I have often turned within my grave to ponder of the reason why
Upon the date of my birth, you took me to your secret hide

Underneath an aspen tree within the deadest of nights
You took to me like a moth to a ball of flickering light

With the devils own smile plastered upon your face and the slightest of hand
You produced a sanguineous jar of hearts and an ominous jar of black sand

You grasped my hands in your work enured and fairly calloused paws
Looked me in the eyes, and told me to forever leave my pale hands raw

"Never soil your untouched hands, your hands and eyes you shall avert'
"Never bruise, nor ever hurt, nor shall they be ever touched by dirt,

"Never touch a rose, nor touch a bee, as danger is an all you see,
"Close your eyes my little darling, and all of life shall be but a dream."

With the trust of a mothers child, I kept my eyes tightly squeezed
Wished upon the star within the midnight sky, wavering in the breeze

Held my hands up to my chest, hoping the fluttering and staggered slips
Not to be seen by your face within the light of moon as from the sun it dines and sips

Of a heart that had only once been given to me and should have forever stayed mine
But the greed inside all mens' hearts want, and reaches out to grasp a young new 'hind'

With another slight of those calloused hands, you took my life for your own pleasure
And stole what was rightfully derived as mine; a beating heart, you took your leisure

A working mind, once a clock, now fully had come to a skidding stop
You took my bones and my teeth and used them as a fertilizing crop

The very worst thing that you did, you took my pride when you took my skin
Shaved off clean with a diamond edged razor and worn as if you were mockeries twin

Burried underneath that beautiful aspen tree, I've been given the time to remold
But my life had been stolen, the soul forced out before the bells had tolled

In the time it had taken for my pieces to remold, I had realised something then and there;
There were always things that were meant to go untold, but the truth is ringing upon the open air

You wanted more than what was offered and had bitten off all you could chew
But if I'd known back then what I know now, I'd know real good men only come in few

When I die
I hope I'll begin to spread roots
As my soul
Is absorbed by the earth
And as I spread
Parts of me will
Begin to reach ever upward
As I begin to form
My canvas of emerald and gold
Everlasting
And forever growing
-
I will not be worried by strife, and
Fire will only serve for
New possibilities
As well as
The potential for growth.
I will become a sight
For others to behold
And feel at peace
Whenever they venture
Through my dappled sunlight
-
When I die
I hope to become more
Than just cold

Two billion years ago
the river we call Colorado
opened a **** in the Kaibab Plateau

sculpting sandstone, granite, and limestone spectra
on the rugged canyon walls -
reflecting the seering Arizona sun.

Millennial torrents scoured the surface.
Juniper and Aspen, torn from the expanding banks,
****** into the river's red-stained vortex.

All the while the restless Colorado,
obedient to gravity's law,
scoured its bed a mile below the rim.
The last dinosaur perished - choked by volcanic soot.

Pangaea rumbled, groaned and split
and an eye-blink ago our African parents
stood to take their first faltering steps.

Their progeny crossed the Bering bridge
roaming south to build stone shelters
tucked against these canyon walls.

Did the Havasupai huddle in fright
of the jagged firelight searing the skies -
pounding the air across the hollows?

And emerging at storm’s end
did they gaze at the rainbow mist
spread over the buttes and valleys?

After dusk, with fires withering to embers,
did they rest supine,
heads pillowed on their arms,
pondering the jewel case universe above?

*November, 2006

Along the field as we came by
A year ago, my love and I,
The aspen over stile and stone
Was talking to itself alone.
"Oh who are these that kiss and pass?
A country lover and his lass;
Two lovers looking to be wed;
And time shall put them both to bed,
And he beside another love."

And sure enough beneath the tree
There walks another love with me,
And overhead the aspen heaves
Its rainy-sounding silver leaves;
And I spell nothing in their stir,
But now perhaps they speak to her,
And plain for her to understand
They talk about a time at hand
When I shall sleep with clover clad,
And she beside another lad.

Is this a time to be cloudy and sad,
  When our mother Nature laughs around;
When even the deep blue heavens look glad,
  And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground?

There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren,
  And the gossip of swallows through all the sky;
The ground-squirrel gayly chirps by his den,
  And the wilding bee hums merrily by.

The clouds are at play in the azure space,
  And their shadows at play on the bright green vale,
And here they stretch to the frolic chase,
  And there they roll on the easy gale.

There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower,
  There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree,
There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower,
  And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea.

And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles
  On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray,
On the leaping waters and gay young isles;
  Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away.

