"aspens" poems
White-furred hill flowers bow
Gust-bent,
Wet in April snow,
Lavender beneath their
Downy coats.
Tender soldiers of spring
Grasp wind-blown gravel steeps,
Stand to beckon brown grass,
Soft-call the life in sapless trees
To ring with green again
Against Old Bully Winter’s
Blustering.
Quaking aspens,
Earliest to leaf in yellow-green,
Curling grama grasses,
Tough food for buffalo,
Cannot boast first life each Montana spring;
Only zombie-lichens,
Rock-fast mosses
Throw off winter’s death
Before the crocus' rise.
On eastern Montana hills
No street-hemmed dandelions
Colonize in chute-dropped ranks;
No time-tamed tulips
Live on wind-round knolls.
Here, the yucca’s bayonet-sharp ******
Here, the wild onions’ scent-strong hold;
But these arrive after early chill,
Following the purple crocus on the hill.
Jan 4, 2012
Jan 4, 2012 at 8:36 AM UTC
*towering gently overflowing with heightened awareness
subtle hints of blade’s keen glittering chiseled edges
untamed rugged surface powerfully averts gale’s acrid tempest
vigor pulsating that doth persuade the cloud’s reflections
if i shall not again embrace a meager glimpse; a demure echo
of thine towering mounts my soul shall ever suffer
my spirit soars with e'er one glance of thine majestic presence
replete with reminiscence seasons stir and beg thine tender mercies
to house the changing leaves at dusk of autumn’s auburn portraits
and give birth to crystal snow cascading peripherally in winter
which melding into spring then begs thy bluffs to cover
in soft amethyst of columbine blossoming first light of summer
‘tis not paramount to scale high aloft thine peaks in escalation
for small sheer glances stamp forever with imperial impressions
and ‘tho i’ve traveled ‘round and savored nature’s varied essence
none can compare thine evergreens laced in aspens nuance
my breath is gone and shan’t return ‘til in thy shadow casting
i stand and look upon thine hallowed face the rocky mountains
©2016 janetaylor
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 4:42 PM UTC
Prophesies of impending fall
creep stealthily over the Great Divide.
Gold-green Aspens shiver in the breeze
like leagues of fibrous wind chimes
serenading the mountain slopes
with aires of shimmering gold.
A few distant bugle calls echo
across the Big Thompson valley
as bull elks warm up for the autumn rut.
Sudden early gusts of frigid wind
bring waves of sleet and snow -
in tune with the turning polar axis.
The greater chill is soon to come.
The animals know it as do we.
Bears bulk up on grasses, roots and berries.
Elk and deer drift down from the heights
To show their young the ways
of the plains and river valleys.
We pull our sweaters on
and toss another log on the flames
and greet the harbingers of approaching fall
creeping stealthily over the Great Divide.
September, 2018
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 1:56 PM UTC
to lie down next to you in all of the perpetuity,
moss will grow all over our skin —
as if mushrooms, feeding on
dying, young aspens
and maybe the forest will claim us for its own.
to lie down and watch light slowly go mad
at the sight of the fog that festers,
at the feel of the skin that rots:
a macabre sight to the outside world, yet —
a lively feast to a ****** of crows.
soon, sweet one, candles will die
and i'll be lying next to you —
the feel of daylights, forgotten.
Oct 29, 2020
Oct 29, 2020 at 7:22 AM UTC
Candle flicker
Keeps mosquitos away
The wind is picking up
No sound to be heard but paper crumpling rustle of aspens
A **** seagull squaks; only here
This is desert living
Desert loving
We have a porch
It kind of feels like heaven
Just the moon and lamplights
And pajamas with no undergarments
Citronella smell
Dry breeze
Skin no longer chapped
Weathered from my initiation
During the apex of summer when I read outside at midnight
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 2:21 AM UTC
Let me know the sweetness of the canopy. The gentle cygnet garden you express in rows. I drift upon the aching embers of the bark of midnight's supper, its kingdom of darkness that I lay upon. Suspended in the air, rocking steadily on a distant plateau, tilling the granules of the earth in my map-lined hands; I pinch the rocks and sand kernels naming places as I snap my fingers. I go to the top of the city I know, a small yellow house in a crowd of tall aspens- and the Catholic church sends me soda and small biscuits, and the Hebrews help me be a better man.
