The complication of it
Was all bewildering
I forgot that land could surprise,
In all of its curious intricacies.

A green moss lay woven
On the branch,
An apparent lover,
And the insecurities of the moss,
All too apparent,
Overcame the branch
Until the branch wasn’t a branch
But a platform for the moss’
Long awaited spring.

The waters splashed jokes
Over rocks’ keen ears
Indulging in the gossip of the moss.

And the leaves of larger trees
Fluttered in merriment
And exposed lies to the wind.

But in the end,
This is nature,
A wise, abstract thing,
That knew not of gossip,
This is where only pureness
Fluttered in the wind.

The forest is waking.

Pines and cedars
are greener than ever
while the oaks blossom.

Robins and blackbirds
chirp in earnest
scouring the leaf litter for hiding invertebrates.

The air’s stillness is swept away
by a gentle breeze, cooling my skin
heated by the sun.

Other than that,
there is only silence,
a good silence,
a slowly-rousing-from-winter silence.
It’s beautiful.

4/9/12
(c) MDC

We met on a street out in the middle of Brunberry.  Often times, we'd sit on the curb, watching the middle aged man in the corner house fix up his boat-of-a-car.  Or, on Sundays, the chubby, bakery-esque woman would walk her grandchildren down the road to church.  We were young, then.  I still visit that street in Brunberry, and, in fact, it is called Feldspar Road.  The man on the corner, with the old car?  His name is Charles North, and he's a retired mechanic.  The grandmother is dead now, but her daughter and grandkids moved in a couple years ago.  I still come back and check up on those people, and I still watch the leaves fall in autumn and watch water pool around our favorite bench in spring.  The air is just as crisp as when we were children.  Feldspar Road is just as it was when we were young.

--

Just off of Feldspar Road, there is a park.  Really, it's just a wide, open field, with unkempt grass that the neighborhood has picnics and late afternoon barbecues on.  Do you remember when we stopped by the Feldspar block party on your twentieth birthday weekend?  It was warm and the sun was blinding; a perfect July day for grilling out in the park.  You pulled me down onto the dried grass and we watched all of the familiar people gabbing and gossiping with neighbors.  Charles, grandma and the children, that young couple that had recently moved in.  These people were like our family, even though we didn't live here.  They made us feel at home.

--

It's October, and Feldspar Road is coated in bright yellow leaves.  I haven't heard from you in a few months, but I'm sure you're doing okay.  You've been busy with your new friends at your university a few states away.  Feldspar misses you, as do I.  Charles is getting old; his car sits, rusted, in the driveway.  The young couple got divorced, and I'm pretty sure the girl kicked the boy out of the house.  Things are getting dark, despite the turning leaves.  I do sure hope you're doing okay.  The park has a playground, now, and the few children in the neighborhood play there after school.  I've memorized jump rope rhymes, patterns in cat's cradle, and the hardest hopscotch courses.  I know you always loved kids, and watching them play makes me wish you could be here to laugh along with me.

--

I moved out to Kentucky this April.  I needed to get away from home, and away from Feldspar Road.  I visited much too often, and after Charles died, and all new people lived on the block, I felt out of place.  Whatever made Feldspar feel like home was gone.  It's been years since I saw you, and I can only assume you've found someone to love, someone to lay in the grass with, someone to marry.  Me?  I'm starting to meet new people in the area.  I like to spend my time out in the fields by the border.  It's quiet, unless you count the crows and crickets.  It's peaceful, and standing there in the breeze, with the wheat up to my chest, watching the sky turn bright orange in the evening, makes me feel a bit happier.  A little less lonely and a little more at home.

shy quiet of the rainy afternoon crisp clean spring air warms the slight chill awake and silently comforting the coffee not working in my eyes inhale this scent as the robin brings a string to the nest little love sleeps under my eyes from bad dreams.

You are a girl and I'm a boy and springs not so far away
What do you think your mum will say if I ask you out to play
I will promise her that I'll be good and will never misbehave
maybe just a little naughty but I promise I will be English gentleman..
who brings you safely home again to your door step..
..... at the end of the day

If you trust me girl, let's go out do not delay
Its a sunny day today let not waste time on a precious day..
Don't think twice..dont think thrice just come out to play
come out at once.. let me make you laugh again..
laugh again.. laugh again … when we play again and again….