Thus, then, did Ulysses wait and pray; but the girl drove on to
the town. When she reached her father’s house she drew up at the
gateway, and her brothers—comely as the gods—gathered round her,
took the mules out of the waggon, and carried the clothes into the
house, while she went to her own room, where an old servant,
Eurymedusa of Apeira, lit the fire for her. This old woman had been
brought by sea from Apeira, and had been chosen as a prize for
Alcinous because he was king over the Phaecians, and the people obeyed
him as though he were a god. She had been nurse to Nausicaa, and had
now lit the fire for her, and brought her supper for her into her
own room.
  Presently Ulysses got up to go towards the town; and Minerva shed
a thick mist all round him to hide him in case any of the proud
Phaecians who met him should be rude to him, or ask him who he was.
Then, as he was just entering the town, she came towards him in the
likeness of a little girl carrying a pitcher. She stood right in front
of him, and Ulysses said:
  “My dear, will you be so kind as to show me the house of king
Alcinous? I am an unfortunate foreigner in distress, and do not know
one in your town and country.”
  Then Minerva said, “Yes, father stranger, I will show you the
house you want, for Alcinous lives quite close to my own father. I
will go before you and show the way, but say not a word as you go, and
do not look at any man, nor ask him questions; for the people here
cannot abide strangers, and do not like men who come from some other
place. They are a sea-faring folk, and sail the seas by the grace of
Neptune in ships that glide along like thought, or as a bird in the
air.”
  On this she led the way, and Ulysses followed in her steps; but
not one of the Phaecians could see him as he passed through the city
in the midst of them; for the great goddess Minerva in her good will
towards him had hidden him in a thick cloud of darkness. He admired
their harbours, ships, places of assembly, and the lofty walls of
the city, which, with the palisade on top of them, were very striking,
and when they reached the king’s house Minerva said:
  “This is the house, father stranger, which you would have me show
you. You will find a number of great people sitting at table, but do
not be afraid; go straight in, for the bolder a man is the more likely
he is to carry his point, even though he is a stranger. First find the
queen. Her name is Arete, and she comes of the same family as her
husband Alcinous. They both descend originally from Neptune, who was
father to Nausithous by Periboea, a woman of great beauty. Periboea
was the youngest daughter of Eurymedon, who at one time reigned over
the giants, but he ruined his ill-fated people and lost his own life
to boot.
  “Neptune, however, lay with his daughter, and she had a son by
him, the great Nausithous, who reigned over the Phaecians.
Nausithous had two sons Rhexenor and Alcinous; Apollo killed the first
of them while he was still a bridegroom and without male issue; but he
left a daughter Arete, whom Alcinous married, and honours as no
other woman is honoured of all those that keep house along with
their husbands.
  “Thus she both was, and still is, respected beyond measure by her
children, by Alcinous himself, and by the whole people, who look
upon her as a goddess, and greet her whenever she goes about the city,
for she is a thoroughly good woman both in head and heart, and when
any women are friends of hers, she will help their husbands also to
settle their disputes. If you can gain her good will, you may have
every hope of seeing your friends again, and getting safely back to
your home and country.”
  Then Minerva left Scheria and went away over the sea. She went to
Marathon and to the spacious streets of Athens, where she entered
the abode of Erechtheus; but Ulysses went on to the house of Alcinous,
and he pondered much as he paused a while before reaching the
threshold of bronze, for the splendour of the palace was like that
of the sun or moon. The walls on either side were of bronze from end
to end, and the cornice was of blue enamel. The doors were gold, and
hung on pillars of silver that rose from a floor of bronze, while
the lintel was silver and the hook of the door was of gold.
  On either side there stood gold and silver mastiffs which Vulcan,
with his consummate skill, had fashioned expressly to keep watch
over the palace of king Alcinous; so they were immortal and could
never grow old. Seats were ranged all along the wall, here and there
from one end to the other, with coverings of fine woven work which the
women of the house had made. Here the chief persons of the Phaecians
used to sit and eat and drink, for there was abundance at all seasons;
and there were golden figures of young men with lighted torches in
their hands, raised on pedestals, to give light by night to those
who were at table. There are fifty maid servants in the house, some of
whom are always grinding rich yellow grain at the mill, while others
work at the loom, or sit and spin, and their shuttles go, backwards
and forwards like the fluttering of aspen leaves, while the linen is
so closely woven that it will turn oil. As the Phaecians are the
best sailors in the world, so their women excel all others in weaving,
for Minerva has taught them all manner of useful arts, and they are
very intelligent.
  Outside the gate of the outer court there is a large garden of about
four acres with a wall all round it. It is full of beautiful trees-
pears, pomegranates, and the most delicious apples. There are luscious
figs also, and olives in full growth. The fruits never rot nor fail
all the year round, neither winter nor summer, for the air is so
soft that a new crop ripens before the old has dropped. Pear grows
on pear, apple on apple, and fig on fig, and so also with the
grapes, for there is an excellent vineyard: on the level ground of a
part of this, the grapes are being made into raisins; in another
part they are being gathered; some are being trodden in the wine tubs,
others further on have shed their blossom and are beginning to show
fruit, others again are just changing colour. In the furthest part
of the ground there are beautifully arranged beds of flowers that
are in bloom all the year round. Two streams go through it, the one
turned in ducts throughout the whole garden, while the other is
carried under the ground of the outer court to the house itself, and
the town’s people draw water from it. Such, then, were the
splendours with which the gods had endowed the house of king Alcinous.
  So here Ulysses stood for a while and looked about him, but when
he had looked long enough he crossed the threshold and went within the
precincts of the house. There he found all the chief people among
the Phaecians making their drink-offerings to Mercury, which they
always did the last thing before going away for the night. He went
straight through the court, still hidden by the cloak of darkness in
which Minerva had enveloped him, till he reached Arete and King
Alcinous; then he laid his hands upon the knees of the queen, and at
that moment the miraculous darkness fell away from him and he became
visible. Every one was speechless with surprise at seeing a man there,
but Ulysses began at once with his petition.
  “Queen Arete,” he exclaimed, “daughter of great Rhexenor, in my
distress I humbly pray you, as also your husband and these your guests
(whom may heaven prosper with long life and happiness, and may they
leave their possessions to their children, and all the honours
conferred upon them by the state) to help me home to my own country as
soon as possible; for I have been long in trouble and away from my
friends.”
  Then he sat down on the hearth among the ashes and they all held
their peace, till presently the old hero Echeneus, who was an
excellent speaker and an elder among the Phaeacians, plainly and in
all honesty addressed them thus:
  “Alcinous,” said he, “it is not creditable to you that a stranger
