She sat beneath a tall, twisting oak tree on a park bench looking up and admiring it, when he came.
‘Hello,’ he said.
‘Hello,’ she replied. ‘How are you?’
‘How do you expect,’ he sat down beside her on the bench. With nothing to say, she began to look up once more. ‘What are you looking at,’ he asked while following her gaze.
‘The tree,’ she said.
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s beautiful.’
‘There are millions of oak trees.’ He lowered his gaze.
‘There are millions of people,’ she replied.
‘People aren’t oak trees.’
‘On the contrary,’ she said. ‘Oak trees aren’t people.’
‘People have personalities,’ he said. ‘And feelings.’
She looked at him. ‘Please don’t be upset,’ she said. He looked at her for a moment, meeting her gaze, then threw down his head and looked at the ground once more.
‘People care for one another,’ he said gently.
‘Oak trees cannot hurt one another. They are still and only create. She paused, looking up at the branches. They are only beautiful.’
He began to mumble and make faces at the ground.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘For what?’
‘For not being an oak tree.’
‘I never wanted an oak tree just like I never wanted a dog.’
‘You never wanted much,’ she said briskly. He became mute. She began to look at the scenery. ‘It seems to be a nice day.’
He grunted.
They sat in silence once more, not knowing exactly what to say. He looked up from the ground and examined the branches as she looked around the park.
‘It is nice.’
‘What?’
‘The tree.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Yes, of course. That’s what I was saying.’
‘But it’s still not the same to me.’
‘Well, of course not. It grew up. But still nice, right?’
‘I guess so. He looked at her and she at him. She smiled a little, he forced a grin. Then they both looked away.
‘There is also the grass and the dirt.’
‘Those are not beautiful,’ he said.
‘I think they are all beautiful.’
‘I think you are wrong.’
She did not respond. He looked at her sit with her arms crossed and regained his composure.
‘But I do like the tree.’
‘Just this tree,’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’ve never really looked at any others.’
‘I have,’ she said.
He became flustered. ‘You would.’
‘I have,’ she said harshly. She turned away from him and looked at the ground.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. She did not look back at him. He put his hand on her shoulder. She took his hand and turned back to him.
‘It’s fine,’ she said. She looked into his eyes. He looked down.
‘No, it’s not fine.’ He paused, releasing her hands and pulling back. ‘I don’t like the tree.’
‘The tree gives you life.’
‘I don’t like it.’
‘It helps you survive.’
‘I don’t like it.’
‘It gives you shade from the warm sun and air to breathe. It gives food to the animals. It blows in the wind and looks beautiful captured in paintings and photographs. The tree is a wonderful thing.’
‘I don’t like the oak tree,’ he said again. She pushed her lips together.
‘But...’
‘But nothing. I don’t like it.’ He looked up at the oak.
‘Are you still upset?’
‘Of course I am,’ he said. ‘People don’t just forget, you know? Just like this tree will remember.’
‘And what will the tree remember?’
‘Those who do not appreciate its beauty.’ He looked at her eyes as he stood up. Kneeling down at eye level he said goodbye and turned to the distance. She sat on the bench and began to cry. Slowly, she lifted her head to the great oak above and sat.
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 2:24 AM UTC
I watch shooting stars.
Feel bees buzzing.
Then wheels turn.
The corruption of the brain
Spreads.
Hate
Innocence.
Gone.
Torpedoes crash
And bombs fly
All is war-
Hell.
To hell with you
And all you dream!
I won’t fall,
Though you push and shove.
Teardrops sink into
The barren earth.
Is all fair in love and war?
Wheels turn
Once more.
Is that all this is?
A giant game
Lacking rules and regulations?
Who will referee?
You?
*******
The corruption of the brain
Spreads.
Hate
Hell
War
And repetition.
So much for that.
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 2:23 AM UTC
How many times
In how many days?
As each sun rises,
Another sun sets.
A petal falls,
A lonesome tree.
The slithering tongue
From behind the green apple.
No words,
Just looks-
A flittering glance.
No more decorations.
The flower stem
Bare.
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 2:21 AM UTC
An orange petal
Pressed against her face
Dew drops stream down
It is morning
But it feels as if night never came
Eyes shut
Waiting to be opened
Sleep ran away
Fear took it’s place
And the orange petal
Still pressed against her face
A soundly tune
Barely heard from the distance
Ears open
But the mind still closed
The earth cries around her
Tears well up
Too much for the ground to bury
But a man still plays
His silhouette dancing
To his song
A blast of color
Frozen in place
Unable to be seen
As the wind whips
In and around her eyes
An outstretched arm
Flapping, flailing, searching
Undirected
But wind whisks color away
All is calm
Black and white
Finally able to stand
She walks the lonesome halls
Around every tree
Every bush
Nothing moved
Nothing found
It is forever morning
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 2:21 AM UTC
Was it a surprise?
You have not the length of a tree,
Nor the beauty of a rhododendron.
Your friends are not of plenty like that of a forest
And none inhabit your “vast” wealth of knowledge.
So, how did it surprise?
Was it your shallow logic in which lethargic is defined?
Or the rangy alps of hope from which this preposterous “self-worth” first began?
No matter.
Here we are.
And lonely, despondent glances do no one good.
Time is of the essence, my friend.
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 2:19 AM UTC
What a game you’ve won
What a crown you’ve earned
Pushing those aside
That need you most
What a king you’ll be
Looking down upon your kingdom
With many queens to choose from
Many lives to ruin
Many peasants to trample
What a game you’ve won
Your kingdom will always be in your debt
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 2:18 AM UTC
Silky evergreens
Surround white fallen powder
With lifeless shadows.
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 2:16 AM UTC