Eve is tempted

Honey voiced sooth sayer
Speaks like seraphim do
Curling itself amongst branches,
Undulating body throughout leaves
And amongst stars slips its tongue
Into her ear as she sleeps
Making her itch for something,
Making her miss what she does not know.

Apples           Apples             Apples
She dreams of her fingers lacing around
Red shiny skin,
Her teeth picking at its' flesh

Apples

They haunt her, and a snake
Calls her to its branched haven
And her tongue is at a loss
To voice what she does not know.

trees twisted and tore with their branches
attempting to rip their roots away from the frigid wind
that whipped them and my wore-torn jacket
against my once warm chest.

i saw mid-march christmas-lights
waving on a  mailbox slowly change
from poorly timed holiday decorations,
to faded heart shaped bulbs— barely pink—
******* over choked filaments.

i didn’t look up at the stars
or down at my sneakers,
but stared into a dim lamp-lit alley
hiding dangerous characters,
who probably just needed  a light,
a smile, a fix.

But if this night
was read from a storybook’s pages
the wind would’ve wait for me
to wade through warm air,
faded hearts would breathe
their deepest red,
the stars would pulse to the rhythm
of crickets chirping who danced along
with my heartbeat’s thumping,
and the alley’s unlit cigarettes,

would glow before grins
painted on orange faces.

If I could live forever,
I would still strive for more medals.
If I could write in time,
I would love to engrave my writings in the hearts of men.

The mountains stand forever,
Don't tell me they don't quaver.
My feelings stay eternal cause am in love with historic medals.

Together is not forever.
Leaves will always wither,
Ice melts even in winter.
Stem and branches will not always be together,
Those who doubt can ask Mr timber.

If we think we can be mighty,
Let us fight but don't get *****.
Those who read will become legends.
Inspiring lines live forever.

He who speaks lives for a while,
he who writes lives in time.

After time has past
and a thousand years has come and gone,
Someone somewhere will pick up your work like a scribe from the sky and blend to the rhythm of your pen like young men from the west to the tune of Kayne west.
Then you will realize  your effort wasn't in vain and that the joke of fate didn't tamper with your taste.
You will then begin to live again.

Within the hour our bodies will slow to nothing
but the gentle beating of snow muffled drums.
You will take your arm out from under me and
I will turn with it, for you are keeping the warmth
for yourself. Our skin is rapidly cooling in the night
breeze from the open window, the gossamer drapes
billowing like ghosts. Goosebumps rise on my arms
like marching ants and I want the blankets around me
in a cocoon of body heat but I don’t ever want to move,
ever, ever; I want only to spoon up behind you like a
warm animal, skin like salt water taffy under the moon
in the window, framed painting of two lovers. With my
ear against your back I can listen to your heart beat,
shaking me apart like a tribal dance, bells on my dress
keeping perfect time, and I kiss your freckled shoulders
like a star map as a night owl coos in the branches by
the window. It puts us to sleep like drifting astronauts.
Gone are the kisses you give like building empires in
my mouth, conquering and renaming; now is the time
for slow pecks and flutters of eyelashes, dark smudges
against the cheeks. Now is the time for sweet touches
of fingertips against gentle skin. Now is the time for a
quiet rejoice.

(l.b.)

We'll pretend we hold the forest,
We'll stand regal like the pine,
We have tried to be good soldiers
Labouring under the sunshine.
And all the little notes will carry us,
Spare the bruises on our spine.

And what a thing to do forever.

Can you see the fire?
Can you hear its song?
Can you flicker in the secret breeze
Where the melodies belong?
And we, the voiceless,
Sang the loudest all along.

And what a thing to do forever.

Steal the canopies for shelter,
Weave the branches for a bed.
Lay your words upon the fallen leaves
Where they'll sleep once they've been said.
Read the stories of the quiet stars
In a deep blue overhead.

And what a thing to do forever.

Colours hug branches,
Hungry birds patching bare trees,
Wings of winter leaves.

The light from the stars glistened off or her eyes, making appear even brighter. Something I never imagined possible.

As we walked, sounds of oceans waves, crashing against the sandy beaches orchestrated a symphony of sounds we’ve never heard. It created a tremendous sound that echoed throughout our bodies, as huge waves of clashed against beach shore, colliding with the mammoth stones, protecting the shoreline.

That sound, such power and grace, raged on throughout the night.