I go to a place which has very small rooms. My legs are like a giant world-sized forklifts that carry the heirlooms of my parents in and out of this universe into another. I make a stride to catch a glimpse of you in passing. I tilt my eyes. I hope that I can see how beautiful you are, once more, if only I lift my head towards the way in which I know you, or the way in which I once had.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:43 AM UTC
The turgid brown ***** rolling river
But above the Aspen stands tall
Leaves quivering, shaking, falling
But Aspen roots go deep
Aspens do not fall
Each leaf that in the water drifts
Another life does fade
Each leaf that on the soil lands
Another life regained
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 3:15 PM UTC
The barron earth seems barron still,
The snow is gone but green lost still,
But on the Aspens, the catkins grow,
The male, the female, each in the wind,
The grow and grow and ask to be seen,
A sign of life in a barron land,
The males they dangle, the females *****
A source of life, before the leaves,
Winter's gone and Spring has rose,
The Aspen Moon approaches full,
A few small leaves upon the ground,
A strawberry, a flower, some blades of grass,
As the Apsen Moon begins to wain,
Fast rushes Springtime just like the Bull,
The catkins promise, the leaves fulfill,
New life, new living, the Aspen Moon.
Jul 8, 2012
Jul 8, 2012 at 12:40 PM UTC
I wish I was with you, under the canopy of your covered patio...
above parked subaru station wagons
next to aspens and pines, thick with pollen
and lazy concrete carrying joggers and cars and speeding bicycles piloted by the hormone-drunken youths of another sophomore summer
I'd forget, if I was with you
content to sleep in the morning sun and make love on the red porch of your red house....
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 12:37 AM UTC
It frosted good and hard last night
for it was twenty-eight degrees,
heat and humidity are now gone
so we’ll welcome the snow and bare trees.
But today the sun was shining bright
high in the November sky,
there never was such a shade of blue
to delight my searching eye.
The Burr Oaks dropping their golden leafs
no more Maples a fiery red,
the quaking Aspens are flattering maize
a warm quilt, to put the earth to bed.
~
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 9:30 AM UTC
a congregation
of creation,
Aspens gather in;
between the hills
where sunshine fills
the church of the ravine.
triumphantly the hymns
that play
on many golden ray,
light the way
for trees that pray
and touch the Heavens' gate.
a gentle breeze
is not perceived
except on leaves of green,
whose bright colors
quake and nod
moved by a breath of God.
their branches white
bathed in moonlight
reflect a spirit strong,
stood straight these years
through storm and tears
with roots in solid ground.
the Aspen Grove
how I would rove
a childhood of dreams,
my spirit always
spoken to
in company of trees.
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 11:35 PM UTC
Chastity wore pretty tiny flowers
in her spiraling dreads,
a fragrance of patchouli
wafted from her lithe form,
she was genuine spirit.
Her sister Divinity
loved summer dresses
and had even tighter dreads,
butterflies twirled
around her regal head.
They were the coolest sisters
on Mother Earth
& every time
they visited a forest,
they practiced
a wonderful habit.
They'd sing & chant
& dance & hug
aspens & pines,
chestnuts & sumacs,
hickorys & walnuts,
cherries & birches.
No joke, they even
hugged mighty oaks.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 9:55 PM UTC
Sifting through throngs of ordinary people
Feeling the sweat run down your spine,
Knowing that somewhere, lost in the nowhere
Penniless thoughts are sweeping your mind.
Whispering breezes caress the deep valleys
Towering aspens reach for the sky
Loveliness stretches across the whole landscape
And ordinary people live life as they die.
The everyday actions of ordinary souls
Which gather like old leaves in piles at your feet,
They billow and flow like windblown confetti
And lay there like derelict snow in the street.
The passion and pain that flow through the lifeway
The highs and the lows that paint in your mind
Magnificent portraits of colour and texture
That render your eyesight effectively blind.
You scream at the hollowness, vacantly pulsing
Thrash at the emptiness shimmering there,
Long for the avalanche of substance returning
Long for the touch of her long golden hair.
Swim through the morass of ordinary people
Wade through the ordinary thoughts that live there
Making the most of the moments of lightness
Through quivering lips you discard despair.
Dancing in puddles and splashing through gutters
Cascading on through in a frivolous way,
Tossing your mane with a smile built on vapour
Dispelling your cares like windblown hay.
To gasp for air in the turquoise downtime
****** out your palms apon your knees,
Feel your chest convulse with effort
These flooding tensions gush to ease.
