You planted me, a rose
in the wet soil, loved.
You watered me with your love,
yet you forgot the next day,
and the next day.
You don't know me,
what I need, the fertile love
that fuels my love to bloom.
The days pass as I reread
your voice of affirmations,
yet I feel you're not ready to
see me bloom and spread,
the scent of my adoration for you.
My leaves dry off and the petals
get torn on the thorns,
as I await your nourishing words,
that ought to last till I part from all,
to be moved to the next soil, lifeless.

It sat in the forest of plenty
bleeding sap branches hanging low
broken promises
the hangman's retreat and woes

I stood by him and sat in his shade
asked him how are you doing these days
he shuddered his leaves and they did start to fall
and told me, not well at all

Love had been wicked to him
and the sun never shined on him
his bark was falling
he was close to death

That tree that said he did love
was a lie that now he does despise
broken but pulling back
roots growing again after all the ****** lies

She had told him stories of sadness
and her stories hit his heart
I wanted to relive her
he really believed her from the start

It could have been me
that saddest tree
I mean really
in ruin like me



By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

-


i can just imagine how things would
end up, me being a little more than
hesitant to even consider vocalizing
myself "Live" to dozens of listeners

—me—

starting out on a platform in some school
gymnasium just a short million miles away
from the safety of my writing cubical deep
inside a worm hole underneath my domicile

im sure that a few in the crowd will wonder
what this thing is doing there, my thin, shaky
form walking erratically to center stage with a
tablet in one hand and a cup of water in the other—

well, it could be *****..

the microphone will be way too big for
what little i have to say, commencing
with an unsteady vocal that many will find
indistinguishable from man or woman,

the rhythm should get better after the first
of several stanzas, but i will have already
spotted the ombudsman standing near the
emergency exit listening in—

just as i feared,

and as our eyes meet, his expectation
of structure and rigidity will boil me
down to the hardwood floor, reducing
me to the basic size of a Cornish hen,

spun lengthwise upon his rotisserie,
roasting away as a smoldering torso
from his slow hand-cranked rotations

over the campfire which he will light his
cigarettes from, leaving me choking
from the smoke of his evaluations
as i drip into the cinders and
evaporate along with most
of my self ~esteem..

i realize that he'll just be some ghost
that has haunted my every attempt
at simple boldness,

but i know he is gonna be right there
if i ever climb up to laser like stares
and the wide-open ~hears~ of
kindred poets and curious ears,

an easy fellow to pick out—

he will be the one
holding my neck
in his hands...


s jones
2008-2020


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