The air was cool; salty and damp from the ocean’s mist. The crickets creaked and whistled, as if calling to each other in a synchronized harmony.

Bullfrogs croaked loudly; as if abruptly belching. Yet, perfectly in sync.

Each sound, in perfect harmony, echoing off of each other, dissipating into the sounds of the hollowing breeze, brushing against huge the paddled shaped leaves of the Palms trees surrounding the beach.
The taste of salt, tainted the flavor of our lips.  The fresh aroma of ripe  mangos, still lingers; on our fingertips, and lips.

Moments ago, the rich sweet creamy juice drip uncontrollably. Pouring our from the sides of fruit, slowly pooling in the palms; after dripping from my lips. Other drops, seep though the corners of my hand, falling to the ground, seeping through cracks of the black sand.

We laugh. I smile, because this time when you smile - it seems as if your smile is wider than your face. Finally.

The view is amazing.

Strong winds still pulling at the trucks of the trees. Bending and throwing them, back and forth, helplessly – they sway to the unyielding wind; their trunks bending under the weight of the harsh ocean wind. Leaves thrash violently; the swinging and swaying of the branches created a unique sound, the hollowed across the midnight, carried by the arms of the wind, cascading across the colorless sky.  

The sounds, were overwhelming.

Off in the distance, strains of white light beaming down a small accumulation of clouds, illuminating the water’s edge; the dim beams of light dancing over the crest of the waves, swaying and shifting effortlessly against each other. The current pulling them, as they drift in the throws of the ocean; glittering and glistening, as they seemly dive over waters edge, spilling off of the earths surface, never to be seen again.

The thought alone, is priceless.

Smoke it up cool cat
Lie back in the chair
Light a cig and breathe-
In the warm tobacco-
Taste flavors of tar, menthol-
And happiness
Feel nicotine travel
Through the branches-
Of veins
Exhale
Watch the opaque smoke
Dwindle in front-
Dip head forward-
Get that scent in-
Hair-
Eau de cig

Coffee finally arrives
Put out the cig
Ground plant into-
Burning ashes-
Pinch the cig-
Pour in cream-
Stir with cig-
Gettin’ the crusty-
Embers into the-
Golden nectar-
Of the gods-
Around around it goes
Drink it up
Is the rough gravel-
On your tongue-
Ground coffee or ash?

The lovely trees of autumn shine,
in fields of majestic glory;
It's heaven's way to give the world,
a pure and glowing story.

While whistling winds intrude upon,
the corners of our minds;
And the gentle breezes blow afar,
each colored leaf aligns.

As the trembling branches of the trees,
shed all their crinkled leaves;
The bounty of a sacred world,
brings nature to its knees.

The northern winds blow heavily,
with frost and chilly air;
And soon the days of winter rise,
as snowflakes dance in pairs.

Remember how the whistles sing,
a tune of changing seasons;
From God above Who tells the tale,
with faith, and hope and reason.

My hubsy and I went for a moonlit stroll
graceful billowy branches gently ripple above us
Black swans sailing in the moonlight

Squawking sounds of katydids, crickets, frogs
sawing zzz's and occasional loud drone of
rap music cut through, punctuated the
brisk night air

As we meandered our shadows
grew taller, towering temple steeples
stretching across patchy luminescent streets

We even caught a fleeting glimpse of our
silver sillhouettes superimposed
like Milky Way gods over the heavens

I looked at my darling spouse, heart palpitating
my hand tucked cozily into his

"We are Vast Beings David," I whispered tenderly
"So much more that we realize."