should be seen sitting among the ashes of your hearth; every one is
waiting to hear what you are about to say; tell him, then, to rise and
take a seat on a stool inlaid with silver, and bid your servants mix
some wine and water that we may make a drink-offering to Jove the lord
of thunder, who takes all well-disposed suppliants under his
protection; and let the housekeeper give him some supper, of
whatever there may be in the house.”
  When Alcinous heard this he took Ulysses by the hand, raised him
from the hearth, and bade him take the seat of Laodamas, who had
been sitting beside him, and was his favourite son. A maid servant
then brought him water in a beautiful golden ewer and poured it into a
silver basin for him to wash his hands, and she drew a clean table
beside him; an upper servant brought him bread and offered him many
good things of what there was in the house, and Ulysses ate and drank.
Then Alcinous said to one of the servants, “Pontonous, mix a cup of
wine and hand it round that we may make drink-offerings to Jove the
lord of thunder, who is the protector of all well-disposed
suppliants.”
  Pontonous then mixed wine and water, and handed it round after
giving every man his drink-offering. When they had made their
offerings, and had drunk each as much as he was minded, Alcinous said:
  “Aldermen and town councillors of the Phaeacians, hear my words. You
have had your supper, so now go home to bed. To-morrow morning I shall
invite a still larger number of aldermen, and will give a
sacrificial banquet in honour of our guest; we can then discuss the
question of his escort, and consider how we may at once send him
back rejoicing to his own country without trouble or inconvenience
to himself, no matter how distant it may be. We must see that he comes
to no harm while on his homeward journey, but when he is once at
home he will have to take the luck he was born with for better or
worse like other people. It is possible, however, that the stranger is
one of the immortals who has come down from heaven to visit us; but in
this case the gods are departing from their usual practice, for
hitherto they have made themselves perfectly clear to us when we
have been offering them hecatombs. They come and sit at our feasts
just like one of our selves, and if any solitary wayfarer happens to
stumble upon some one or other of them, they affect no concealment,
for we are as near of kin to the gods as the Cyclopes and the savage
giants are.”
  Then Ulysses said: “Pray, Alcinous, do not take any such notion into
your head. I have nothing of the immortal about me, neither in body
nor mind, and most resemble those among you who are the most
afflicted. Indeed, were I to tell you all that heaven has seen fit
to lay upon me, you would say that I was still worse off than they
are. Nevertheless, let me sup in spite of sorrow, for an empty stomach
is a very importunate thing, and thrusts itself on a man’s notice no
matter how dire is his distress. I am in great trouble, yet it insists
that I shall eat and drink, bids me lay aside all memory of my sorrows
and dwell only on the due replenishing of itself. As for yourselves,
do as you propose, and at break of day set about helping me to get
home. I shall be content to die if I may first once more behold my
property, my bondsmen, and all the greatness of my house.”
  Thus did he speak. Every one approved his saying, and agreed that he
should have his escort inasmuch as he had spoken reasonably. Then when
they had made their drink-offerings, and had drunk each as much as
he was minded they went home to bed every man in his own abode,
leaving Ulysses in the cloister with Arete and Alcinous while the
servants were taking the things away after supper. Arete was the first
to speak, for she recognized the shirt, cloak, and good clothes that
Ulysses was wearing, as the work of herself and of her maids; so she
said, “Stranger, before we go any further, there is a question I
should like to ask you. Who, and whence are you, and who gave you
those clothes? Did you not say you had come here from beyond the sea?”
  And Ulysses answered, “It would be a long story Madam, were I to
relate in full the tale of my misfortunes, for the hand of heaven
has been laid heavy upon me; but as regards your question, there is an
island far away in the sea which is called ‘the Ogygian.’ Here
dwells the cunning and powerful goddess Calypso, daughter of Atlas.
She lives by herself far from all neighbours human or divine. Fortune,
however, me to her hearth all desolate and alone, for Jove struck my
ship with his thunderbolts, and broke it up in mid-ocean. My brave
comrades were drowned every man of them, but I stuck to the keel and
was carried hither and thither for the space of nine days, till at
last during the darkness of the tenth night the gods brought me to the
Ogygian island where the great goddess Calypso lives. She took me in
and treated me with the utmost kindness; indeed she wanted to make
me immortal that I might never grow old, but she could not persuade me
to let her do so.
  “I stayed with Calypso seven years straight on end, and watered
the good clothes she gave me with my tears during the whole time;
but at last when the eighth year came round she bade me depart of
her own free will, either because Jove had told her she must, or
because she had changed her mind. She sent me from her island on a
raft, which she provisioned with abundance of bread and wine. Moreover
she gave me good stout clothing, and sent me a wind that blew both
warm and fair. Days seven and ten did I sail over the sea, and on
the eighteenth I caught sight of the first outlines of the mountains
upon your coast—and glad indeed was I to set eyes upon them.
Nevertheless there was still much trouble in store for me, for at this
point Neptune would let me go no further, and raised a great storm
against me; the sea was so terribly high that I could no longer keep
to my raft, which went to pieces under the fury of the gale, and I had
to swim for it, till wind and current brought me to your shores.
  “There I tried to land, but could not, for it was a bad place and
the waves dashed me against the rocks, so I again took to the sea
and swam on till I came to a river that seemed the most likely landing
place, for there were no rocks and it was sheltered from the wind.
Here, then, I got out of the water and gathered my senses together
again. Night was coming on, so I left the river, and went into a
thicket, where I covered myself all over with leaves, and presently
heaven sent me off into a very deep sleep. Sick and sorry as I was I
slept among the leaves all night, and through the next day till
afternoon, when I woke as the sun was westering, and saw your
daughter’s maid servants playing upon the beach, and your daughter
among them looking like a goddess. I besought her aid, and she
proved to be of an excellent disposition, much more so than could be
expected from so young a person—for young people are apt to be
thoughtless. She gave me plenty of bread and wine, and when she had
had me washed in the river she also gave me the clothes in which you
see me. Now, therefore, though it has pained me to do so, I have
told you the whole truth.”
  Then Alcinous said, “Stranger, it was very wrong of my daughter
not to bring you on at once to my house along with the maids, seeing
that she was the first person whose aid you asked.”
  “Pray do not scold her,” replied Ulysses; “she is not to blame.
She did tell me to follow along with the maids, but I was ashamed
and afraid, for I thought you might perhaps be displeased if you saw
me. Every human being is sometimes a little suspicious and irritable.”
  “Stranger,” replied Alcinous, “I am not the kind of man to get angry
about nothing; it is always better to be reasonable; but by Father
Jove, Minerva, and Apollo, now that I see what kind of person you are,
and how much you think as I do, I wish you would stay here, marry my
daughter, and become my son-in-law. If you will stay I will give you a
house and an estate, but no one (heaven forbi

