"acer" poems
A road of palest lime fluttering Sycamore trees
Some almost leafless, others coronets still there
Through the golden branches colbalt blue skies
Lilac bushes, the garden daisies, flower in rows.
Thinning Robinna casts shadows of dim shade
Contrasting the red Acer’s lace leaf with green
The trunk arch of handkerchief laden Foxglove
Holds open its beautiful boughs to be admired.
For Autumn spreads my walk in glorious glitter
Though the evening pulls in the coldness of year
Making the best of these last savages of seasons
Gathering leavings, the birdtable spills its seeds.
Love Mary ***
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 11:18 AM UTC
Today the Summer lets go of its hold
Dripping rain drops from the trees
Swaying its closure of green growth
The tips of the Acer turning reddish.
The dance of ends splits my heart
Leaving sarratteted round its edge
Autumn’s promise of golden days
The Foxglove leaf a fallen emblem.
Love Mary
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 9:23 AM UTC
the bundles of mulched cannas thickens like Autumn's bracken
and the orange hues of the acer
plays hide and seek amongst the glowing skies
solitary magpies forever speculate caution
as overgrown paths beckons the occasional stranger.
Contre jour light frames my mission
at once I understand the message
a seasonal transformation
pitches the earnestness of renewal.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 3:27 PM UTC
The crape myrtle in front of his parents house
together with several strains of palmatum acer
whose twigs had been broken by his childhood-favorite ball
still somehow grew up with him
The swing carried his tender laughter
lifted by the white oak once bearded his tiny footprints
Will they remember him
The toy car he had used as a skateboard
sitting in a dust-covered corner of the attic
accompanied by a broken water gun
carrying his innocent dreams
The afternoon sunlight covering the empty dinning table
as gentle as it was on his face dozens of snowfalls ago
Will they remember him
The basketball used to hop around him
witnessed numerous of his rejoicing moments
now being wiped as new, inflated every once a while
sitting on the bookshelf
aside the medals and badges
internally telling the stories of honor and courage
in a voice we may never hear with our ears
Will they remember him
The swallows making nest under the eaves
of his old apartment
whose injured ancestor years ago had been carefully held in his hands
cured, fed, and set free
The quiet hybrid dog who has met many generations of this swallow family
after being rescued by him from a trash can
Will they remember him
The scarf he had worn for many winters
now tightly hugging the neck of this shepherd boy
The compass he received as twelfth birthday gift
now treasured in an orphan's pocket
guarding every gunfire-lightened, terrified night
Will they remember him
The helmet and bulletproof vest
on which painted camouflage has been worn and fading
tasted his sweat in many places of the world
The dogtag polished by his burly chest
The cloudless sky reflected from his wide-opened eyes
The sands and stones
witnessed thousands of years of human self-redemption
now lying under him
dyed by the dark scarlet bursting out from his motionless body
They will remember him.
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 12:30 PM UTC
12:45
The sun has gone black,
the world is asleep.
In the family room,
the television clicks on by itself.
It illuminates my father,
half-naked,
covered in processed cheese dust.
The channel changes to Cinemax,
******** ***********
My mother walks in
without her glasses,
and for a moment
her screams of disgust
are indistinguishable
from the throes of passion
broadcast on the cheap
Acer dad bought at Costco.
Elsewhere,
in South America,
a volcano has erupted.
It sprays debris
and detritus
over a small village
with a long name.
Postmodern Vesuvians **** ash,
frozen not with fear
but rigor mortis.
The CNN report plays for three hours.
The world moves on.
Later,
a man explodes in a convenience store.
Guts rocket outward,
onto wine coolers
and travel packages of Chex,
and the clerk just shrugs.
If you go there today,
all that’s left is the smell of ammonia
and a dark stain on the ceiling.
At the same moment,
a toddler steps off a cliff,
spiraling into the abyss,
but never stops falling.
He’s been going for days,
months,
years.
He has kept his audience updated
through a Bluetooth that we tossed down after him.
He’s had windburn since he fell,
but the ointment we sent
hasn’t reached him yet.
His parents are now expecting.
He just yawns.
In my family room,
the woman on Cinemax is climaxing,
screaming,
pulling her hair out
while a greased-up middle aged
pizza deliveryman autoerotically asphyxiates
himself with a hair tie.
As she wails for the last time,
the TV screen shatters,
glass ejected,
blazing through the air
like Flight 93
seconds before impact.
Sparks salivate from the exposed wires,
then cackle down
into a signed black.
And as this happens,
the children on Exeter St
stop crying.
The alcohol in a small town liquor store in Wyoming
un-ferments,
and the world, for a moment,
ceases to turn.
But only for a blink.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 2:02 PM UTC
I'm finding you in the snow again
and I can't seem
to stop
chewing on
my bottom lip
in worry
out of habit
I don't know anymore
Some slightly chapped "I love you"s
"I'm sorry"s, and "I need you"s
curl around my ugly Midwest winter;
drift in and out of the sleeves of my coat
and the skeletons of these poor trees
dust-colored oak leaves
shivering boxelder branches
("Acer negundo...")
