#resurgence
The tree by the viaduct
violently fell, splintered
in late January's storm.
It had happened at night;
left to tell stories to the worms
about when the stars
waved back.
The pigeons in our garden
didn't sleep on those
stormy early-mornings.
Spring sprouts greener
grass amongst wet moss.
Splinters raise sharp fingernails
to scratch the sky; beckoning
to the heavens that try their best
to welcome the shattered trunk.
The bough lying on the ground,
yet buds bring their bright
colours into blossom to warm
the frozen pavements. A
new life - attractive pink,
romantically scattered along
its own dying bark.
Lying over the grass, ready to
return to the soil when
the last of the sweet sap dries
and the pink fades into dull brown.
But this afternoon,
blessed in cold April sunlight
the bloom of the fallen
tree seems even
brighter against green
than it would have
against a misty grey-blue.
Mar 27, 2025
Mar 27, 2025 at 7:32 PM UTC
inadequately explained
the wounds engraved
the body that rests here, that lays
he was flushed with florescence
flowered with effervescence
resting under a grey grave
he lays immersed in the earth
a shallow grave for a heart of hearth
i can still see his orange shirt
the clouds cry out grey
Dec 13, 2024
Dec 13, 2024 at 10:01 AM UTC
The breakfast nook brightens,
suffused with impertinent sunlight,
arrogant, intrusive, disrupting dystopian
anticipations to dare yield the repressed,
now untethered from their despondent moorings:
grinning, chubby-faced sunflowers
electing a cadenced dance,
the pump, pump, pump of Hip Hop
thumping behind bodega counters,
the ponies of Assateague,
slick with lather and hope,
denuded thighs shifting in languid heat
atop hillocks of powdered sand,
the Jack Russell hurtling skyward,
disc clenched, her smooth white coat
suspended against nimbus curls
tossed carelessly upon a blue-black canvas,
Aquinnah, hallowed, striated escarpment,
resplendent at the shank of day,
fireflies, ice cream, and the irresistible beckon
of the evening pines that rock to the day’s completion,
whistling, familiar, reassuring.
Apr 19, 2020
Apr 19, 2020 at 3:00 PM UTC
My tired eyes,
my fatigued mind
falls slow and time becomes obscured by
the drowsy raven sailing sunset sky boulevard.
My phone is ringing orders and misdirection calls,
that funny little radiation box hollering voices
of somewhere, telemarketers in India, automated messages,
spurious connections anywhere but here.
The rain-shine of approaching April Wednesday
trails golden hues among the treeline being viciously
torn like a gradual atomic bomb flattening the hoary hills
and spectacular firs beryl in frequent times of showers.
Each day I hope for that fabled resurgence,
nearly a year my fingers have been crossed
while wars are still wars, politicians still politicians,
gods still gods. Everything is so still, silence among fury.
Carpet bombings, protests, genocides, reforms, riots, the drowsy
raven circles in view of the window and my thoughts cycle around
my washing machine consciousness wiping off the grit of untruths
of everywhere else but within myself. That seems to be the problem
with most people.
As the clouds roll in, as the sun subsides into darkness,
as my mind is clouded by that ever-expanding raven encompassing
night sky and nightmares, I realize I hadn't even gone out at any point
that day and probably wouldn't the next.
We've become so dull some of us.
Vacuums inside of vacuums.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 11:24 PM UTC
Part I: Caught in the eye of the...
The entrée of the storm and its' cyclonic winds,
have created a whirlwind of thoughts.
Because while the rain whips vehemently against ground
Life will be remembered as fragile, short and slippery.
The day, the beginning; the night, the end.
The storm is the only one that can take place
At both time points.
The storm has been from the beginning and will be until the end.
True to our love,
With her life began, and with it life will end.
Part II: Calm after the...
Oh, dear friend, where are you?
For in this darkness that I lay,
I can no longer find you.
Oh, sweet Song of Storms
When shall you play in the atmosphere?
With your enticing melody, and beautiful sounds,
That break all the norms.
The storm ravages throughout the cities
That mankind has forsaken.
Rivers of endless chaos, destruction and
Despair…
And in the blink of an eye, the batting of a wing,
And a young maiden falling in love,
Everything is washed away by the beautiful storm.
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 9:59 PM UTC