#wallacestevens
I
When the firecat bristled over Oklahoma,
The green lushy bushes trembled and thrilled.
II
Did he try to find a tree in that night?-
When the valley candle converged upon its image.
III
I look at the dead tree
But I know
A green bud is finding its way out
From beneath the ground.
IV
The glossy leaves
Are bangles of an armed tree.
It fires out the life when the wind blows.
V
The green algae in the sea bed
Shimmers blue in the moonlight.
It's the ritual to summon the Sun.
VI
The barren winter is soon ending.
The green is shedding its weary skin.
VII
I look at the green leaf,
The green tree,
The green hill,
The green in my mind
And the green in yours.
Are they the same green?
Let me change my lens!
VIII
The forest green welcomes me,
May that forest forever stay in our blind spot.
May its green stay green
And not dusty of some underdeveloped road track.
IX
Outside the window:
The Golden Oriole and a Great Coucal
Sit on the faraway tree.
They came to see the Drongo's air dive.
Ahead of the blue-green endless sky, a swallow prepares for its 'better' dive.
The trees gossip on swallow's act,
And in the greener shade
A stream hums with airy beats.
X
When I see a dry tree
I lend it some of my green.
'I have seen you in glory;
it shall return.'
XI
Watching the green frames,
Change throughout the seasons
Is alike a flower blooming.
The winter night wilts it
And the spring morn teems it.
XII
It is the color of life.
A state of calm tranquil.
The trees in the hills
Moving in unison
Marks how alive the wind is.
XIII
While the valley candle kept burning
And flashing on the firecats fury;
I borrowed his lens of green.
It was broken.
Mar 21
Mar 21, 2026 at 6:41 AM UTC
I
Begin by getting out the ***
The bigger, the better.
But a standard one will do.
II
Next, bring out the grounds.
The darker they are, the more
Bitter they'll be, the more
Satisfying it'll feel when it's drunk.
III
Fill the *** with split tears to the brim.
Anymore and it'd overflow.
IV
Place the *** in the coffee maker,
Oven, or the microwave.
Whichever will boil fastest.
V
While the water is boiling
Place the honey on the counter.
The sugar was always too
Sweet for you.
VI
Once it's been properly steeped,
Let your hands hover cradled around
The *** So that you may feel the heat,
But not be burnt.
VII
Once the water has cooled to 451 degrees
Write down the words you meant to say
Tear them and drop them into the ***
If it doesn't smell like regret, you're doing something wrong.
VIII
Once you've scowled sufficiently,
Make sure to take a sip from the ***
If it still tastes like it used to,
Pour in a cup of honey or salt.
Stir to dissolve.
VIIII
By now the water should taste
Of bittersweet regret.
Take out the biggest spoon you own
And collect a tablespoon of the
Lightest grounds, and eat them.
X
The lightest grounds will taste
Of laughter and of smiling.
They’ll taste of roses blooming in your chest
And of the sun kissing your skin in winter.
The darkest grounds will feel
Like thorns.
XI
However, you’ve had your fun
Now, it’s time to stir in the
Darkest grounds.
There’s no need to filter them,
After all, it’s only instant coffee.
XII
Pick up the *** in shaking hands and
Pour it all out into your preferred mug.
Frown at it and huff angrily as you watch
Plumes of smokes rising.
It smells just like he did.
XIII
Consider throwing the steaming mug at the wall.
Picture the shards mixing with the mess it’d make.
Imagine how it’d feel to hear the sickening crack
Of it shattering.
Consider it, but do not act.
XIV
Finally, you’re done.
You should feel proud of yourself.
Now, the best part, after all it’s like they say.
You’ve made your brew,
Now drink from it.
Jan 26, 2019
Jan 26, 2019 at 1:57 AM UTC
So frivolous that this exists within a
Lack of being,
The ebb and flow of Death influx,
The cause of void in pulse, but,
Nonetheless,
Life hosts in essence, in absence,
In ephemeral disguises compiling like
Waves in the ocean,
Like pomegranate seeds in hands,
Like the letter C in the mind,
[A comedy]
.Perpetual.
And yet we are,
And yet I am,
And yet you is,
[A complex]
The "primordial" surrogate of truth:
The sun in a raisin,
Shriveled and compacted because
The grape was in the son of
Woman and man
[A tragedy]
But still, with her eyes on horizons,
The blue woman remains in essence
While the red man remains in absence:
*Lack of sunrises
Lack of sunsets
Lack of quiet nights*
But the ebb and flow
as parables
as memoirs
Appease the quiet war between the
Quiet soul's erosion and the
Ancestral swig of heresy, tonics that
Drip sporadic hesitation,
An emotion
[A concoction]
.Purple.
This is my body
Information becomes info
This is my blood
Influence the chaos
With ripened moons and fluorescent suns
The poetry as Mother Tongue
As Mother Nature
As existence
As a lack of dark meaning
[A feeling]
["Give them what they lacked"]
The songs of ecclesiastics
Everything is meaningless
Until
My hands
My hands
My hands
Are
Reincarnated within the Auroras of Autumn,
Within the auras of Winter,
Within
Within
The Ebb and Flow of Death bearing the new.
[A time][A place]
Father's Time
Father's End
As anecdotes
As joyful mysteries
.
Suppose the mirror reflects it all
As found and "uncharred"
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 1:05 AM UTC