I want to sleep, just like them
Breathe backwards
Keep still
Rooted firmly
Nice, calm, steady
But I can't
I'm still waiting
(somewhat impatiently)
To pluck your, "I'm here now, love."
Your, "It's okay."
Your, "Kiss me?"
Right from your mouth
Before you can even say it.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 5:21 PM UTC
Orange in spring,
pinkish-brown,
yellow into deep green
through summer,
and finally to crimson
in autumn when they fall,
these leaves of the acer griseum,
the Chinese paperbark maple.
On the tree its leaves are opposite,
not alternate, two leafstalks arising
from the same point on the twig.
This is how it must be, she thought.
She had waited for the first frost
and, gathered in a fold of her cloak,
let seven leaves fall
to scatter on her desk.
One leaf holds her gaze;
her fingers touch,
and turning it over
she places it ready
in the hand’s left palm,
Picking up her finest brush,
with sad and slight but heavy
emphasis required, she inscribes
the subtle downward strokes of
the kanji characters for crimson -
makka, the blood’s red,
the true essence of life.
*crimson leaves
fallen now scattered
one is chosen.
my heart longs for love*
So to the garden stream
she goes, and kneeling
beside its moving water
launches this leaf
from her cupped hand.
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 8:24 AM UTC
Nun Perfect
Tell me how you do that,
teach me how you go to sleep
in one city and wake up half way
across the continent with less money
in the safe than the local corner parishioner
in a 1963 black and white miracle movie.
When my mother was murdered,
I was among the “Lilies of the Field”.
I swore I would never fall in love
with a drifter who would leave and
break your heart, disappoint you,
with his Solomon meander in the only
way Sidney Poitier could ever do after
erecting a church with the strong arms
of a Acer nigrum, silently in the night.
But to the Nun(s) he was perfect
without a waving goodbye,
or long drawn out farewells...
he wasn't much for tears either.
If you are worried about the dog,
she's gone where all old good dogs go
to meet their predecessors in the
sweet soup of the creator's mind.
I was so sorry to hear, while I slept
in the back seat of an old Ion mind,
with my little piggy tail still curled
and snoring at my feet, you know,
she slept in a furnace all day,
all that heat can pack a girl up.
Home and crossing boundaries.
So every Cowboy hat ever born
under a starry sky with a cigar
dangling from his lip would hear
me whoop under the Lone star,
he's close, but none's perfect.
She's pretty **** close to broken
yarns of roads and *** holes of beautiful,
to pride's sore, red eyes.
© 2014 Corset
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 12:06 PM UTC
In my accidental garden
There's a eucalyptus tree
I had to chop it down
Then it grew again for me.
There are pieces of it's body
Standing all around
They have a sort of beauty
I don't sit on the ground.
There's wisteria in flower
Twisted round the climbing frame
By the door a bright red acer
Trimmed to stop the drips of rain
Honeysuckle rambles
I confess there's brambles too
Dock and nettle with the roses
Rosemary and Feverfew
There's a dish of cat food
For the feline friends who come
But the dish is empty
And for cats alas there's none
Fearless Robin first to find it
Shared some time with me
Then Mrs Blackbird came
And her husband warily.
I sit on the unformed wood
Beneath the shady trees
With birds all unafraid
And I wonder
Jun 1, 2017
Jun 1, 2017 at 12:20 PM UTC
For me,
men are not romantic--
The way I love a woman is
so much less traumatic
than what straight girls
intend to endure--
Being lead on is common, I’m sure--
And she never fooled me,
She never used me,
Never did her silence spur anxiety--
I eagerly guided her fingers
inside of me- Where
Boys would lean above you, er*ct in power, see- there
Hurt you as they f*ck you, and always them to please--
Dear, your pleasure is mine and
you’re the cause of mine and
I know you’ll treat me different; Better
than what I thought could be fine.
I’ll make you finish and upon me
you’ll dine.
Women-love-women love is superior,
sublime.
Nov 2, 2020
Nov 2, 2020 at 9:45 AM UTC
He made his own garden from the words
Planting the raspberries that she gave him
The two roses, red and white now strong
And an Acer reached a height of ten feet
In the middle an oblong grass lawn grew
Edged with daffodils and crocuses to multiply
A few pots blossomed with a variety of plants
And the fairy of love and charity stood watch.
Love Mary xxxx
Apr 22, 2019
Apr 22, 2019 at 7:21 AM UTC
the acer fell,
unblunted that it can bleed.
yearning for you,
yet no fondness was felt.
just like the stars
that i can't reach,
just like a scar
that i mustn't touch,
and just like you
that isn't my match.
i must let go the acer,
for we are both bleeding already.
May 3, 2019
May 3, 2019 at 3:54 AM UTC
your salix for dreaming
under fagus for swinging
on platanus for shading
beneath juniperus for grieving
about quercus for remembering
with liriodendron for reaching
above prunus for sweetening
up pinus for smelling
around ilex for hiding
behind acer for uplifting
your heart
tree
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 6:26 PM UTC