I blame the Tarzan films I watched as a kid. Tree houses. If they were good enough for tarzan...!  I chose the tallest tree in the wood, a birch with massive branches and plenty of them. Iwill build my tree house right at the top, no one will notice it unless they look up, I started work, gathering planks of wood where ever I could. I needed help, Barry and Peter were strong, their granddad had a shed he didn't use, it was dismantled and hauled piece by piece up into the crown of the tree. things were beginning to take shape in the dizzy heights above.
It was great, from our lookout we could see all of the wood, and even the turnip field and distant farmer ploughing with the blue tractor. of course we couldn't remain quiet and build our tree house, there had to be a certain amount of sawing and hammering which attracted some suspicious locals, but when anyone approached we stopped the noise and remained undetected. The tree house was twelve feet by six, and we painted the outside green before we hauled it up. Of course it didn't all go according to plan, there was the time that my helpers thought it would be funny to let go of the rope that they were hauling on to hoist one of the panels up, we got it two thirds of the way up when they let go, (they said they were atacked by wasps, a likely tale.)
The result was that I was catapulted up into the tree in spectacular fashion, and left hanging about forty feet above the ground. I managed to swing to a nearby branch, but when I let go of the rope, the wooden panel shot past me, almost knocking me off the branch!  In spite of many setbacks, we finished it in November,  It was very draughty due to the multitude of gaps in the wood panels, "We need an old carpet for the floor, and some dry grass to shove in the gaps, then we should be allright. Slowly the tree house filled with furniture. We had a table, (three legged,)  some chairs, from who knows where, and a bench seat which had a habit of tipping up suddenly when only one person was left  sitting on it. had we known it at the time, this bench seat was a disaster waiting to happen"  The tree house was still draughty, no matter how many holes we plugged with dry grass the wind still got in. Clearly we needed more grass!  Dry grass was beginning to be hard to find. "We can use dry leaves instead." Sack upon sack was gathered, (we had a bunch of willing helpers now, all eager to join us .)
The floor of the treehouse was now about two feet deep in grass and leaves, but it remained cold! On November the fifth, we climbed into our treehouse, fortified with ginger cake, bread and jam, some turnips from the nearby field, (always a favourite) some brought bottles of pop too. We settled down to watch the bonfires, We could see at least three, and some had fireworks!  As it got darker we lit our lanterns. "Candles stuck to the inside of jam jars.)  all went well, to start with, and the party became more boisterous. Then it happened, someone upset the bench seat, and in the confusion jamjars were knocked over and lighted candles fell among the grass and leaves. The speed with which the fire took hold was incredible, I suppose the strong wind helped to fan the flames. The scramble down the tree was frantic, we were showered with burning pitch. (from the roofing felt I suppose) and clumps of burning grass and leaves.  it was all very sad, and very spectacular. Friends still talk about it I believe. We moved from the North East after that, and went to Sunbury on thames, "The Thames! Boats, fishing! now that was more like it!  
                     More anon.

At the hour of the dawn
When the sailors have gone
And the ship is standing
To be taken

And the cold singing breeze
Sings its changes to the seas
And the song will never
Be forsaken

But the change that has come
Will never stay here at home
And the sailors will leave
In the morning

And the girls will just cry
When the songs have passed them by
And the breeze’ll cease to try
To be pleasing

And the curvy horns of time
Will surely always deny
That there were branches to
The girls’ soft feelings

And the trees will just swing
Every morning again
Waiting for the change
To be coming

But the old men will rot
And young be forgot
And nothing will change
In the end

The same hour shall strike
Everyday every night
And nature’ll be whimpering
And moaning

Calling to proceed
To pay some more heed
To the pain of the innocent
That’re falling

The swift sea has changed
And the feeling disarranged
And songs no more mean
The same meanings

Like a hound that moves
As it looks at the moon
And the moon pretty
Just keeps smiling

And the hound then howls
Its deep lamenting growls
To night and its forgotten
Promises

And at the side of the dawn
When the pirates are alone
With their smiles and their scars
And their singing

And their cheer shall be heard
To the wind and the birds
And the air in celebration
Cheering

For nothing is lost
When happiness the cost
And happiness the prize
In winning.

The girls will dance again
To the tune of the rain
And their dresses shall flow
Like silver

With soft shining eyes
And their innocent surprise
And their bodies moving
And swaying

Like gods they shall rush
Away from the hush
And remember the dawn
With laughter

Once that the hound
And the pirates have calmed
And the girls have ceased
Their chatter

And tired they shall sleep
On their beds in a heap
Free from all thoughts
Of slumber

And the wind and the dawn
Shall pass on and on
And wait again for the
Cheering

When the pirates shall return
And surprise everyone
With their smiles and their scars
And their singing
[That’s it!]

A little vine grows darker everyday,
Wrapped around the tree of life,
He slowly makes his way.
Inch, by inch, ascending higher,
No bark wards off his wrath,
Strangling the limbs that quickly tire,
While rotten cores linger beside his path.
As extremities whisper and make their peace,
Branches break and new twigs resonate,
But shivers slowly cease.

O’ how sweet this Vine that gives
‘Tis not pretty yet the branch lives
And look at its fruit how very sweet
What life is here, we must all eat
What of those with no fruit
It looks to me they’ll be cast in fire
Never to more they will expire
What became of them — why did they die?
It must be they did not abide.
This vine it seems gives life a plenty
Though it is not very pretty
A branch must long — it must desire
To be grafted in to never tire
But so it is with restless hearts
Some cannot see this Vine is ours.

Watch me now.
I am the hope in your soul and
my feathers are falling.

My claws are dulling on this branch's bolts
and nuts that loosen under the rusting wood.
I see you through your window prism glass
but your tears don't fall as down as gravity should.

Gravity. Gravity. Gravity.
You see me dance to the waltz of
the apples all falling.

A hammer curls among your right fingers
and heading to your left. You look for me
on the ground and softer branches of fir,
but you've known I'm here in this iron tree.

Melt it down now.
I'd fly away and leave
the tree to its falling.

Your bones are breaking and I am shaking
so I cannot come and would not sweep you
beneath my mother's cotton down wings,
for you have dulled my claws and still your fingers diffuse

to the sound of the

Windows now fogging.
So we scream as
the light is still falling.

These are the days of skies that drift
Down to hug the canopies and lap softly at the hills.

These are the days of rain that flies,
Droplets suspended in the air that burst as stolen kisses against passing cheeks.

These are the days of flaming trees,
Fire that courses through branches to turn leaves into flickering embers.

These are the days of stillness,
A world holding it's breath, quivering with each and every heart beat.

These are the days of lingering dusk,
Cloying so thickly it can be sliced with a cry.

These are the days.
Autumn's days.

My days.

I AM the True Vine, and My Father is thy Vinedresser* Every Branch in Me that doesn't Bears Fruit He Prunes, that it may Bear more Fruit* You're already Clean because of the Word which I have Spoken to Thee* Abide in Me, and I in You. As the Branch cannot Bear Fruit of Itself, Unless it Abides in thy Vine, Neither can thou, Unless Thou Abide In Me* I am thy Vine, Thou are the Branches. He who Abide in Me, and I in Him Bears much Fruit, for without Me Thou can do nothing. * If anyone doesn't Abide in Me, He is Cast-Out as a Branch and is withered, and they gather them and Throw them into the Fire, and they are burned* If thou Abide in Me, and My Words Abide in Thee, thou will ask what thou Desire, and it shall be Done for Thee* By this, My Father is Glorified, that thou Bear much Fruit, so thy will be My Disciples* As the Father Loved Me, I also have Loved Thee* Abide in My Love* If thou Keep Thee Commandments, thou will Abide in My Love, just as I have kept My Father's Commandments and Abide in HIS LOVE* These things I have Spoken to Thee, that My Joy may Remain in Thee* and that Your Joy may be Full* This is My Commandment, that Thou Love One Another as I have Loved Thee* Greater Love has no One than this, than to Lay-Down One's Life for His Friends* Thou are My Friends, if thy do whatever I Command Thee* No Longer do I call thee Servants, for A Servant doesn't know what His Master is Doing, but I have called Thee Friends, for all things that I Heard from My Father I have Made Known to Thee* Thou didn't Choose Me, but I Chose Thee and Appointed Thee that thou should Bear Fruit, and that Thy Fruit shoulD Remain, that whatever thou ask thy Father in My Name, He may Give Thee* These things I Command Thee, that thou Love One Another. If thy World Hates Thee, Thou Know that it Hated Me before it Hated You* If thou were of the World, thy World would Love its Own. Yet because thou are not of the World, But I Chose thee Out of thy World, therefore thy World Hates Thee* Remember thy Word tha I Said to Thee* A Servant is not Greater than His Master. If Thou Kept My Word, thou will Keep Yours also* But all these things thou will do to Thee for My Name's Sake, Because thou do not know Him Who Sent Me* If I had not come and Spoken to them, they would have no Sin, but now they have Excuse for their Sin* He who Hates Me, Hates My Father Also* If I had not done among Them thy Works which no One Else did, thou would have no Sin, but now thou have Seen and also Hated Both Me and My Father* But this happened that thy Word Might be Fulfilled which is Written in Their Law* They Hated Me without a Cause* But when the Helper Comes, whom I shall Send to Thee from thy Father, the Spirit Of Truth who Proceeds from thy Father, He will Testify Of Me* And thou also will Bear Witness, because thou have been with Me from the Beginning  

May GOD Almighty Enriched Our Days Ahead IJMN* JAH JEHOVA* MIMO*
GOD Is Our StrEngth
GOD Is Love
* GOD With Us*
GOD Bless
Bless And Awesome Morning To Ours All In All IJMN
*GOD First

The cutting winds of nascent March
bend the trees in gleeful rage
stripping buds and breaking boughs
to build its hard and bitter stage.