Heard you were scolded by your mummy today
at school your teacher made you stand outside all day..
forget all that now my sweet girl, let us play
adults don't understand that we kids need to play.. need to play..

On a summers day and spring days.. everyday
Lets play hide and seek, do you still remember the old old days?
We used to hide in auntie Rose's huge garden to play?
hope you'd remember the roses I'd pick for you?
I saw a sweet sweet rose just perfect for your hair...
Come lets play on a Spring day today....

I used to cheat when we were playing hide and seek those days
lets play again this time I'd try to let you win all the way

There your pretty looking mum is coming…
Hope she'd noticed me, a good boy next door..
I'd pray she'd let you out to play this evening..
I wish she doesnt mind to let your beautiful gown gets dirty
I hope... i pray... I wish.... we can play..
if she doesn't let you still
ohh pity me... my spring days will be such a bore….

i am an asshole

and I feel weird

all the time

and I have mood swings faster than the striking of snakes
and my rage comes like hurricanes
and my euphoria like spring rain
quick and furious

i am bitter like
wormwood

and i laugh at things
i shouldn’t

and i wring my hands
and bite my lips

and glare
i have no social grace
and i dislike more things in this world than i can admit

but i make you lunch.
and let you cry on me
burn candles
fill your pockets with lavender for luck
and witch bottles full of blood and my hair
and pour salt
and put on party dresses
and pick flowers
and bring wine
and i pour fire in the mouths of those who hurt you

and i abandon you for days
when the dark in my head
gets too loud
but not really

because

i think about you all the time

it’s just

i don’t want you to see the lightening striking and the

lion roaring and screaming in my mind
when i tally up my skin
and empty my stomach i

don’t want you to see
and

i don’t want you to abandon me

so don’t

fucking leave me

don’t abandon me

and i know you need space too
because i can be suffocating
but
when i disappear into my own head
people don't miss me
like i
miss
them

when i put so much effort into being
a some-what human being for you

you make me love like sticky cakes
you make me spring like wind
you make me soft and silk like eternal space
you make me timeless like a precious
moment, tell me, who are you?
tell me, who am I?

breathe me vowels
lip me an a
whisper some e's
kiss me through an o
would you sculpt a heavy u
would you pick the point of an i?

I would like to dive into metaphors
beyond speech and easy listening
I would attach myself to silence
if there is you
who shows me how to dance -
will you?

GEORGE, in raptures!

Underneath pale spring skies
to everyone's surprise
'The Wanderers' returned telling tales of omnipotence
and the relevance of a divinity
I heard nothing
I was deafened by the noise from the laughter of the girls and boys so filled with glee
that 'The Wanderers' had seen fit to see
to find their way and come home to be
with them and you and me.
I don't know where they went or how they spent those,
lonely days when I would gaze with fear set solid in my heart
and wonder how it is that being apart
is so painful.
Fearful now
I keep my eye on those that take it in their mind to fly away.
But what is day without the night
and night without the dawn?
Storms may come and go but this is what I know
'The Wanderers'
will always be the hope and the guardians set by the gate
of those who wait
for liberty.

By night, it all gets a little

heavier.


Each measure of each song reaches a little

further into the pit of the stomach.

Each touch from each lover burns the skin with a little

higher temperature,

sure to leave with more permanence.

Each breath of each lung pulls a little

more even; stretches the ribs a little further.

Each beat of each feeble heart feels a little

more sturdy; a little closer to the throat.

Each word from each mouth tastes a little

more like honesty, like humility,

like the plead to be discovered.


Each worry of each hopeful dawns a little

bit harder; seems a little more tragic.

Each memory of each soul has a

freshly sharpened blade, sinking a little

bit deeper.

Each reality of each dreamer sits a little more

threatening on your chest, stealing your divine air.

Each fear of each mind lurks a little darker,

a little more suffocating,

a little more real.


By night our world is raw, unsheathed.

By night it is all a little heavier on our souls,

like dew on a too warm spring morning;

beautiful, but a little harder to breathe in.