The leaves are coming, slowly budding,
The Aspen catkins are long past gone,
But on each willow branch buds are forming,
***** willows stand and face the dawn.

A world reborn, each day grows older,
A thousand branches each reborn,
The willows wait in pools of water,
On banks and marshes, low but full.

The barren winter is long past gone,
New life that started from the thaw,
Each branch, each tip, each growing twig,
The ***** willow cotton has come again.

The Aspen Moon has fled the world,
The Willow full and full of life,
Soon it will go as all moons do,
And the Willow Moon a lost memory.

Along the field as we came by
A year ago, my love and I,
The aspen over stile and stone
Was talking to itself alone.
'Oh who are these that kiss and pass?
A country lover and his lass;
Two lovers looking to be wed;
And time shall put them both to bed,
But she shall lie with earth above,
And he beside another love.'

And sure enough beneath the tree
There walks another love with me,
And overhead the aspen heaves
Its rainy-sounding silver leaves;
And I spell nothing in their stir,
But now perhaps they speak to her,
And plain for her to understand
They talk about a time at hand
When I shall sleep with clover clad,
And she beside another lad.

when
we
look inside
the soul
the
sea of perfection
the
reflection of
aspen trees
and
ginger leaves

He woke, as before, a boy.
She told him he would be a man,
As his father was out cutting turf,
And his mother told him the story,
He had heard before by the fire.
No pages to this book, not a leaf.

When he was younger, this boy
Had once cut, alone, the turf.
But upon placing it in the fire,
He decided instead to burn the mother of the leaf,
And that he did not want to be a man.
He couldn’t tell himself her story.

He saw his mother, an aspen leaf
Trembling by the fire,
As what was deemed a man
Turned her blackened eyes into a story.
He had always resembled a boy
Even to his own son, who pressed his tear-stained face into the turf.

His father tried to prove the boy a man
But found instead that he was hardly even boy.
So drink hid him from the story
While the not-boy cried by the fire
Knowing that he could not touch his fathers turf.
It was not like a man to shake as if a leaf.

The not-boy decided again not to be a man,
And lying in the earth found a fire
Inside that showed him a story
He had told himself as a boy
In which those who were only leaves
Could not have their own turf.

He was not the only boy
Who did not understand “man”
None did, and instead told a story
About how only the strongest leaf
Would cut the turf
And that only women would tend the fire.

Boys do not cut turf.
Leaves fall and we still tell stories
Of how fire somehow makes a man.

I've walked upon the roots of trees for long enough to know
the deeper in the ground you are the more you'll have to sow
For what is surface but a skin that boils in the sun
then turns to dust our fragile bones the second we are gone
Let's trace the lines our veins have mirrored underneath this earth
and reconcile missteps we make for everything they're worth
The pulse of Life is beating now and asking you to breathe
"Come find Me in the stillness where you'll never cease to be"

White dust covered bark
cracked
in black slashes
to crowns of
gold
and yellow

stepping back into the west
chills reverberate up and down my spine
chiseling open obsolescent padlocks
dangling with dust
on ancient treasure chests

pallid colors in the attic release
a blossoming familiarity
faint hints of retrospections float on faded paper
granting me access to roads
where no map is needed

as i peruse the streets
my heart flows coalescing with the vicinity
caressing each detail i transform to fluid
and fuse with the past
through fresh strokes of watercolored memories

recollections flash before my eyes
revealing antiquated stories
though thought forgotten
an etched history endeavors to define me
renewing itself as i turn each corner

i shudder at some remembrances while encompassing others
through synchronicity realization hits
that I am all of it
yet none of it
at the same time

familiar faces paint meaning onto me
no longer do they know me
yet they airbrush vestiges of yesteryear
and coat me with connotations
i allow them to think i am whatever they imagine

i morph into their canvas temporarily
then break free in multi-dimensionality
they don't hear me with a new listening
no longer invested in their projections
once sharp triggers now appear in soft focus

an auspicious mist lies around the edges
of my former life
it is as if i never left
yet traces of the east lie sandpapered in me
a maturation commingles with my former self

flushing out on my skin
tethering newfound emotions
a gentle gratitude for home territory
nestles softly
inward

i listen to the clicks
of my scuffed cowboy boots
on acquainted yet somehow distant sidewalks
the echoes layering multiple impressions
glimmering with the utter beauty of this terrain

as I wander through the majestic rocky mountains
drinking in the quaking aspen's crimson edges
interfacing the evergreens
hushed whispers of autumn loftily rest
juxtaposed neatly against futures waiting to unfurl in the wind

an amalgamation of intimate sights and scents
dance in open wounds
dazzling
homesickness cured
a wholeness returned

as winter's crystal dawn blooms
i realize the depth of my growth
for in leaving here and returning
i cherish the west
my home

©2016 janetaylor

I have wished for years
That my collarbones would make themselves
Known.
That my muscles would
Atrophy.
And my skin would become
Paper thin.
All for the sake of exposing the calcified lattice
That holds me together.
Holds me down.
I have wished to see my ribs
So that I could better understand the bars that my heart
Beats so fiercely against.
I have wished my spine to rise from beneath sinew
Form peaks against my skin
Just so I can see
What makes a man
What backbone is
See what makes me
Stand
Against those things that I do not desire.
Yet here I am.
Synapses stretched between
Head
And
Heart
Eyes sundered, seeing what my heart can't take.
What my fragile fingers fail to grasp.
I am a graveyard.
Made of stars that decided they were meant for other tasks.
Rub your charcol across my bones
Just to see what stories the universe has told.
For it has lived and died a thousand times, and now
And now, this time around it chooses to call this body
Home.
So although there are days I wish my hip bones would rise like
Mountains
In the desert,
That this soft skin would part and give
Rise
To bones like Aspen trees,
I will accept that my
Clavicles
Are the bottom of the sea bed.
And I am
Mile
Upon
Mile
Of stormy ocean.
Still waiting to explored.

fear and sweat, flashin' gear
writin' rapz in hectic, but: yeaaah!
detached paramedics, but: yeeeah!
tizz alive, he and me, didn't die

who am i? will i be a version of me
free from dat ******* of abuse, b?
who would tell you the truth? me?
dunno, demons inside wear masks

they hide, whisper, mouth odor like gas
i'm behind, they passed by, they see,
know and feel dat i'm blind -- what is real?
and what's not? i know diz be god

"good" and "god" are like moon and sun
but if i use, then i run, will forget wise men
and it's bleeding through my eyes when
i'm unable to arise and sling like five men

codes from the land of oblivion
demons sending messages: dey fo'
da trashcan, you may be from aspen,
or a child of da bronx: good remains good

wrongs remain wrongs, stuck in-between
writing songs like cage fighters, man bites
dog, my weapon may be a pen or a glock:
if i do, use, take or abuse drugs: i'll fail

the loft, the jail, the yacht, the hate
hell ain't a snake pit but a desperate living,
shivering, lonely, no homeys, suffering
ignorant and angry, indifferent, cranky

still: a flickering, glimmering, somewhen

rock bottom, i hit it, my addict: i'm wit him
he within' me, steely and sneaky, peace
of ****, b, chasin' the thrill just to **** me
i will be dyin', will be fightin', skies brighten

no bullshittin, johnny weeks, so high,
delusional: "i'm a viking", drugs are unusual
why do i used dem as much dat i felt like
jim carrey as "truman" -- observed, being

followed; diz a good state to be in?
ya know da answer, my friend, shake
your own hand, accept ya name
leave da climate of coldness

diz requires boldness, but ya know what?
the addicted demons hate us like themselves
do not let 'em do dat
lock em in an inner shelf, wit a key

call it as you like, dear friend, i call it
"SELF-LOVE", ooooh boy: what a word,
what a term, your stomach may rage now:
fierce, furious demons being in flames

heaven yeah, let em burn, it's your turn,
put your life into god's hands, soft hands
clean yourself, wash ya hands, the
end of this poem must not be ours


**********      **

HELP: SOMETIMES IN PERSON, EVERY DAY ONLINE, CARING, FOR FREE. DON'T HESITATE TO MAIL ME, IN CASE YOU GOT ANY QUESTIONS. I WILL BE ANSWERING.

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In Nineva, in melted days of yore,
In a very distant verdant realm
Of a shadowy enchanted Moor,
There rolled a nectar stream.

And whoever ever drunk from it
Whilst the sun rained her golden light,
Craved nevermore to drink nor eat
But perpetually dwelt in delight.

Once, upon her banks strolled a couple
Majestically holding each other's hand.
Golden robbed with plush ribbons purple,
All the way from a very far away land

Where dwelleth many a mandrill,
A realm of many a precious stone
And many a verdant rolling hill,
Though creatures there all but forlorn.

King and queen of Merindrill they were,
On a golden quest for perpetual youth
Akin to the luster of many a fiery star
Whose mystery none knows the truth.

Though the stream galloped in gladness,
Though meadow larks chirped in ecstasy,
A roving wind eerily rustled in sadness
As it danced about aspen leaves all sassy.

All birds of evil omen graced the heaven
Whilst darkling clouds blotted heavens' bed
But unto none did it seem a bad omen.
Dyadic ravens perched upon their head.

"Quaff, quaff, oh quaff not from the river,"
Unto the king quoth the first raven.
"In that river deep thou shalt dwell forever,"
Unto the queen quoth the second raven.

"Quaff, quaff, oh quaff not," they didst spoof
At the ravens whilst as quick as drops of rain
Plummeting from earths' eternal dewy roof,
In such haste, they quaffed again, and again.

And 'tis for that reason that all men know
From the ***** of that sweet rollin' river
Did the fanciful couple now as cold as snow
Ever leave, but there dost live forever.



©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros,
Los Angeles, California, USA.
06/Nov/2018.

Hungry stones line the narrows
a jagged, muddy trail
aspen trees as pharaohs
gaunt columns of massive scale

Broken wagon pieces lie
testament to treachery
splintered axles cry
hopeless dwell in reverie
only insects fly

Lonely road disintegrate
loose shades of beige and brown
fallen roadsigns instigate
nature steal the crown

Hungry stones in narrows
still are left unfed
bodies strewn with arrows
death they do not dread.

Today I observed the flaming trees,
The flakes of gold drifting in the wind,
Like sleepy fairies,
And I thought,
I want to die like a maple,
die like an aspen in the fall,

as my strength is stripped away,
the underlying poetry of my veins is exposed,
and the tough skin peels back,
to show my unsung melodies,
Every note!

and it is a song,
blending beautifully with the cosmos,
Oh, that I would die like a tree,
when you see my barren body,
remember my last red moment,
full of auroreatic brilliance,

abiti da sposa corti Abbiamo sicuramente avuto la nostra parte di sorprendenti dettagli di nozze grazia le pagine di LSP .ma abbastanza positiva questa è la prima volta che abbiamo incontrato un cervo muschio.E 'uno dei molti dettagli moderni realizzati da The Horse Scrittura insieme con la pianificazione da parte in ogni caso e fiori + avorio verdi



di Lily e Società che dimostra rustico Wyoming gioca bene con un piccolo pizzico di mod .Date un'occhiata a ogni ultima immagine catturata dalla splendida Carrie Patterson Fotografia proprio qui.nella piena galleria .
Condividi questa splendida galleria ColorsSeasonsSummerSettingsTentedStylesModern

Qual è stata la tua visioneè ematrimonio erfectè?

Zee e ** incontrato a Jackson Hole e sempre discusso incredibile come un matrimonio a Jackson sarebbe.Per mostrare la bellezza di Jackson Hole ai nostri tanti amici e viaggiando da Georgia .Texas famiglia .e molti punti in mezzo era sicuro di essere incredibile .Volevo essere certo di mantenere le cose eleganti .ma abbastanza semplice da non distrarre dalla bella vista .

Quali sono tre dettagli unici che infuse nel vostro arredamento ?

mia madre e ** fatto tutta la pianificazione di noi stessi .che è qualcosa che entrambi amiamo fare !Cerco di emulare mia madre quando si tratta di pianificazione del partito e il layout .Ha il sapore più meraviglioso e l'occhio per la decorazione .e io sono così molto grato per tutto il suo aiuto durante la pianificazione .

Alcuni dettagli unici che infuse nostri cor désono :

I due Avorio Elk e Moose .la nostra torta nuziale Faux Bois con i miei genitori ' figurina Staffordshire in alto .gli alberi Aspen e le tovagliette Moss e fioriere .Mi è piaciuto molto anche il nostroè entler Luogo Carteèed i nostri numeri del tavolo .I nostri numeri della tabella sono stati etichettati in animali diversi ad ogni tavolo che rappresentava tutti i diversi vita selvaggia a Jackson Hole .

Qual è abiti da sposa 2014 stato il momento più memorabile ?

Durante la cena .il nostro fotografo Carrie tirato Zee e via per le fotografie al tramonto .Abbiamo camminato attraverso lo stagno .più vicino alle montagne e il nostro primo minuto solo tutto il giorno .Guardando indietro attraverso lo stagno alla bella tenda piena di persone più speciali nella nostra vita è un momento che non dimenticherò mai .

Che canzone hai fatto il tuo primo ballo a ?

Il nostro primo ballo : Crazy Love di Van Morrison padre / figlia Danza : Isnè èShe Lovely di Stevie Wonder

Cosaèse qualcosaèhai fatto fai da te ?

Mia nonna ha fatto la biancheria per i tavoli da cocktail .I quattro grandi Fioriere e la scaffalatura dietro ogni bar sono stati costruiti da un amico in Texas .Le tonalità appeso sopra la nostra pista da ballo abiti da sposa 2014 sono stati realizzati su misura solo per il nostro matrimonio .Avevamo laè èharlie Joseph 'ècappelli di carta fatti per i server di indossare durante il passaggio su cani e patatine fritte a tarda notte

Fotografia : Carrie Patterson Fotografia | Event Design : . The Horse Writing | Pianificazione : in ogni caso |Floral Design : Giglio E Azienda | Catering : Bistro Catering | Località : Jackson Hole Golf \u0026Tennis ClubCarrie Patterson fotografia è un membro del nostro Little Black Book .Scopri come i membri sono scelti visitando la nostra pagina delle FAQ .Carrie Patterson Fotografia VIEW
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The pale sands shadow your skin
The moon’s light bares you no justice
Its shine is nothing compared to your eyes
Nor does the ocean beside me, twinkle greater than they do
The goddess of the night waits atop her throne
Eyes that pierce the clouds and space itself
With the face that sent many ships to the deep of the ocean
The heart and mind to mend and destroy
You are my Helena, my Calliope, my Cassiopeia, and the River Queen Cleopatra

The waves splash my feet, my love
My boat is bound for lands dangerous
The white sand grips my feet, and I grip back
I wish not to leave you my goddess
Wait not for me, Lunar Matriarch
For I shall not return alive
Leave my body afloat dear Gods
Let my ship burn, my men die

I shall never see this beach or my Aspen Harlot afterwards.

When I was 8 years old, my second favorite place in the whole world was the Campbell Public Library. I liked to go in by myself because I was treated like a grown-up even though I wasn’t. I would walk into the fiction section, walking up and down each of the aisles and stopping to look at anything that caught my eye. If I couldn’t find a particular book I wanted, I would use the library computer to look it up and if I couldn’t reach something that looked interesting I would get a chair to stand on top of. I would carry a towering stack of books by authors like Judy Blume and Meg Cabot to the checkout counter, feeling very adult as I used my very own library card and successfully held a polite conversation with the librarian and told her yes, I would like a receipt please because I liked how the due date for my books was written on it. I found my mom parked in her Mercedes Benz convertible that cost far less than she wanted people to think and we would drive back to our house with her desperately trying to fill the five minutes with the sort of conversation that is normal for a mother and her daughter, except unlike most normal mothers and daughters, her understanding of me as a human being went as far as my name, age, and that I was full of wasted potential even as a third grader. She liked to say, “The apple don’t fall too far from the tree,” but I could tell she was disappointed. Every time we were about to pull into the driveway, I would unbuckle my seatbelt in eagerness to escape into the half-dozen books on my lap and every time without fail my mother would ask me where the fire was. It was a stupid expression and I resented it a little more every time I heard her say it. My first favorite place in the whole world awaited me in my bedroom, a snug corner on top of my dresser where I always kept some blankets and pillows for the hours I would spend up there post-library visit. It was a tight space, perhaps a little bit precarious, but it was quiet and it was safe and whenever my mom would come in to check on me (every few hours or so), she wouldn’t know where I was. You would think that after spending the majority of my time on this specific spot on top of my dresser, she would one day figure out that if she doesn’t immediately see me that I would be there like I am every other time she entered my room. But like most things, she ignored what she observed and I could not find it in me to be amused at her ditzy incompetence. Directly across from my dresser was a window with a view of an aspen tree, frequently inhabited by birds who would sit on the birdfeeder that I made a point to fill every few days and squirrels who would scurry up and down the trunk, occasionally pausing to look curiously at me. I liked sitting on top of my dresser and watching them because if you stared for long enough, one of the squirrels would do something really funny like stand on its hind legs to eat from the bird feeder. When something like this would happen, I would call for my mom so she could watch with me but she looked at what I was looking at wrong and didn’t understand. Sometimes if I watched for too long, I would start thinking about things that weren’t birds or squirrels or aspen trees or Judy Blume books. Sometimes if I watched for too long, I would get really sad because it was a Saturday that I should be spending with my dad, whose understanding of me as a human being went much farther than my name, age, and the false idea that I was full of wasted potential even as a third grader. If my dad walked into my room, the first place he would look would be on top of my dresser. He wouldn’t ask me what I was reading or if I was hungry or if I would come out and be social; he would watch the birds and the squirrels with me and he would understand.