On which it prances proud and stern
giving out of seasons cold
playing parts both good and bad
and caring less as it grows old.

Until at last it's April's part
and soughing mild replaces chill
to rain and song the stage is given
and golden blooms the branches fill.

Now the year turns new to newer
a glowing carpet swells the host
the biting act is wholly done
and Spring's the star we cheer the most.

It’s always a story of hearts
caged in bone, and how they
converse between bars like branches

of weeping willows. It begins when
they pull out their dusty dictionaries
and redefine themselves so their names

become synonyms, and how they flip
their pencils over to press pink
erasers against yellowed pages,

to rub out the line dividing reality
and daydream.  Next comes a ceaseless
cycle of rise and fall, and how lungs

methodically beat themselves against
chest walls with every sustaining breath.
Then it’s an abrupt lurch of

limbs, and how feet must find
new anchor when the rug is pulled out
from beneath them. It seldom ends

at happily ever after,
and most stories never bubble
over into the easy resolution

of *epilogue.

Dare to Dream awake
And a fleeting spec of dust falls in your eyes
You wonder with eyes wide open
Is this me?

You stand by the sycamore trees
Palms wide open scanning the branches
Opening your eyes to its length
A little to long you think, to long to want to climb

As time passes by you don't pass by their trail
Its to painful to know where they are, but ask yourself, will they please dream a little dream of me

I.
You always knew
the lies I've taught myself to believe
would never be good enough for him

We have the same smile
he is the last angel that can save
me

Love, I have no easy answers for you
I bury questions with every poem
but there is never enough dirt.

The ugliness behind our
pretty faces

burns holes
in the soul

and that's the first poem
I wrote about you that
wish I could burn
because I see myself
in your eyes and I wish
I could disappear from
the mirror

I don't
hate you.

I can't.

I
won't.

II.
my sweet Ollie,

your face looks like mine
you can see it in the eyes
especially when you smile

Have you discovered
children have a way
of noticing things
that are there,

seeing shapes
and shadows
that aren't?

There are monsters in the dark
but do not be afraid
I am there too.

I thought I
past the would,
could, should be

but there are no stars
in the sky and these
gnarled branches
won't give me release

and the future is the same as it always was

some things
cannot be hidden
cannot be undone
cannot be found
cannot be repaired

If I could still believe
in God and say a prayer
I would ask that he would read
these words you can't see yet

whisper them into your ear
so that with every heart beat
you have an answer for why we're
here

and one day
when you read this

know that I loved you
know that I missed you

There is still sunshine longing
to kiss your forehead

Don't sleep
until the day
is yours
and only yours.

My son, trust me
when I tell you,
there is nothing to fear
in the dark.

Fear the Heart.

BG-4/11/17

Anxious.
Like the attachment style.
Becoming involved,
and over-thinking everything.
That's what you called that, right?
Over-thinking
these old insecurities that I can
never seem to
quite push
away
for good
while my pen bears its ink
down into and past the current
page because all my muscles
are tight
and my stomach is
sick
and my mind
is distracted.

You. You. You.

She'll pick you up,
put you down
once she's read your pages
and harvested your words.
Is it true?

I've been discarded before.

Tried to trap the bird,
what a foolish mistake,
and it flew away
leaving my hands full
of ashes.
I've pushed too hard
and clung too tightly
and lost it all
many times.

I get nervous, but I know my center.

I see your wings,
a magnificent ocean blue
which have been carved
through years of struggle.
Never think that I do not.
I would never deign
to clip them.
I would never make that mistake again.

But I, too, have my share of books
which I have picked up,
read fully,
or half-way,
and put down,
discarded.
I have lifted from branches
and flown further
when I've been trapped,
clipped.

I get nervous.

I want to stay,
more than anything,
but there is fire in my wings,
and fire in yours too.
We are certainly
birds of a feather,
so I wonder,
can we not,
could we not,
should we not,
fly together?

