There is something of the calm cool night,
no jacket, no shiver, no mosquito bite.
no steam, no ice, it is betwixt,
internal fire --safe in interstice.
You can lie down under stars --as is.
I dip my pen, in what wraps this poem tight,
the penumbral peace --of a calm cool night.

I had a forest tryst
with Amanita,
after it rained,
I went to see her.

Dank and slain,
suited to decompose:
her bed; and as I sank--
in ballet bare-toe
the white angel arose.

She was flawlessly pale,
and 'round her neck,
still, a wedding veil.

She slipped the straps 'round her neck,
befalling her gown at my request,
she slowly turned in place,
for her suitor to inspect,
never did comely beauty,
on Jerusalem bedeck,

On her head sat,
a white knit -cap,
to it her veil was attached,
I could not gaze on her form,
till I got past this piece she worn.

I asked my love,
to doff her bridal wear.
" My love, my groom
wears my chastity belt round my hair."

Then I could not resist,
I brought the veil up,
and gave her a kiss,
a gentle curse,
she spoke to my lips,
in great thirst I sipped,

Alas, then I saw the ring,
she pulled back,
and deep in my eyes she looked in.
through her gown
in the mire I started to sink,

I felt her gown moving through me,
with the poison of her Gothic beauty.
On her spectral white,
not even the fly alights,
I commit suicide twenty times over,
by taking a bite.

She smiled to my fear,
in her eyes, heaps of bones,
and whispered in my ear,
to whom she was betrothed.
"death"

Her snowcap dress disappears,
as forest on compass interferes.
She can not be azimuth for escape,
why some left trail of yellow tape.
bowing usher points on with blighted limb,
retching out its own hemlock gin.
path in is beaten, with log and stone,
crevices drown a webbed saliva moan.
path out is unbeaten and hard to find,
from death's brambles on the mind.

All trees seem to want to die,
no effort to brush off strangling vine.
where you think they have broke loose,
swaying ropes that once had noose.

And where there is light, is mossy glen,
just enough, for one last note to pen.
dolls, cloths, skulls make up forest litter,
shoes, bottles, and smiling family picture.

With the only surviving sounds so faint and sickly,
Scraping nylon tent--a starving man on day sixty.
The songbirds break the silence,
A cruel happy tune,
They see dark doom in ultraviolet,
the panicked slit wrists and  poison diet,
create failed trails ,
that don't escape and help to hide it.


"The wood line, I made it out"--the cruelest thought,
Mount Fuji's white dress through the trees up top ,
They see themselves smiling,
It is, and it is not,
a happy photo,
identifying their skulls stained green by moss.

I like ink,
and  I like chicks,
and I like ink mixed with skin,
but I also like skin,
with only sweat mixed in.

If I ever devote my love,
to a fellow devotee,
will be my escape of Forest,
where I was her escapee.

A blue jay with crested plume,
and fierce face,
batters a beetle off the mighty Ash.
Trees of sword and spear contrast,
balanced ****** against maple ax.
Odysseus bravery, and Achilles' hate,
depicted on Ash's underside lanceolate.
even when oak leans in for slash,
with jagged sword serrate,
****** through heart and out the back.
But another tree does wear greaves,
with top heavy slash of bronze cordate,
poplar with xiphos of patina leaves.
speared through brain and cheek plate.
and red bud vaunting behind bossed sheild,
throw of spear,
much red blood on dust congealed.
" Run cowards, back to the forest of fairy's,"
" you are the son's of rock moss,
whereas I am the son of Aries."
But then the Sumac, took from it's quiver,
it's poison tipped arrow and shot thither,
" Trojan, promise my body burial honours,"
but they cut him up, and stripped his armour,
but when Achilles finds out, he will avenge..........{keeeeeith, dinner time}

Sounds and sights, as I watched this bird,
clashing armour, war cries heard.

(this poem is about a boy imagining the Trojan war after reading the Illiad, and learning that the greeks made there spears out of the Ash Tree.  He sees all the leaf shapes of the trees as weopons, which actually were the models for the greek sword and spear.also arrow.)

I am tired and want to die,
I am not Atlas, but still
try to hold up the sky.

But it is not your sky I hold up,
it is her heaven, over violent sea.
she needs my help--I need help,
sunset-- I am down to knee.

If my arms weaken--
I lose faith,
my young angel,
will disappear into ocean--
without trace.

Every morn I stand,
somedays refreshed;
when ocean is quiet,
and clouds resemble
sunday dress.

My angel in heaven,
sea spray can lash my face,
wind can howl in my ears--
I will still hold your heaven in place,
from falling in the ocean of tears.