When by thy scorn, O murd’ress, I am dead,
And that thou think’st thee free
From all solicitation from me,
Then shall my ghost come to thy bed,
And thee, feigned vestal, in worse arms shall see;
Then thy sick taper will begin to wink,
And he, whose thou art then, being tired before,
Will, if thou stir, or pinch to wake him, think
Thou call’st for more,
And in false sleep will from thee shrink,
And then, poor aspen wretch, neglected thou
Bathed in a cold quicksilver sweat wilt lie
A verier ghost than I.
What I will say I will not tell thee now,
Lest that preserve thee; and since my love is spent,
I’d rather thou shouldst painfully repent
Than by my threat’nings rest still innocent.

her fantasy fulfilled
she guides him by pack-horse
up the craggy mountain trail
restrained by his inexperience
their destination above
her beloved secret valley
river far below, a faded blue memory

spying snow-coned peaks beyond
she fights the urge, for his sake,
to gee her horse the last few feet
almost there, past the jagged rocks
gap's a beckoning finger now
welcoming her home
so many years of separation

the valley bursts upon them
a composite of wondrous sights
compelling her to bring him
quickly through to hallowed ground
how many times she had returned
alone
she turns to him, a stranger here
only he deserves her secret place

watching his face
seeing elation and her radiance
mirrored simultaneously in his eyes
an expanse of horizon
mountain, aspen, florid fields, and water
nature's precious jewels adorn the vista
dressed with utmost care
to steal the unsuspecting heart

she leads him into the meadow
overlooking the turquoise cirque
cool waters in which she bathed
naked and contented
when last she'd journeyed here
meadow flowers cloak
the blanket she spreads for him

her fantasy fulfilled
his body framed against the sky
-limitless as their love- and
boundless beauty in this valley

This poem was witten by my godfather Hilair Beloc 1870-1953

When I am living in the midlands
That are sodden and unkind
I light my lamp in the evening
My work is left behind
And the great hills of the South Country
Come back into my mind

The great hills of the South Country
They stand along the sea
And its there walking in the high woods
That I could wish to be
And the men that were boys when I was a boy
Walking along with me

The men that live in North England
I saw them for a day
Their hearts are set upon the waste fells
Their skies are fast and grey
From their castle walls a man may see
The mountains far away

The men that live in West England
They see the Severn strong
A rolling on rough water brown
Light aspen leaves along
The have the secret of the rocks
And the oldest kind of song

But the men that live in the South Country
Are the kindest and most wise
They get their laughter from the loud surf
And the faith in their happy eyes
Comes surely from our sister the spring
When over the sea she flies
The violets suddenly bloom at her feet
She blesses us with surprise

I never get between the pines
But I smell the Sussex air
Nor I never come on a belt of sand
But my home is there
And along the skyline of the Downs
So noble and so bare

A lost thing I could never find
Nor a broken thing mend
And I fear I shall be all alone
When I get towards the end
Who will be there to comfort me
Or who will be my friend

I will gather and carefully make my friends
Of the men of the Sussex Weald
They watch the stars from the silent folds
They stiffly plough the fields
By them and the God of the South Country
My poor soul shall be healed

If ever I become a rich man
Or if ever I grow to be old
I will build a house with a deep thatch
To shelter me from the cold
And there shall the Sussex songs  be sung
And the story of Sussex told

I will hold my house in the high woods
Within a walk of the sea
And the men that were boys when I was a boy
Shall sit and drink with me

has never seen a wisteria tree.
has seen a willow tree, from a distance, and 
grew up near four cherry trees that would
flower early every spring,  light pink and white petals
only there for a moment-
only to be knocked off
to rot in piles on the driveway, petals
falling onto the asphalt, onto shoulders,
falling all around  and feeling like a dream.
imagines a wisteria tree a little like that-
feeling like a dream.
hearing, somewhere that they're beautiful
when in bloom-
purple? maybe?
light blue? Also a possibility-
wonders what they're like when not,
spindly branches or thick twisting ones,
unsure of the specificities but knows that
it is beautiful because it is real,
somewhere else,
some other frame of reference.
has seen an aspen tree, the Rockies alive with them
standing on a mountain and looking out at the
waves of them and thinking that maybe that the Earth
breathes too, that
it was her chest rising and falling too
slow to perceive with
human eyes.
knows nothing of the aspen's fate from a plague of beetles,
remembers someone describing the trees as
being "eaten alive" but doesn't remember quite
who said it.
has seen a pine tree, climbed its branches as a child,
places warm palms against its trunk now,
every once and awhile looks up and
remembers how it felt-
how what felt?
the beginning of everything-
of looking out into the
sprawling earth as she breathes,
and the vast emptiness of the sky
and feeling alive.
has seen an oak tree, planted one in fact,
has Not seen a redwood.
does not know what a cherry or maple looks like
despite best efforts,
cannot remember the beetles,
despite best efforts,
cannot reach the top of the pine,
despite best efforts,
still cannot picture the wisteria tree.