I have begun to feel my skin softening.
I have spent 20 years of my life being told and believing my hide was made of steel, but now..
it has become translucent,
like the stained glass windows
held high in the chapel,
morning light seeping through
every nerve and heart beat,
every synapse and tissue,
every vein
and with even the smallest touch or threat of danger
I threaten to collapse like a kaleidoscope of blood and tears.

I tremble like a leaf being torn
from its branches simply by the thought of driving through a thunderstorm, when everyone knows its safest inside a car.
I cower in fear as I attempt to walk through a public grocery store, avoiding the imaginary stares of judgmental eyes behind a measly shopping list.

I have relied on my own structure for nearly two centuries and with that I do not no how to ask for the help of others.
Baby, hold me together. Do not allow me to come undone at the throat.

Tingle

Melodies ~ ringing on soft cool winds,
dangling from tiny strings in metallic forms
Swaying in harmony with your smile
reflecting the mid day sun
in glimmering highlights of whipped cream whispers
on wings of stained glass dreams

For it was that day you kissed me,
for the very first time ~
(When buttercups blushed as I held them to your chin)
and my lips tingled, unending,
understanding this was more than just a touching of skin,
a melted meeting of two

~Music called to us from the branches above,
serenading our hearts in sweet blissful sounds
on soft grasses, fingers intertwined~

Your eyes, hypnotized me there, in that place
and you kissed me again…this one held
Passion breathing, love had found me
coiled about me and clung to me
On that day, unlike any other
I could imagine…I fell for you

Now as cool winds blow
and leaves cascade in multicolored waves
That wind chime, suspended from that old maple rings,
singing sweetly of that first kiss,
a musical remembrance of that day
of which no reminder needs due ~ for my lips they still tingle

When you took our family tree up by the root my heart got tangled in the mess. Ants crawl under the door carrying away the branches laying on the floor. Now there is a hole in the middle of the room that goes down six feet from where I walk with my heavy shoes. Old seeds fade to dust like our memories like our family. I try planting the fresh ones in my chest but I fail to fill them with liquid because all the water inside me falls from my eyes to the sheets to floor where it has made an ocean of forgotten memories. Hopefully the ants will soon take the door with them, so I can swim to shore.

rushing mountain stream
grey stones protrude
blackberries hang just above
little splashes cause sparkles
sunshine filters through branches
light dances on the moving promenade
a lonely leaf passes by without fanfare ~
we sit watching
discussing home ownership steps
dropping names of realtors
considering taking the plunge
just over 1050 square feet
spring fed wood and oil heat
tiny cabin off Tree Farm road
future property of Mr. and Mrs.
Samuel Lyman Temple ~
bright blue Steller’s Jay
squawks his arrival
***** a mow-hawked head
and considers us for a moment
three quicks hops and one more call
before he flies off into the foothills
nature gifting us a nod of approval /

I am a craftsman. My hands are made of clay.
They're soft and wet and mould silhouette.
The last I made were without shadow,
The next will be more musical.
They will be spin around me -
Chimes in a western wind. Chimes of a different figuring
perhaps to hang in branches, simply as decoration.

If I rest, there will be no forming.
I fear this.
I fear the unmaking and forever sleep.
The chimes will awaken me with their shadow-music.

*
Squalls and storm clouds move inside me.
I hear thunder. Some say
they see change coming.
I see constant weather. There
is purpose in their forecast,
no in-decision and in a precise moment
the exact snap of thin ice.

*
I awaken before a bridge - reaching far across a rocky canyon.
Going to the edge and leaning over I see
the darkness of endless sleep. I hope to hear
water song and the expanse of rain-dreaming.
I wait at the bridge for a traveller like me to pass -
I will ask him to describe his journey and
The way ahead which I have not yet seen.

