Met this girl today.
Her name is Jonnie Rea.
Into heavy Metal.
But to me she was like a freash petal.
All thought Jonnie Rea is young.
and I am very old.
I will be so bold.
As to say Jonnie Rea.
Will someday.
Boldly go where none have gone before.

The air is warm today
With a soft and slight humidity
The perfect temperature
For an adventurer

The wisteria were in full bloom
Hanging from the basket of tree trunks
Overflowing purple and white petals

The birds sing songs of danger
Calling out territories
Guarding their new hatched young

Beautiful songs to me
Strike terror in the heart of some
Lone crow

I watch as two red breasted doves
Chase the angry crow from the crown of an evergreen
Their spinning and chirping looks playful and joyous
But courage beats in their little hearts
As they fight off the thieving devil

Blue skies are cloudless between the canopy
Yellow sunlight drifts down and through the branches
Creating radiant yellow pools on the moss and dirt
Squirrels chase each other through the glowing puddles
As if they too are playing

Down on a fallen stump
I sit
Counting the growth rings up to fifty

Sudennly I realize how young I am
How foolish and unknowing I am
Ancient trees loom around me speaking in leafy whispers
Deep dark sylvan beauty
A childish breeze blows through the treetops

Sudennly the most beautiful creature I have ever seen
Stands on a log across the clearing
I hide behind a thick tree
....was I seen?

Her thin shadow moves around the stump where I sat
She kneels to exam a row of ants
Crawling up an old root

She has a green notebook now open on her knees
She squiggles notes between the lines
Stopping to squint at the line of soldiers
Pointing and counting
..1....2....3....4.5....6..7....
She seems to count for a while
And then writes furiously

She sits on the stump
With the notebook in her lap
She has a beautiful little smile
The smile of someone
With a very secret-secret
That must be told

She could be a ghost
I know these woods are haunted
But the way she held the pencil between her teeth
As she counted the growth rings on the stump
Was not very ghostly

She drinks from a canteen
I must be thirsty
My mouth is quite dry
Maybe that's a good enough excuse
"Hello, my name is Jacob, and I have been watching you from the shadow of this tree for the past few minutes and I was wondering if I could have a drink?"
No, I cannot do that

Besides
I am a scientist

Only an observer


(A strand of her hair falls in her eyes and she puts puts it behind her ear)



Especially now because she has stood up and walked to the edge of the clearing
Where she kneels by a flower
And begins to draw it in her green notebook

Drawing and tracing
Hair behind her ear
A strand falls on her cheek as she works



So silent
My heart skips a beat as she finishes
picking a petal and placing  it between the pages

Two boys
and girls
unclothed each other
simply at a picnic
flush with wine
alongside
sun-flecked trees.

The girls,
easy as the
forest round,
burned,
delicious,
as the boys
eager and nervous
in unequal measure
partly gave up
concealing
their joys
at forgetting
or remembering
in flickers
their bare bodies.

It went on
over nettles
and half-hours
and clambered
trees and
photos taken
almost formally
(on film,
of course).

And boyish lust,
at first sinuous,
a darting tongue,
began to
soften against,
for instance,
the sheer,
unthinkable
texture
of the two
girls carved
now backward
over the bough
of a storm-felled elm.

And there
in the embers
of evening
they learned
to thrill originally
at the vast,
gorgeous
and astonishing
irrelevance
of what
might happen next.

There is definitely glass in the hammer
and my hands are cut and bleeding.
But we needed to drive down that road,
hide behind the earth,
and commit ******.

John and Paul and George and Ringo
are dead.
And we threw their bodies in the dumpster
and drove away.

If only there was more **** to break.
We need more **** to break.

Inside my Garden
Of Misleading Wonders,
I house a particular Rose.
A Rose of great beauty,
A Rose so wonderous,
A Rose worthy of masterful prose.
The Pinprick Rose,
A great fickle Rose,
A Rose o' so painful to grow,
This enchanting Rose,
So painful to grow,
So fickle and slow,
Is rightfully so,
As its planter, you see, I ought to know.
Its petals are Rubies,
Diamonds its dew,
Its stem is of Jade -oh- and emeralds too.
It grows in the night,
Quite far out of sight,
A rather shy creature,
Quite partial to fright.
But when it is grown,
And when it's full bloom,
And when it bright petals burst forth from their womb,
It changes...
This Pinprick Rose,
So worthy of prose,
So painful to grow,
So fickle and slow,
So dark in the night,
So far out of sight,
So partial to fright--
It changes.
Its Petals, they bleed,
Its Stem takes on weeds,
Its Dew all concedes.
It Thorns all out lash,
The Rose starts to thrash,
Your life could be ending with just one simple slash.
The Rose is a monster, once it is grown,
That's the whole point, in Fate it is sewn...
Inside my Garden
Of Misleading Wonders,
I house a particular Rose.
A Rose of great Evil,
A Rose so murderous,
A Rose worthy of masterful prose.
The Pinprick Rose,
A great fickle Rose,
A Rose o' so painful to grow,
This ensnaring Rose,
So painful to grow,
So fickle and slow,
Is rightfully so,
As its planter, you see, I ought to know...