#anthropomorphism
His age was visible when viewing his bark,
Deep crags formed from the years of growth
And pain that has carved such deep crevasses
From the worry of time that has been a constant;
Where every story and tale told is another line,
Or ripple written within the folds of his face;
Each a scar where life had taught a lesson,
Permanently etching into his skin each lash,
Whose bruises freckled his facade in liver spots
Of green lichen, clinging stubbornly to every wound;
Each a marker of a time nature had beaten him;
His sap bleeding in sticky rivulets of red amber,
Crusting from his eyes as he chased the sun’s glare...
...Branches aching from the arthritis of his antiquity,
As they reached up, feebly grasping for growth,
That had long since drained beyond the reach of roots
Worn gnarly by the erosion of rain and runoff;
Exposing his foundation to the predation of youth,
Who sought to usurp his purchase by casting shade
To hide his stature and deprive him of the light
Required to stand tall, leaving him hunched;
Crooked and warped, twisted beyond recognition.
A hollow husk full of the rings that tell tall tales
Of his history and the years of little and plenty
That all must face when withstanding raging storms,
Or freezing blizzards that burn like a wildfire,
Scorching his trunk, singeing the long grey moss
Hanging from the frail stump of his weathered chin;
Wiry strands stretching disorderly in every direction,
Spreading across his body to cover the scowl
That had been unintentionally worn into the wrinkles
With every gripe at the hungry woodpecker,
Or every sting from the angry bumblebee;
Leaving him full of leathery callouses that peel
Paper thin layers of dead bark into curly cues,
Exposing rough patches of vascular blisters,
Inviting the infection of disease-ridden pests,
Whose vampiric bites sap the thin sap of his blood,
Stealing what water and food he needed to stand,
Stubbornly clinging to the side of his mountain,
As the soil around him began to slide away...
...Desperately, he clung to the rocks deep below.
Roots wrapped tight shook with every tremor,
Shaking loose the leaves on his trembling limbs,
To fall in an autumnal corsage of reds and yellows;
Each a memory of the centuries that had passed,
Flashing before him in a montage of his life...
...Before he too started to fall, joints popping,
Limbs snapping, roots ripping, trunk cracking;
A cacophony of pain that echoed across the forest,
Followed by a moment of weightlessness that hung
...Breathless...
As time hit pause on its inevitable progression,
To memorialize the memory of an ancient oak...
...Before he hit the ground, never to stand again:
It seems there is a sound when no one is around
To hear you fall.
— L.R. Thompson
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 11:17 PM UTC
The electric kettle grooves like a gavel bounce bouncing off the bench when the judge won the raffle
The sound waves baffle the mind as the refrigerator hums along to the microwaves song
A beep beepin’ melody as smoke’s creep creepin’ from the oven
And the blender is lovin’ the distraction
Keepin’ their eyes from the action
As he hatchets and dispassionately dispatches chickpeas left and right
No end to the violence in sight
Who cares about wrong from right
There will be hummus tonight
**** blender got his business done but now the fun begins as the stove channels the power of the sun to heat the pan and the plan is to fry the dough, those homemade doughnuts make the crowd go nuts but the sizzle of the grease unleashes the beast of the band, the main man, the rockstar, tattoo on his arm, rugged charm, protects you from harm, my man the fire alarm.
The fire truck sirens join the orchestration and soon the scene of devastation muffles into a hum, but umm, the night’s still young and we could still go, you know, I’m pretty loco for them Doritos and I may be burnt and poor but Taco Bell is open ’til 4.
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 8:01 AM UTC
i am not
all-together
much of anything,
really.
i am driven,
and lazy.
running water,
and ash,
baked into the earth.
i am both
undeserving,
and
the only one
worthy of
Love.
i am flotsam,
and bubbles,
and that coin
which sinks once
tossed Into the
fountain.
i am grass
heaped high !
to feed cattle.
and discarded
watermelon
seed.
but you !
you're the same.
and then,
not the same.
you're flourishing
flowers,
and wilting
autumnal Leaves.
both witness the scythe.
you are living inspiration,
and monument
to entropy.
and if you have veins
then let me be
the salt in those veins.
and if love dies,
then let it die in me,
first.
i couldn't stand
to see it
the other
way around.
Same.
Not Same.
if you are the mirror
then am i
not the frame?
but all of This:
the prose,
aggregate metaphor,
lonely night,
cold morning,
wine drunk alone,
the joy of Longing,
not
all-together
much of anything,
really.
except maybe;
to display.
Aug 11, 2017
Aug 11, 2017 at 12:55 AM UTC
I dream of dogs
though I doubt they dream of me
or rabbits running across
a monochrome field
I presume
many things about the canine psyche:
an ancient wolf howling in their head
an inability to feel dread, and
the arrogance of cats,
their “pet” peeve
feigned feline ferocity
may bother them not one whit
nor do they likely give a **** what stirs
in my primordial cerebral soup, when I scratch
their ears, and vainly imagine their fears
of the dead dark, are the same
as ours
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC