"arboretum" poems
It was an arbitrary day
at the arboretum
the ferns were all wondering why
a rash of rogue rhododendrons
were roughing up the azaleas
while mighty magnolias stood meekly by
A patch of tiny cyclamen giggled girlishly
while witch hazels waved green wands
and the willows wrung their hands
and wept and wept
'cause they knew what was really going on
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 1:19 PM UTC
Our first date at Rise
Holding your hand at the Firehouse Theater
Eating bagels you brought back from Montreal
Having lunch at Salata
Going to the Arboretum
The way you peeked out children’s house
Cuddling on the couch
Watching Game of Thrones
When you fell asleep in my arms
Drinking Amaretto Sours
When you would be silly
The sound of your voice
The maraschino cherry stem you tied with your tongue
The Forget Me Not Flower Kit you gave me
Exchanging texts
The sound of incoming WhatsApp messages
Diner at Howard Wangs
You wearing bunny ears during Easter
36-28-41
When you posed for me
Your blues eyes looking up at me
Seeing your smile
Touching your lips
The way you smell
The secrets you would tell
Showing how you care
Hugging me tight
Letting me take care of you
When you cook Arepas
The gluten free Clafouti
The time you had the flu
Wearing Calvin Klein underwater
Your dainty feet
Your goddess like figure
Your cute accent
Typing in the door bell code
Hearing you answer
The emoji of puppy heart kitten
Knowing you are my Bijou
Calling you Minou
Oct 26, 2018
Oct 26, 2018 at 7:21 PM UTC
I stand here
Awaiting your touch
Free me forever
From my crutch
Take me away
I’ll join you in your freedom
From days so achromatic
Preserved in an arboretum.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 8:20 AM UTC
Curved branches and winding vines
Impose it's corridor
On the surrounding woodland,
And readies my heart
To see you again
As I walk,
The surrounding trees
Drop the last of their leaves
But your presence
Turn fall into an arboretum
The silence of the woods
Grow dense,
And the chilling wind
Cuts through me
As we near one another,
But I am warmed
As you stand
Waiting for me,
My sweet lover
Dec 17, 2023
Dec 17, 2023 at 1:14 AM UTC
there's a place for this- this blood
this place where the skin can be pulled right from the lip
a gun pulled from the glove compartment
in warm December this private affair
traveling with passenger zero
into the title of a love song or
narrowing into the wet corners of the mouths
softened annunciations over an early sixties recording
her song brings shakes to legs and swiveling snakelike movements
this Spanish river goddess I do not even know by name who settles the wars of babes and covers the infinite dust of infinite children
there are places like this:
still and magical and pleasantly mute
where she stares back to me returning
the years of eye mail exchanged between us
as if returning a floral arrangement that lost its scent
or a novel that lost its story
and a passenger writhing with envy
with a back turned she moseys
along the dirt path of the arboretum
a small dance in the bowels of her step
somewhere we blend the stories of each other’s pockets
mending the balance of need
hands surfacing in weathered bluejeans
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 12:15 PM UTC
We have bulldozed the Garden of Eden;
we are nothing more than a parasite with an unending appetite
for destruction in the name of civilization.
Our monstrous monumental achievements can be viewed from space;
we are the cataclysmic legion, the unbeaten ****** the demon of freedom
with the desire to demolish and impoverish the last bastion arboretum.
We are mad and frenzied in our passion;
we are the phantasm assassin choking the very lungs we use to breathe
the misanthrope who carves materialistic thrones to sit on and wait for exalted death while we replant trees in self-centered glorification of hope.
We are doomed and we know it, but we still don't care;
we question science and bemoan nature for wreaking havoc, stare into the microscope looking for answers in the reverent appliance of defiance waiting to find the sparks to eternal life there.
We are the envy, the mistrust, the sadist and the snake;
we squabble over the scraps of apple peel and douse ourselves in ice cubes
whilst far away some African child walks 50 miles for a sip of clean water
we are the plague of mistakes broadcasting hurricanes to entertain.
We have bulldozed The Garden of Eden
now only the snake remains and there is no escape
freely offering the apple peel to those who obligingly accept
our epitaph will read:
humanity stepped back
to be overshadowed by an ape.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 12:39 PM UTC
~
*Cotton duck canvas
on careful days
in a closed room,
intersecting tension,
energy and interest
for strangers to interpret
Three bashful belles
and lovers of art
undressed as a figure study,
cloistered together
in a line of beauty
for moral support
Their congregation assembled
in glorification of
angelic landscapes,
tempered by the mysteries
within convexity's arboretum
In unequivocal parts and gradation,
where good posture
and graceful presentation
count in equal measure,
to create Hogarth's
line continuous
--the Analysis of Beauty,
bended at the waist
to spread light through the canopy
During such exhibition
the belles whisper
under the rose,
of war and shopping lists,
they seem to avert eye contact,
gazes fixed to
the eternal sphere
ticking on the far wall,
never directly into the eyes
of those who come to
paint their *******
with sandalwood*
~
Apr 17, 2024
Apr 17, 2024 at 1:05 PM UTC
The first was taken before we ever met.
My sister: curled beneath insulated blankets,
a pink bow vaseline-glued to her bald head,
glassy infant eyes turned in the direction
of a picture of me (red striped shirt, my favorite overalls,
velcro shoes). Mom taped it against the outside
of her incubator; so she would know her big brother
even if I wasn’t allowed to visit her yet.
The second shows the two of us at the back door
of our house on Circle Slope Drive. Her palms and nose
pressed firm against the glass as she peers out at Whitney,
the cocker spaniel who became an outside dog
after knocking her over one too many times. My hands are tucked
under her armpits, and I’m using every ounce of my
three-and-a-half-year-old strength to make sure
she don’t teeter back onto her diaper-cushioned ****
The third, a candid from the family trip to Islamorada.
She and I are walking down the pier, on opposing sides
of Ganga, each holding one of her soft grandma hands.
She was our buffer for those eight days,
and years following the trip. We face the sunrise–
electric pink sky dotted with periwinkle wisps.
Later that day, my sister asked me to come look for seashells
with her; I told her I wished I had a little brother instead.
The final, from my college graduation last May.
My sister and I are laughing in the arboretum.
As excited as I was to never again sit in Hamilton 100
or bubble in a Scantron, I was already missing
eating pho and reading poems, making her matzo ball soup
when her throat hurt, and trekking to the taco truck at 1 am.
Neither of us knew then that I would have this job and this desk
with these four photos, and room for more.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 3:35 PM UTC
The arboretum watched her grow:
each day the wood-chipped path
would creep in through lace holes
and scrawl its earthen signature
upon her socks.
When she could walk on her own
the rustling blows tugged
the secrets of the leaves through the hair
she refused to fasten;
so it danced, rebelliously
on her shouldered landscape.
The labelled trees, landmarks to tourists
on the nottinghamshire tree-trail
linked outstretched arms in solidarity
around her when she froze on the bench
to skip the dining hall.
And the birds of paradise
who chirped in minor a lament
of their chicken-wire palace,
understood, when no one else could.
When they drained the lake to search
for a body,
and the parched park cried leaf-crisps
in red and orange, they were warned
from walking alone
and the grass stretches ached for
musing students to sprawl
chatter on its back.
When the time-dust sprinkled a veil
on the rumours and caution,
She appeared
taller, and hand in hand
with a boy.
They tried to decipher
the war memorial and it's message
in foreign symbols
for something to talk about.
The Arboretum has not seen her for
years,
but its crafted script
Is carved like wax in
her mind's journal.
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 4:25 PM UTC
Each day the wood-chipped path
would creep in through lace holes
and scrawl its earthen signature
upon her socks.
Collared wind blew
the secrets of the leaves through a tangle
of whistling hair
The labelled trees, landmarks to tourists
on the nottinghamshire tree-trail
reached to her
when she froze on the bench
to miss the dining hall.
birds of paradise
chirping in a minor lament
of their chicken-wire palace
understood,
only.
when they drained the lake to search
for a body,
and the parched park cried leaf-crisps
in red and orange, they were warned
from walking alone
and the grass stretches ached for
musing students to sprawl
chatter on its back.
then, as seasons cast a veil
on the rumours and caution,
she was
taller, and handed
to a boy.
they deciphered
the war memorial's
foreign symbols
for something to talk about.
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 7:10 PM UTC
Meet me,
Deep in the arboretum,
Between those majestic orants,
Praising the sun and air.
Wait under that crumbling arch,
The one whose body shivers
At the first touch of wind.
Sing softly that succulent tune,
(The one that blurs my eyes
with thoughts of home)
So the wind can whisper your arrival.
Do not take long,
Or you may miss me.
Time, that ancient thief of youth and vigor,
May clasp his knarled hands around us both.
And we many never become free from him again.
Jun 3, 2012
Jun 3, 2012 at 11:07 PM UTC
it’s been a night for the books
one of those times when i just
hit the ground running and forgot
how to know when to stop
now i’m riding out the edge of my last high,
working on some way to live forever tonight
at peace with where i’ve landed
proud of how i’ve handled it
driving home alone through the arboretum
rain-smell coming in through vents, and him
barely in my head anymore, shadows
of trees waving through the windows
i won’t let myself become a god
to some kid in a grown-up facade
i’m not perfect or powerful
i’m not here to be beautiful
there’s been girls and there’s been boys
and they’ve been real or they’ve been toys
but i’m letting them all go, murmuring
i won’t let myself fall in love with remembering
i want it to stick with me like those dreams
that threaten to burst the sky’s seams
hanging on my shoulders all day,
washing the real world away.
i want them to see the universes i hold in me,
i want them to need what i need,
i want to wade into the water waist-deep
and never come out, just float in the sea
as soon as we’re apart, their voices crescendo
like tidal waves from far away and long ago,
vibrations that I know are real,
but no longer care to feel.
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 4:01 AM UTC
We watched the vapor trails pull like shoe strings across the sky
my hand holding yours
the acid bubbling in our brains
the threat of death not yet present
our fears not yet concerning our age or wisdom.
We feared one another,
afraid our flaws meant something
uncertain of how people talk but we tried anyway
and the skin of our arms were touching
and it was warm
and it felt like it was supposed to
and no one could touch us.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 3:16 PM UTC
And again I found myself laying underneath the sun and above the shattered oak leaves.
Dressing the ground on a cold Autumn day, these tiny vessels carpet the woodland floor.
I find that we can learn much from the leaves of the trees and the grass of the plain,
I find that if one looks close enough, we really are no different than even these leaves.
Daily we’re swept off of our branches and blown into countless differing directions, parting
Parting from one another when our time is decided, knowing not to where we fly.
And just like these leaves, we are truly simple beings, varying in color and size,
But all coming from the same root.
You see I’ve found, by only watching the leaves of the trees and the grass of the plains,
That once we come to know our roots, the directions we take are no more valuable than the petty pride we often carry.
So here’s the deal you see, I really don’t have much to say, so listen close.
No one person is better than another, no one person is more important than some other
And this is so, because our roots are the same.
As the leaves of the trees and the grass of the plains of this earth in which we inhabit,
We must come to realize that our leaves are not what matters, but the fruit we produce.
We must come to realize yes, that without healthy fruits of love and peace and kindness
Our tree is but merely a sore sight to those looking upon our arboretum from outside
May 15, 2012
May 15, 2012 at 11:49 PM UTC
What a fool to be afraid of falling
Asking for reassurance as though I needed more
than response, a hand held, a kiss planted
drunken nights and sober days
"If love is not passionate, do not participate"
What a fool to not have trust in yourself
a foot hovering above a pool or
Pacing thoughts trying to ride a skateboard
Trust yourself, but do not trust him just yet
but what a fool
To be say it is as though I haven't fallen already
18 flights of stairs, each individual bump
From every single height we have watched the world from
The cliffsides of the Appalachians
The 1800s towers of Bowman
the landscapes that connect beach to sea, wondering when we'll reach over there
An abandoned building east of the city enamoured in fluorescent light
A skytop birdsnest of an arboretum
from the back of old Reggie staring onto pavement in warm summer rain
I fall from such great heights
clamored on each step,
I do not know if there is a bottom
but I surely hope not
Dec 31, 2016
Dec 31, 2016 at 1:26 AM UTC
you could store water
in the wells dipped deep
into my neck where
your grip once was.
your hold is too strong,
its weeds choke my lungs,
steals my own words
to replace with your own.
I was your garden
and I felt your hands
uproot my ugly, but you
took the flowers away too.
I stand now, an arboretum
of almosts and painful potential.
you leave me barren so
I have nothing to offer,
nothing of my own.
I wait to claim back
myself, all that I have,
and I am almost ready.
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 11:48 PM UTC
Take me to an arboretum
Where we can stroll down cobblestone paths
Take me to an arboretum
Where the beauty will erase the rains of our pasts
Take me to an arboretum
Where the oak and weeping willows will dance in the wind
Take me to an arboretum
Where we can kiss under flowering magnolia blossom limbs
Take me to an arboretum
Where we can dance under the twilight
in a gazebo overlookibg a pond
Take me to an arboretum
Where red roses and butterfly bushes make my heart so fond
Take me to an arboretum
Where we can have a picnic under the birch trees and maples
Take me to an arboretum
And my love will always remain
loyal and faithful
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 1:28 AM UTC
Fallen leaves
in many hues
lying everywhere
in the water
on the grass
blowing to the breeze.
Whispering songs
over the crickets
and the gurgles of the stream.
Songs of the fallen leaves
of coming wisps of winter
cold winds under autumn moon
and memories of warm summers.
Fallen leaves
in many hues
singing many songs.
Apr 26, 2018
Apr 26, 2018 at 8:44 AM UTC
I found my bench in the arboretum
In a lush corner of the conifers
Where I can be all alone for hours
All alone, my back against a plaque:
In the loving memory of
Herbert M Parker
1984
I sit on his shoulders so to speak;
We read, we dream, we nap,
We name the loud birds above us
After our favorite opera singers;
Herb and I love to discuss Big History,
And his time in the great war.
When the spring comes
I serenade my friend
And play from Bach for beginners
On the classical guitar-
Herb is an expert in the baroque,
But also has a great feel for samba.
He’s getting a bit run down, you know;
His legs are halfway in the soil,
His skin is spattered with moss.
Salamanders live in his arm rest,
Ivy and dandelion poke through
The slats of greying wood.
But I say nothing: we are soul mates now.
Somewhere in the black earth he lies,
But I feel his body is right below me;
Somebody loved him enough
To place him here with loving memories
And pass the seasons with a stranger.
May 10, 2018
May 10, 2018 at 7:44 PM UTC
A poet struggles
While mockingbirds entertain
The forest echoes
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 3:23 AM UTC
Mist chose to linger a while,
though mild air belied October.
Overwhelmed by birdsong,
loud against the abstract silence
of these adolescent sentinels,
stood like arboretum trees
filled with the gravitas
of no age, no age at all.
The year passed as always
with them growing taller,
bolder, a little more aware
of wisdom’s cost
and the one they lost.
Oct 8, 2021
Oct 8, 2021 at 6:54 AM UTC
Today was the end of my life,
yet tomorrow I see all.
I am a rocket creature / My bones lie melted,
in the forest, the trees are / tire tracks which scar my mangled body:
my landing strip. No better \ flesh and bones and
sanctuary than this / humanitarian malice.
God-given world, / Betrayal by the ones we preceded,
untouched; delicate arboretum \ metal glowing eyes above,
Palm fronds— my blankets and \ screaming rubber wheels,
everlasting life felt through the wind in my fur.
Anti-anthropomorphic heaven, / throat charred of secondhand;
I take / the blood of my posterity stained
green for granted. She \ sees the world I am at the mercy of,
who does not belong to me, \ I am a slave to what he wants
yet I am a microscopic essentialist / and a blink of robotic velocity
to her / in which I cannot keep up.
Born of Gaia and a martyr of Growth.
Apr 29, 2025
Apr 29, 2025 at 3:43 PM UTC