Whispering nothings are echoing softly
Silkily wafting from this side to there
Imparting the message that life is worth living
And crimson & scarlet diffuse in the air.
This ordinary day has done it’s thing now
Temperate airs have cooled to chill,
Vistas fade into the distance
Starlings flock upon the hill.
Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
18 January 2008
Oct 23, 2009
Oct 23, 2009 at 3:57 PM UTC
Wind rushing,
A mighty roar,
But silent as the grave.
No sound itself,
No sight itself,
Only movement.
But Aspen leaves,
And Aspen groves,
Moving, rustling,
Whispering, talking.
Each leaf a single voice,
Each branch a quiet chorus,
Each tree a mighty legion.
The grove a roaring,
Rushing, soaring,
Loud yet stilling,
Calm and peace.
Constant movement,
Loud but softly,
The Aspens lull me,
To my rest.
Jul 8, 2012
Jul 8, 2012 at 5:18 AM UTC
Shimmering, quivering, aspens,
bask in the evening sun;
peaks of the mountains high,
grow purple as day is done.
In the dense, dark pockets of spruce,
the streams run fast and clear;
the forest, strong and silent,
harbor the wolves and deer.
It's spring-time in Arizona,
the intrigue of nature's show;
in glorious sun and shadow,
that causes the heart to glow.
It's the stillness of the meadow,
that tempers the buzz of day;
that in quiet meditation,
shows its presence, now, in May.
I drink the nectar of splendor,
and gaze at the feast of the mind;
contented to be here... to see,
the painting, that I alone find.
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 12:10 AM UTC
she was called forth
from the rain, sing-screaming through
the lonesome pines, scattering needles
like a ****** angel; stomping
the dust into mud.
festivals strung on her wrists, the
flags shouting louder through leaves
than even that hung-up sun could muster.
rocks rambled up her spine, feet
calloused from dancing, she shrugged,
suspended above the moss.
the fire was never so bright.
would the black streets in a
harsh, dead city be deeper or
stronger than this?, can the skyscrapers
cut open clouds with their teeth
like she gnashed through God's hair
and tangled the sound of her blood
with the river?
even her chin was a boulder;
her knees flat skipping stones.
she wore soft bark and orange.
(aspens on hillsides with sunsets,
roots blending with bones and vein
and skin)
her hair spread out as a tree underwater,
or braided tight into vines.
a cup in each hand,
a sword in her mouth,
a wand on her waist,
pentacles on every inch,
forever breathing with the skin
of the earth.
and when she had left:
the missions departed, coals are black
in the cold city, skies scraped and scabbing.
burnt with the deep of a flame-led
memory.
the shallow graves upturned and cried out
into the rain,
*where has the base of my stream
flown from, if not the sharp
scent of her skin?
what shadow have I carried if not
an absence tied under my feet to
only be free in the morning
with her hair in my mouth?
where does the river flow
from here?*
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 1:35 PM UTC
this is an autumn
treeline reflection..
stark edges
demarcations of
minerals and trees..
a reminder of
other dividing lines..
as when we hear
strange notes of the
coyote's scream..
Are there other
lines to be found..?
Where are our inner
shadows and lights
so precisely bound..?
below treeline
golden aspens glow
out-lined and brightened
by the forest's black..
other glistening lights
mark rippling streams..
Meanwhile--
the cowboy poet
renders joyful lines
of wholeness
embracing all such
lights..
and timberlines...
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 9:48 PM UTC
When I went to bed I was 17 –
plumes of raven hair and cigarette smoke
wreathed my head and I coughed,
tamping the embered end before kissing
him goodnight -
soldier’s cap a tilt to one side
muscled chin blemished by lipstick
as the screen door flags between us, and
summer makes its last sweet
serenade to the dancing aspens
while momma chided my lackadaisical
entrance and
fairy flight to bed.
At ten o clock I wake now
the aspens stand still, bare, black.
I look down to see
withered fingers writhing in tubes,
ugly blue veins, a strange
woman sponging my lady parts,
calling me “sweetie” like I was a child.
I scream for momma,
I look for him -
my love, my soldier -
starved for familiar faces, as
panic ropes its tendoned grip
through my ribcage, around my trapped
spasming-butterfly heart.
What have you done to me?
Strangers, monsters, ********
I groan...no words come out, but
squeals and shrieks like a strangling
rabbit, my neck caught in a wire.
What’s wrong with me?
Where are you, my soldier?
