Breeze whispers despair
a tree exhaled
the leaf changed colour

My thoughts beget a signaling
Foreshadowed by a distancing
Of me from all who's listening
Yet seek to hurt this little thing
Oh Sun whose job it is to shine
Why not make this deed a crime?
Don't shine your gift on those who see
This hurting person wrapped in grief
Yet make the time to oversee
The evidence the hurting seek
Revert their eyes from my great pain
The Pen doth write to free the chains
Whose weight will take away and drain
The spirit unto which its lain
Oh tree whose job it is to give
Even to those who wish not to live
Forgive, Relive, Outlive my sins
Yet you stay put provide therin
Not for my sake to save the day
Don't need a cape to pave the way
For all mankind to follow thine
Don't judge a soul for it won't shine

M: "Thats my favorite tree, the one with the weird branches." (arms)

L: "Oh, the one without a head?."

M: "Yeah."

in a wooden old hut which
I'm already standing and sitting and reading
which day my lamp burns there
which day I sit and write
it is there looking out the window looking at the forest
looking at a tree looking at owls and deer

and playing the piano occasionally rarely
playing and playing and playing I look again
in the sun to the moon on the clouds that
have lain in all this and everything again and again
day after day not going anywhere nowhere
leaving I sit and sit in my chair in the hut

17.09.18

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.
No
    No
No
    No
No
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.
No
    No
No
    No
No
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.
No
    No
No
    No
No
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.

The lonely spire of a tree
Casting a shadow far below
Sprouted from a rocky cliff
Bark ravaged by fire and wind
The Green at war with the Grey  
Branches livid with moss and leaves
The tree is full of life
The birds flutter back and forth
Filling the air with a joyful noise
The shadow it casts is a pleasant release
From the Eyre of the blazing heat
I lay and write all day
Languid and free
Thanks to the trials this Tree faced

Do the roots of tomorrow
ever grow in delay?
Worry not if the
Flower
Will bloom in a day

The April morning's quiet
and so is the November.
Wherever people outnumber trees
or the dominant cover type
is unquiet. Nothing wrong with that.
Walt got it right, and Jane Jacobs:
the city is an experienced,
used beauty. Her toes are long,
nails thick and hair thin. Yet
her kisses can be sweet; or
smell of shit. All my life I've tried to point my window toward
some narrow wedge of nature.
On Seaman Ave., over the roof
beyond the chimney to the park
where every dog was walked.
Could I survive soot and an air shaft now, pigeons and cats,
or even a desk in the legislature for my lot in life. How about
prison like Etheridge Knight,
Nazim Hikmet?
I've gotten soft.
When he builds that house in the pocket
wetland my window now looks out on,
the developer will have given me what I need.
Amphibian mortality,
gravel, fill,
oak, ash and maples felled. Good
to the last drop is our bitterness, our love.