For days I have drawn fern - shaped lines in the absence of words. Criss - cross stalk and petals made me believe words were to attain from leafy cartoons. Ferns dipped in gloam green stains and titled 'Fern du Lac', dotted. I buried them in the back garden, below the brown - veined plum tree, for they neither proffessed nor proved anything. One would pass clay clear mornings, mist lit noons, afternoons of pink flush, moth buzzing nights and start again. I passed and paled in between, with one thought beating in mind: my dreams rest in fern, moss and lichen. What was its spring, soil and root? How did it own, mingle, obscure, confuse, diffuse and use me? It kept silence, and silence reinforced dreams and gave form. When in possession of form, I reached for meaning and wouldn't break.
The old habits set in
like the moss on stones,
clinging to my brain.
Waiting to inhale my
remaining soul that I
grew last summer.
the world insists on
making meaning don’t
into an abstraction
here between your
with moss (I can almost
feel your milky roots)
watch my fingers
as I touch you there is
watch me get on my
knees this is
the sky flowing out
of your hips can you
see it this is
what gives (milk)
to all of my
make you flesh
into blossom let me
take you down
like the rain
Like standing on the peak of a mountain range during a lightning storm with my eyes closed,
I am sending myself as a beacon out to you.
With blueberry tinted fingers you touch my face, soft as the sunset mist, and leave bruise colored echoes across my skin,
I am running, skipping my body across the darkening soil like a stone, spinning my way past the orange fungi adorned trees after you,
Can’t you feel the swirling hurricane of desire in my chest when we press close,
the way my body settles like cooling lava around you when we intertwine,
I cannot help but to be shaped by you.
All around us the auroras waltz and curtsy,
the moss cloaked rocks pulsate with earth's breath,
the lightning strikes.
I open my eyes, and you are gone.
catches on mossy greens
claiming the side of an impervious
A blunt stroke
in a world of extremes
with a deliberate slant.
Indifferent to approachable
stalwart to still.
A paint-laden brush
turning unwavering guards
into the most trusted
I’m drawn to nurse
the errant side
with a gentle hand
to coax a testimony of truth.
A humbled servant once a king.
A dying giant to a ***** friend.
Once a professor of celestial beings
now a hopeful star gazer.
The weathered skin worn
by a fallen age
now at the pleasure
of a wanderer’s intrigue.
holds his post
to bespeak a worthy tale.
I am hard-put to deny him.
They who reached for heaven
never would achieve it.
Yet in civilian garb
vulnerability laid bare, exposed.
Sentinels become saints,
and I cannot ignore their courage.
Moss is a clue to the environment around a tree. It signals excessive moisture and that the air around the tree is unpolluted—pure. Meanwhile too much moss can cause a tree to become unbalanced “weak” during a wind storm. Just the right amount of moss adds beauty without destruction, a delicate look of vulnerability.
To a wood of Ash and Oak I'll go
And in shade of ancient canopy lie
Amongst Moss I'll make my bed
In this mossy sleep I'll die
And on the grass will lay my head
My final ending sight the sky
The Foxes over me will tread
And of a meal they'll make my eye
But on this fact I have no dread
For I will not be there to spy
Maybe it was the hazy Sunday morning bliss or the cicadas screaming their annoying lullaby but I found myself drawn to the woods.
Streams of blue and green water and muddy paths that lead me back to sanity every time I come through.
My past has kept me locked in city streets with too many people and too many memories.
My present holds a sympathetic and nostalgic view for the things I love but also a craving for something vast and beyond.
As for my future if they ask me today I might just head to the woods and never leave.
I’ll become one with the moss on the trees and the mushrooms in the ground.
I’ll be the composure for the cicadas and the paint for the sunsets and sunrises.
Tonight we will dream of the right path to the New York life and the city dreams but tomorrow we’ll find the left path holds the cure to the soul in the trees.
There as I sat it spoke to me,
this wall of asymmetric cracks.
Its faded, soaked cement remained.
Its light red bricks answered back.
Past these chips of aged white
the blue sky hung with wispy cloud.
A distant bird with creeping weeds
through ancient windows spoke aloud.
Here light enfolds these steps of prayer
where new fresh grass is listening.
The hedges kept with varied plants
in waving breezes are glistening.
This ruined wall tells its story
of faded asymmetric glory.
He reminds you that you may never be loved
In the way that you are supposed to
His heart opens as it should
A halved pomegranate
And the jewel flesh spills forward
In effortless bounty
Yours was wrapped in butcher paper
With care, long ago
It lives in the freezer
In the way, way back
Ice crystals form slowly
Until they resemble a silver blanket of moss
"Cavetown wrote a song about your ex and we played it all summer long" pt 3. This poem isn't about what you think it is, but I don't think that that matters so much. The feeling is the same at its core, even if the circumstances are not.