the crumbled watchtower
I fling passion onto thought
onto nerve onto pen onto page
and then am limp,
like the carelessly treaded sage;
a child’s footprint.
What anguish did the watchers know
looking through the barred stone walls? –
their travelers were still gone.
In the swirling, swallowing night,
that drops like the judge’s gavel,
I write images of the sundry
numb-fingered seaside –
the birds call through the salt-stained air.
Fly away my wind-swept birds,
fly, fly till you reach my words
that are split among a thousand minds and cities.
Fly till the grass overcomes the tread,
till the sun succumbs to lead
poisoning and dawn’s jaw drops dead.
The lighthouse, the sprinkling showers
from the clouds that shroud and mask
the would-be sky, guide
the heart that falls inside my throat –
two hundred tons of blood
beat through its bulge – I’m alive
and live on, like this unhampered ground.
The sound of ripples, the rustle
of reeds, they bring me back
to the time-broken dock.
I sit and remember my friends –
calmness soaks in and through my bones –
I am and will be here always.
And when memory fails and fades
I will float the channel of everything,
beach upon this shore
and will be the grass and nothing more
until history becomes the future
and the first layer becomes the core.
I’m lying on the bed,
Not knowing what to do,
The door down the hallway closes,
And I know that it’s you.
I think about our fight,
It was my fault and yours too,
But now I want to make it right,
But I don’t know how to.
My mind is in turmoil,
It finally decides.
I’m outside the door trying to hear,
What I can’t see with my eyes.
I hear the rustle of the sheets,
I think I hear a sigh,
My imagination conjures scenes,
But then I hear you cry.
I can’t take it anymore,
Letting you be so depressed,
I bust through the door,
Your face against the pillow is pressed.
Gently I lay a hand,
On the small of your back.
I pull you into my embrace,
So you know that there’s nothing you lack.
I slowly kiss those tears away,
And then those pretty eyes too.
I hold you so tight and before I know,
I’m getting kissed passionately by you.
All the anger is forgotten,
And the heat takes control.
As our lips meld to one,
I once again feel whole.
Our bodies against each other,
The world becomes so distant,
As we undress together,
I know you are all that I want.
The moment we shared,
Leaves nowhere to hide,
Again I’m lying on the bed,
But now with you by my side.
Do you want to hear a story?
About the Deathly Hollow Tree
That sits upon the banks
Behind our old barn yard just behind our house
How ghastly nights of terror that reminisce the hangman’s nose
The leaves that sways upon the tree
As the winter nights prevail
A chilling freezing night of dread
For the coming winter rain
The nocturnal owl that sits alone
Upon the branch at night
Hoots a sound that echo’s with fear
As the stars shine down in the misty fog of night
Footsteps echo resounding into the early night of shade
The wanderer that strayed too long
Into the glooming mournful night
Now basking in fear at the sounds of night
As they echo through the trees
She stops to stare at the crackling sound
Of footsteps from the past
And quickly runs amuck instead
To run from those haunting footsteps that rustle in the dark
Breathlessly she watches the barren trees sway its ghostly dance
As the footsteps, get closer with her ever-beating heart
The echoes of the night invade her privacy of hell
As she watches and waits so intently in the dark
Only to be taken from her safe haven her hide away
So now the story goes of ghostly foots steps in the dark
After you hear them, you hear a mournful cry
So beware of the story around the hallow tree
Of how you can be lead astray from those footsteps from the past
©Kaila George 2013
I hear my class laugh
The light rustle of leaves
As the storm approaches our land
We wait and listen for it to blow
It begins to grow dark and ominous
The thunder bears down on us
We don't put and frets into our heads
We don't think anything bad was to happen
No one knew what was going to happen
We sat in school listening to the teachers talk
It was something so common we knew it
We wondered why the clouds were all green
Then we saw something touch down on the ground
We didn't know what it was and they screamed for cover
We heard the sounds as it bent the metal of the chairs we once sat in
My teacher went on top of me to keep me safe
She was on top of I and three others
She was the one to take all the hits of debris
The wind was loud and sharp and I couldn't hear myself think
It ended as quickly as it started
We climbed out of the rubble to gaze around
I saw nothing... shock filling our bodies
I heard the cries of many and the silence of others
My mother came running to me with eyes wet and arms wide
My teacher was hurt but saved I and our class room gone
She was a hero to us four students
We learn ten are gone but not forgotten
We are survivors
We are here still
And we will keep on going
There is a calm truth in this still dark night.
The hint of wind that is in the air is not enough to rustle the trees
but it is enough to break the silence with the breeze whispering over my ears.
It makes a hollow sound.
The bright full moon pierces the trees and casts shadows upon shadows.
The demons have yet to appear,
they are usually quiet but they rule the night.
Peaking in and out of the moonbeams,
they carry on with important business
existing only within my nightmare.
This night is the truth that is needed within a person.
Keeping balance with the goodness of the sunshine,
balance with night and day, evil and goodness.