Squeeze gently like lemons and fruits
Sweet nectar juices produced
**** tongue close to core
Butterscotch like tapped sycamore
Perspiration seeps from peel
Porous citrus aromates near
Grown in sun among the wildflowers
Oh how I love her, even when she sours
I like to think I'll find peace for me
resting beneath a sycamore tree.
I can't feel its roots burrow into my body,
sapping me of my strength.
Can't you see?
There is peace beneath this sycamore tree.
Look at how it shelters me
in the shade, so I can't see the sun.
What on earth are you telling me now?
This is just a simple sycamore tree
it is not acting sycophantically.
I'm not held down, it's protecting me.
It wants your death to fertilize its growth.
You're rooted to the sycophantic tree.
Just go, there is nothing here for you.
I'm corrupted, leave without me.
That cold, harsh,
February rain slashes against
the panes of glass in my bedside window.
The sycamore tree in the front yard
with it's thick lashes,
has chased away the coo of the owl.
I've grown used to it's lullaby
and, as I drift off,
I worry a tired thought:
will he come back?
leaning against the sycamore
lonely autumn friends
November 2017, Place Dauphine, Paris
Day breaks on Doubletop Mountain, shadowing villages below.
Three-thousand eight hundred feet tall, it captures the eye!
And standing at attention there in front of me, a battalion of Sugar Maples in full…. Fall…. Regalia!
Cascading tones of Crimsons, Burgundy, scarlet reds and Golden Hue.
Gazing over Dunk Hill as farmer’s fallow fields, turn again for fertility,
There are only brief streams of life giving sunlight, and now the sky turns to a pale grey.
Me, well I live for this time of year….enjoying the evening autumn constellations,
Or Moms dining table adorned with Indian corn and blackberry canes!
Bessie's Margaretville home begins the fall ritual of canning and drying.
Breaking out winter clothes…as she proclaims "no whites after Labor Day"!
The last bit of warmth now dwells just behind the Catskill’s Harvest Moon,
And the V of geese honk their good-byes to the summer sun.
Be awake and walk
Through the copse of trees.
Descend the staircase
To the warm fire's will.
In thy merry home
Life begins to flow.
Rise once more among
The sycamore trees.
Harmonica and strums sail my shores
Tell my whole clan sonny, he ain't good
That I met a troller under a sycamore
He passed me all the love as he veiled
We walked around,camouflaged by leaves
Tell mummy he was a preacher's son
A soul that was open and hid it's stick
Unharmonised in accapellas I drowned
Swingers of melodic stormy strings
Tell sassy to keep her tassels tucked
To calm her tussles and noisy gongs
Shake on the octave of the beats
Whisked dreams of the lost yesterdays
Tell Jimmy to listen to her heart raise
Tie her down, bring her back home
Liberate and let her fly like a wild bird
Your rapture is infectious,
You are endearing in a way that is physically painful to me.
I adore you like a wildfire.
Your eyes have been shaped like a laugh since noon.
Everything is viscid with the scent
of your youth;
tattered baseball gloves,
and a whisper of burning wood.
I’m a little in love with all of it.
Summer digs its way into my veins.
You dissolve into a splendid and fearless laugh.
Its dripping with a sort of ferocious, tranquil charm.
One of my hands is a promise,
the other is a secret,
they are identical;
I have been missing you
as long as I have known you.
an open letter to everyone I have ever loved.
— The End —