Conifer-covered hillside
in the hinterlands
of this sleepy town
on a warm day
in this mid-June

The unspoilt soil
neither grieves
nor revels
and there's no revelation in that-
just what you see.

It's just what you see.

The quivering quakeys
can't hack it even when they cackle-
an attempt to unravel the shackles of
their incomplete alchemy-
cause it's never enough

one laugh is never enough.

The high's always flanked
by a sunrise so rank
as to wrinkle the brows
of the loudest and proudest-
the laughers and criers, or livers and die-rs

Just give me the bliss of the birds
and a big lidless urn to retire my fire
when the work week expires
when I finally can see even truth holds some lies
and when the sun sets too low to appraise the horizon,
I'll fly.

I'll just fly.

Aspen, ponderosa pine, blue spruce
pink glacier-cut rock, scree, ravens
gray jay, peregrine falcon, hawk.

We climb to 11,000 feet in three days,
camp at Lawn Lake for three days. Alpine
tundra. Elk, bighorn sheep, marmot.

Tileston Meadows, ticks in grass,
rock face of Mummy Mountain.
Binoculars show pink cracks in gray rock.

Stoke gas stoves, play cards.
Boil water, set up tarps, lay out
sleeping bags, hang bear bag.

Watch crescent moon slice into
Fairchild Mountain. Moonlight
makes a mosque of the rocks.

Yellow aspen splash in dark green
spruce and pine. Gullies where streams
slash during spring snowmelt.

One rock, feather or flower worth
more than money. Need no wallet,
keys. Just clothes for fur.

All day climb toward saddle to see
what's on other side. One hawk floating
among bare peaks and over valleys.

Wind at 13,000 feet
turns to sleet. Turn back from peak,
take boulders two at a time down.

Winter moves into mountains.
Then we fly from Denver to New York
where it's still summer.

In fourth grade I got a handwritten paper back from the teacher.
All my lowercase letter b’s were perfectly circled in red ink.
I think that’s what made me allergic to fire ants and yellow jackets.

I used to work at a breakfast restaurant and I smiled a lot.
I brought him his omelet and he told me it was as big as a body *****.
It was nice that I got to ask strangers for their first names.

I donate blood every fifty-six days on the dot because I like the questions
about prostitutes, and the ****** Butters, the rubber bands and the iodine swabs.
I am O positive and I feel regeneration as the bag fills up.

I wore black in Valencia and I could feel the gray matter pulsing in my brain.
I danced with the balcony girl in the bathrobe and I watched the whole city burning.
He always offered me the same breakfast, a warm glass of milk and a cigarette.

I slept on salty bark in Big Sur and we drove fast over Bixby Bridge.
I couldn’t get my head far enough out of the window in the backseat.
I smelled so human and breathed in the waste of the redwood beasts.

I came across an old barn with an old truck parked permanently behind it.
The bed was piled high with bundles of dried lavender harvested before I was born.
I grabbed scratchy handfuls and rubbed the brittle stalks on my arms and neck.

I stood in the cathedral so I could feel the weight of each broken back.  
The forest sculptors and lamb carvers believed in what they could not see.
Light pours in through the stained glass window and I feel the colors in my bones.

Gravity isn’t a factor when a jellyfish plague leaves
a layer of purple gelatinous mass on the beach.
The hills unzip their jackets into the ocean waves,
feeling the cool breeze on their uppermost ridges.
Rocks are painted from within
demonstrating all the colors of the turkey tail.
There are spirits around me,
watching from the pine trees and rippling the water when they wink.
The explosion of the dawn wood pigeons
startles the leaves awake.
I was there when the lightning made this river,
filling it with life and movement.
I can see your shadow from behind the aspen grove,
tunneling the light towards the chalk cliffs.
The ground is shaking from the thunder core of my fiery center,
I take shelter under the strongest branches.
I wrap a blanket of constellations around my shoulders
and count the times the bullfrog burps.

“I can never remember if the Earth goes around the moon
or if the Sun goes around the Earth.”
‘That’s alright, I can never remember if the tides are pulled on strings by fish
or by machines under the marsh.”

Then there are these blue dreams of mine, underwater in a car with one door open.
My ears are popped and I can’t get them unpopped, even if I chew bubblegum.
So I put my thumb and index finger on either side of my nose and blow.

winter has crept from it's cathedral with it's blue loom of white sod
against black crows and over-coats. we awaken in our separate pause
and modify our crumpets with thin icing,
drizzled over moon faced scones -
as golden as your marmoset of port wine
and wrinkled wheels of cheese...
at a moment's notice.
you float through the open window where crescendo the crisp winds and the bacon fats
rendering in the musk of firewood, oaking the nose of the decanted day
the early hearth of heaven, now powder blushed and rustle thrum
with skylarks larking in the luminous icebox
of barely sunrise.
your eyes sparkle and my antlers score the aspen bark
on a lost acre of our thickening plot.

we love a lot.

Crooked, brick teeth behind
a curled, silly smile

Brown, glazed irises swimming in
blood-shot eyes

Smoky hair, thick on top,
more wispy as it descends

but dense as a forest the hair
that hides your sycamore

when you're not using it
to haunt the young.

Betraying your lusts,
you mixed your sycamore

with a full-bloom *****
and brought me to be--

The white skin and purple hues
of my mother

cannot hide that I am
of the monster.

Dare I, half-*****, half-sycamonster
in my full bloom,

become pollinated by
the quaking aspen,

so we may risk bringing to be
another haunter of child's dreams,

or return to the earth,
never knowing who could be?