Autumn pours her vintage, red
and rippling, into casks
of rough-hewn oak;
smokey avenues damp
with the exquisite balsam
of the gleaning season.
A variation on a theme. :)
‘I was drinking in the surroundings: air so crisp you could snap it with your fingers and greens in every lush shade imaginable offset by autumnal flashes of red and yellow.‘
- Wendy Delsol, Stork
Dog and Goat perform the wool rite,
A deluge of silver flashing forward.
South wind where best perch to weather?
Lie me basking in your splendour!
Cast around the hill back footed,
Sky clad before spent beech leaves.
New greens are flashing here and there,
A Frost that whitens morning air.
Storms blow to cleanse Her of her dying,
Him of sins inside Spring flowers.
Dance for it is time to plant new seed,
Luperci pressed in chick ****!
Exalt in stirrings deep as marrow,
Have dandelions mark the passing.
Though limbs of Oak hold up pale plaster,
The Summer comes in Springs soon after.
as i walk upon this ground—
i suddenly miss you,
my native brothers.
the oak trees twist and turn
signaling the return of my soul
and the loss of yours
on behalf of my kind, i truly apologize
we stole your land
and murdered you all
your statement was right—
no one can own the Earth.
we have tried,
and look where it brought us.
now we are burning up
at the expense of prosperity
and sacrificing longevity
native american blood
flows deeper, beyond fossil fuels
underneath the fracking
there’s truth buried somewhere
i can feel it, i definitely can
i wish i could scream to everyone,
“they were right!”
i wish i could scream to everyone
i wish i could bleed myself
to show them what we have lost...
to show them who you have lost.
native american blood
dries and coagulates accordingly
to our war rules
native american blood
flows no longer
stagnant in our marginalized hearts
native american truth
was our last hope
In the Garden, by the Creek,
Stands a Tree –
A Weary Willow, weeping, in
A prayerful plea:
“The scoffing Oaks hold
All their leaves,
But mine wither in this winter;
Don’t You see?!”
But, oh, what She
Doesn’t yet know
Is that, now, below the ground,
Growing down, and reaching out –
Hidden to sight or sound –
Are her Roots, preparing Her
To bear a thing no Oak has ever known:
So, may Her weeping turn to singing
For spring is bringing
A New Beginning
…In the Garden, by the Creek.
The towering oak dipped his crooked fingers into the sky,
His rich green leaves stirring the soft, rose-blushed clouds
Which draped themselves demurely across its glowing expanse.
The luminous half-moon pokes his intrusive eye through
that resplendent array of gold, purple, pink, and yellow,
forewarning the passing of this at once homely and sacred pleasure.
For a time, he must reign, bathing the sky in his stately silver glow.
Though the earth below is singing, the sky is all a’ hush now
and he pulls the veil of slumber o’er the land of that towering oak,
promising to remove his gentle veil one more come dawn.
Old oak heritage
Ancient tree lingers on
a living relic
The oak tree stretched and twisted
towards a sky trapped
in the hour between dusk and darkness
pink lace across the deepest of blue
wind trembling the leaves
just enough to hear them whisper.
you stood stripped at its base
hand searching across the bark
a taste of wine on your lips
eyes searching the horizon
knowing without a doubt
that I would be yours.
Lodi, California never looked so good.
Oak branches reach up,
as if to kiss the blue sky,
a breathtaking sight.
When young and dreaming minds are set to wander
Into distant and dancing planes
A rhythmic cadence does beckon
While the Earth yields to watch
As barefooted children play.
The tire swings again
Curious shadows linger
Never too close
Never too far
A fulfilled existence to an unfulfilled world
A silent presence to an absentminded crowd
Accompanied by the laughter of barefooted children
As they play.
When innocent children grow old
And Innocence becomes Ignorance
Unburdened smiles are replaced with
Darkened spirits and carefully crafted words.
The past still remains present.
A mindful shield
Guiding a hollowed crowd
Absent imprints of the soles
Of barefooted children
Far too old to play.
Seconds begin to weather
Tender breaths are met with woeful groans
Hardened by the world
Agonized by joyful memories
Rotting from inside to out.
Left to fall
Without any one to hear a sound.
Here lies a calm remembrance,
That while your melodies may become buried
Entombed by Concrete and Machine
When barefooted children turn
To heels and dress shoes and speech
The earth and roots will remain
Tattooed to the souls of our feet.
For the trees that watched as I grew up, and broke my falls when I climbed too high.