Where are you, momma?
Why are they keeping me from you?
You see…when I went to bed I was 17.
When I woke,
I was on my deathbed.
It’s not fair, momma.
If I could do it over, I...
I never would have left him
on the porch, I
never would have passed you
in the kitchen, I
never would have slept
not one hour
not one **** minute
would I have willingly succumbed to
slumber with the faint hush of
summer’s overtures
fading
to the blank slate of
a white,
white
winter.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 8:19 PM UTC
wave-front
cloud-break
blue-grey-movement
~~~
below the wind
watching
Redwoods quiver
~~~
the hallowed wine glass
but ah!
the sweet on my lips
~~~
Fennel every Fall
through the chain link fence
~~~
the warmth of my lover
passed hand to hand
polished blue stone
~~~
dust
breaks the silence
sneezing
~~~
a Rose opens
aging
gracefully
~~~
proud Maple
among not yet
yellow Oaks
~~~
peninsulas
embrace the bay
wave-break kisses
~~~
white Aspens
out of sight
white Egret
~~~
Cypress light
spiked and pining
~~~
paying respects
around the lumber mill
procession of Trees
~~~
October road trip
picking haiku
from the breeze
~~~
cloud layers
puzzle piece
the sky
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 2:30 PM UTC
high along the timber line
in everlasting green expanse
there is a colony of brave young shoots
that dare to change their dress
to yellow
preparing to face the winter naked-bare
their fair white skin
vulnerable as they are like the snow
but they stand together unafraid
because beneath the ground
the golden aspens hold each others' hands
though on the surface
they are quaking
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 10:54 PM UTC
In the deep hollows of an abandoned mineshaft,
poised under the giant reaching claws of ancient
machinery,
I found love.
At the top of the tunnel it was summer.
The aspens rustled their little dollop leaves at us;
the dirt under our feet ran down the mountain before us;
and the wind swept away the scent of us.
Into the trees, perhaps into space,
all the way to wherever our thoughts lay nestled close,
nearly touching.
Love is in the woods, he said.
True Love and True Nature
are the only things
we can always access,
no matter how far,
no matter how long ago.
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 10:59 PM UTC
She lives in beauty
Though she may live with it she knows not of it
Just as the fish of the sea filtering oxygen from the waters knows not that the water
its in, is consequently the air it breaths.
She lives in beauty nonetheless
amusing all who see it and cherish it
to their deaths.
Through her youth the bounty is time and possibly a gaze that she may bestow you with profoundly.
If her gaze had never fallen upon myself I would have no words to share nor reasons for care as without the sight of her eyes on my mind I wouldn't have the slightest knowledge of beauty nor time.
She lives in beauty just as the aspens trees of Colorado glowing in their bright yellow fall coats Our love is a tree which stands solemnly.
What grew from a seed took off exponentially, and flourished magnanimously creating from within its own awning of protection, providing shade and comfort to all who may pass.
Though time dwindles and autumns rough breezes and cold winter nights nears, the flurry of winds brushes debris and leaves from the tree tumultuously.
Standing prostrate and naked the timber appears to be desolate, austere and bleak. But were it not for our sun and its ultraviolet rays to send warmth and divinity assembling from within the sugars from its cache and photosynthesis taking place in its stems to muster up all the energy to grow anew. And like once before the tree stands in all its glory preened in green sharing the love between all living things absorbing the carbon dioxide we exhale and blessing us all with the very thing that enables us to survive.
From mornings first light to nights last second of twilight does her beauty shine bright as a supernova burgeoning.
Alight from the mountains she wistfully wastes no time waiting, instead she's actively demonstrating integrity and what it takes to be in solidarity with all around her.
Mirrored flame to cherish her colour
Embellishing our moments together forever my lover
Our days turn to nights filled with more than laughter and as sure as her beauty shines bright her love is pure to my delight as she lives in beauty
May 5, 2022
May 5, 2022 at 8:58 AM UTC
Summers heat exhausting
Earlier sunset cooling
Chill nights blanketing beds
Lazy sun rising, colorful
Cool, cloudless, breezy daylight
Scholarly studies, another year
Garments warming, gone shorts, T's
Choice daily temps arrive
Leaves cascading, pure beauty
Birds make flight, winter looming
Excited trek, Aspens glory
Basking in falls perfection
Raining winds, beginning flakes
Everyone prepares for change
Bow our heads, winters onslaught
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 5:25 PM UTC