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Sometimes men come along, and set fire to great forests in order to destroy them.
But the trees do not see this as ******.
Instead, they choose to look at it as an opportunity to be reborn.
So as men watch the red and black coals of what is left, the trees secretly give birth to hidden seeds and germinate, reappearing months, or even weeks later.
And when the men come back again, they cannot bring themselves to set fire to the forest once more -
**for something which denies death and reaches its branches out to the light must surely be an angel.
I lose a part of myself,
each day.
The sun smiles,
and I can't smile back.
I only feel,
sometimes.
And that is the worst part;
feeling.
I understand,
each world.
But I haven't quite found,
mine.
The blankets,
don't quite comfort me.
And the light,
doesn't quite reach me.
The slow ache grows,
and grows
until my heart eats itself.
So I sit,
and I write.
And I find myself,
whole again.
Her eyes were candles (until they got put out.)
A painful laugh escapes her lips
a real laugh in the realm of deep aching.
Now she sings. (Softly at first)
Then louder (only to herself.)
and everything becomes the slave of her soul,
just
for
a moment.
Tear ducts sealed,
tremors of sadness,
vanished
until
everything must stop for a moment
and grow quiet.
Body rocking, soul sobbing
infront of the T.V while the 7 o'clock news plays dumbly.
It's all
so
fragile.
(It has to be.)
Her heart stops whispering
and becomes
a broken limb.
(I am a bird and she is me)
be free.
Thousands of people,
walk in silence.
Some with candles,
flowers.
Some with sadness,
on their backs.
All slowly heading,
in the same,
and right direction.
To the south,
they say.
Carrying on slowly,
peacefully.
The moonlight,
whispers.
And the stars,
dance.
Until finally,
eventually,
They reach it.
Content,
satisfied,
the people sing,
softly into the night.
So as the Owls say hello,
they wake up to the light.
 Feb 2011 Jesse Bourque
Kathleen
I'm starting to dream in color
swimming in Silvia red night gowns
and dancing into silhouettes of purple and crimson.
psychedelic actually,
if you take the time to think within that perspective.
it's like a toned-down rave set in slow motion by overdose.
and where are you?
are you passed out on the lawn in front of some closed down swapmeet?
did the flicker of insomnia turn you off like a light switch you hadn't paid the bill for?
who now, will answer your phone or pay homage to your quips
or late night phone calls to God?
I wish I could say that I relayed the message
but my nerves never were enough.
I wonder if the angels ever picked up on the twisted games you played on their names.
Many people never bothered to decipher it all.
But on occasion I did.
When the time was convenient,
when the moments were dull.
I delved into it.
I tried anyhow.
Forgive me for never letting you pass.
For standing arms and legs wide apart to halt the inevitable.
I wish for so many seconds
that I was there to do something,
to show something,
some inkling of understanding through sarcastic grimaces.
To you, who will read this and play dead for flair,
may you call upon me from the imaginary casket when you get this.
Fore I do see that you could never leave like that.
creative commons
If an easy rain
would make the rocks slippery,
he would hold my hand.
by what light!this pains' dismay is taught and frigid
it is the earth upholding my footfalls genial and slow
i tread and mark the soil as turning sunder:the stain
last frail and withered node of light 7fold and thrice
the hills are marching under that calamity of orange
duskish and fowling their curvaceous hide. i'm loose and tight
in folds of grass. and i walk

                                    and i walk

                                                   and i    w
                                                                         a


                                                                                   l;
                                                                                     K
 Nov 2010 Jesse Bourque
Lenna
I stood in the sun
and thought of you
and of my junebug heart.
It clings on, unshakable,
even after it’s death.

And you like that about me,
my junebug heart that is.
You think you have one too.
I know that you don’t.
Yours is fleeting.
Especially when the October wind
With frosty fingers punishes my hair,
Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire
And cast a shadow crab upon the land,
By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds,
Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks,
My busy heart who shudders as she talks
Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.

Shut, too, in a tower of words, I mark
On the horizon walking like the trees
The wordy shapes of women, and the rows
Of the star-gestured children in the park.
Some let me make you of the vowelled beeches,
Some of the oaken voices, from the roots
Of many a thorny shire tell you notes,
Some let me make you of the water's speeches.

Behind a post of ferns the wagging clock
Tells me the hour's word, the neural meaning
Flies on the shafted disk, declaims the morning
And tells the windy weather in the ****.
Some let me make you of the meadow's signs;
The signal grass that tells me all I know
Breaks with the wormy winter through the eye.
Some let me tell you of the raven's sins.

Especially when the October wind
(Some let me make you of autumnal spells,
The spider-tongued, and the loud hill of Wales)
With fists of turnips punishes the land,
Some let me make of you the heartless words.
The heart is drained that, spelling in the scurry
Of chemic blood, warned of the coming fury.
By the sea's side hear the dark-vowelled birds.
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