I don’t care if I’m thrown into the sea
It’ll be less rough on my aching feet
Running in all directions amongst claw shaped branches
Hooking into my flesh whenever I make a wrong turn
This forest isn’t peaceful
No,
It’ll sabotage you with every step you take
Barbaric
Agonizing
Clutter
Fearless creatures lurking around every corner
Constant target
The wolves hunched over
Hungry eyes
White teeth glowing like a knife underneath a sliver of light
That I’m always drawn too
In that eerie kitchen
Where those hands
Veiny
Pulsating with agonizing temptation
Rip my guts apart
And lay me to bleed all over my stupidity
I’ll always wake up alive
In the blackest part of the forest
Where the owls dare not fly
Where I always end up
I’ll look straight into the moon
It’s distant luminescence
Straight into those glazed eyes
Those shining stars
Looking upon me
I’ll protest
“I always try to stay on the path!”
Path
Right path
What path?
I’ll always hear them tell me
What I’m supposed to do!
What I need to do!
What you’ve told me to do!
Bee in my eye
Branch up my back
Thistles amongst my feet
Yeah,
What path?
I long to be amongst the waters soothing caress
Drifting
Waiting for the seas salty waters to heal me
The sloshy monotony
Back and forth through an infinite roller-coaster where every wave is just as the next
I fold my hands and let my tomb’s silence speak everything that manic forest chose to swallow

it’s the way our palms touched

and how ever since i can't
wash my hands enough

to get the taste of your
silence from the corners
of my fingernails

it’s the way the branches were
crooked and the bark was torn

but it held a rope the way the earth cradled your sister

–gently,
when the thunder shook her to the ground
and the branches

they trembled and swayed like your shoes,
only inches off the ground

Deutschland
You are to me
A spectrum of the purest green
Those hills rolling over each other eternally
In my memories
In my dreams
That Deutscher sea of green
Oh, Don’t leave me
Don’t let me leave
Let me rest forever in the branches of your trees
Oh and Don’t go
Don’t let me go
I love you so much more than you could know
And please don’t cry
Don’t let me cry
This is not our final goodbye
I’ll come back
Steam train whistling down the track
On Sunday
I’ll be older then
My features more defined
But you’ll be the same
Constant as a line
Familiar as the back of my hand
And green as ever
My darling Deutschland

Being born out of an oil spill
With gasoline swimming in the veins and capillaries
Cells spilling energy
Weeping for the blood of aged ideals
Shoved down the throat
Choking on dissonance and disenchantment

Ideals as clean cut as yours
Are easy to get lost in
Forgetting that your vision
Is fueled by the ants who
Breathe in sulfur and expel energy
For those who do not give them a time of day
And worse so, for those who discredit their life forces
And families who have known nothing
But the trade

If it’s all a dream
Then you have one leg in the door already
Honeysuckle filling the senses
Grass beneath bare feet
Branches wrapping themselves around your body
Like a safe house
Like a security blanket
Comforted by your origins
Remain within simplicity

But you’ll never get to know
The music of the taxis
Playing all the night and day
Signaling that movement is happening
Every day
Every night
Every hour
Every minute
Every second
Every time you bat your lids
For every face you see once in your life
And every train that you happen to miss by a single millisecond

You’ll never comprehend the joy
Upon a child’s face when they see that gray pigeon
Scavenging for crumbs
Padding small feet towards small feet
Knowing that they are equal only in that moment
And the curve of the lines on the man’s face
As he screams into his cell phone
And abruptly brushes past your shoulder
Running down to the corner of William and Cedar
And you losing his face in the crowd
Embracing a part of his anger, a part of his life
Only then and forever

You’ll never understand the value
Of a paved road
Of a rooftop sunset
Of a stranger’s compliment
Of the myriad of blinking lights
Filling the night like the stars you constantly harp on about
Each and every light a life

These are our stars

And if you look closely, you can still see the originators
Framing the sky with dim rays
Serving as both a reminder and a work ethic

There is a price to pay for progress
But without risk
Without passion
We have nothing
And it may be easy
To turn up your nose on those who choose to live amongst
Concrete and haze
Like a PETA member chooses an animal
Over the dignity of a woman
But I assure you that
One day you will forget the value of the clock
But the greatest gift the city has given is
Not a gift
But a reminder
We are all cells on a timeline

As much as we should work hand in hand
To sustain our dreams
Your spitefulness is misdirected and blinded
Choosing the scapegoat of the cover
Over the contents of the book

And as someone born from the oil spill
I find that offensive.

Glistening in the sun.
Bark so delicate.
Silky smooth and cold to the touch.
I don't want to melt you too soon...

I miss you when you're not around.
But when the weather's just right,
I'm happy to see you.

And even when you melt,
I know you're still with me.
A flowing stream;
The pouring rain;
The morning fog.

Tree of Ice.
Branches long.
Roots deep.

Gift-giver.
Life-bringer.
Beauty of the North.

Tree of Ice.
While you make my skin cold,
You keep my heart warm.

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.