This room—not his
nor the house, the yard
Though a placard bares his name
it slides out
at a moment’s notice
when the waiting ends
when his old hand stops—
twirling, mindless against the loving quilt

This house-- the same
but different
from a distance
He should be sitting in this still life
an old Sachem
on his lawn chair

This garage—where I stand
still his, strangely

Patient tools
Cherry Chevrolet wait
with work gloves resting...
Cannot bring myself to touch
where his hands last laid them
As if to move a thing
would **** the matrix of the man

His moment rushing toward me....

I can hear their whispers now
Leaves, once forbidden
have gathered in his absence
tangled in his hedges
nestled by the stairs
Chattering together—

“Man with the rake—no longer comes”

If trees be poems by the earth
In avid joy I read each one
Florets writ in fragrant verse
Inked with beams of the morning sun
In shade, a fruit, a whiff of air
I rest beneath wide branches spread
A cavort of emerald canopy
Bestows comfort upon my breath
I lean against the bark, recline
And think of how it stands in time

Through tunneled years it's stoic trunk
Stands proud against frost and rain
Drops it's leaves to nakedness
Till spring dresses in green again  
On but an arm, the  koel sings
'Tis home to birds that weave a nest
Haven to sojourners ache
Clasp around, hold close to breast
I trace the names of love engraved
Now forgot; asleep in graves

On felled bark my soul I pen
On papyrus the past I feel
The murmured songs of sentiments
In susurrus as branches kneel.
Nymphs would hide or fairies entreat
With fireflies in silver light
Creatures tip toe on their feet
Lithe, in the darkness of the night
In engraved lines meaning I see
What better song, what poetree?



Trees are poems that the earth writes upon the sky -  Gibran

Blue Angel
O baby I wanna hold you
O my baby I miss
You so badly so badly
Your on my mind always
Baby baby baby baby
I'm shouting your name where
Are you baby baby baby
Something has happened
To me come back baby
To me my heart is broken
And I'm a mess
I'm shouting shouting
Baby baby baby
I'm a reck I need to be
With you tonight
The house is a mess
I wanna hold, hold you
Tonight come on
Baby come, come on
Come back to me
Tonight baby so I
Can be with tonight
O my baby come
Back to me tonight
I truly love you and
Need you badly
Tonight.
© 2016 David P Carroll

The colors of your shirt stick
to your skin
Swollen, tired, tattered
The dirt collecting
Under, Over, On

In the stillness of the new moon
You became a mother
A wife
A daughter
Through the thickness of the humid air
the sweat collected on your brow
the nape of your neck
A crying child
A barking dog
Some butter on a scalding skillet

Oh, Marisol!
If your hands could speak
The scars and lines would serenade the sun
and soothe your cousin's swollen cheeks
the gold in your teeth
would shine each time you smiled
and said goodbye

but
your chestnut hair is whipped by the wind
instead
and laced black leather boots
tower over you
in the haze
they grasp your arms
as if they are their own
and cover you in white
to protect themselves

Oh Marisol!
it is now late at night
but you shine for the love you brought
with you
across six nations
all of them packed
and stacked neatly
you carry them strapped on your back
like the sun kissed streets of Cuenca
cultivated, preened, and compressed
put into the back pocket


It is in dusk when you lay your head
Down on that cold, dry, earth
And grasp that plastic bottle to your breast
Closed eyes and memories of sunrise
20 miles away from the southwest


America rises still beyond
Fences lined with flowers pale
As white and rich as all those men

But towers over you of course
and in the shadows of the Joshua trees
You can depart for home again

I awake to the sound of singing birds;
Little birds, singing their own tiny repertoire
And their singing
Lifts my soul.
It is a small joy
But so accessible
As long as there is spring and morning.

The sun's rays reach the blind and are
Diffused.
They touch me like a golden glow
Which oozes over me
Like warm honey.

An individual bird chatters his business,
Plump and important,
Feathers fluffed,
Oblivious of the Twitter of the rest
Intent on his purpose.

And this is what this chorus is:
No chorus,
No harmony;
Just each bird singing his own tune.
No blending, no merging, no smearing, no trimming
But sharp, clear differences.

A tree stands outside the window.
Its apple green leaves in their new- born state,
Each separate on the branch,
Not yet grown into the overlapping cover they will become.
Between
Each leaf
And the next
And surrounding the whole
Is the china blue sky.
Each colour
Young
And
Clear
And
Complementing the other.

Only today-
Only now
Will those leaves look
So
Against that sky.
Tomorrow a cloud may dull the sky'
The sun may be brighter,
The leaves will have grown,
The branch will stoop a little more.

The beauty is in the transience:
That tree
That sky
That sun
That bird
That song
Now.