"brushwood" poems
In my youth I put aside my studies
And I aspired to be a saint.
Living austerely as a mendicant monk,
I wandered here and there for many springs.
Finally I returned home to settle under a craggy peak.
I live peacefully in a grass hut,
Listening to the birds for music.
Clouds are my best neighbors.
Below a pure spring where I refresh body and mind;
Above, towering pines and oaks that provide shade and brushwood.
Free, so free, day after day --
I never want to leave!
3.8k
Oh, to be in England
Now that April’s there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England—now!
And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray’s edge—
That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children’s dower
—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!
3k
‘Are you all cured now?’
Oh, darling, if only you knew.
(But I’m a monument of
Self-restraint, whittled from
Rotting wood. Ragged shards
Chip off, jagged splints.
The eyes deep wells - an imperfect
Effigy, of sorts. Even now
I’m burning up, and awfully so.
Thick and stifling, the air bates
And provokes me. As the season turns,
I’m patched with canvas sacks -
For a time my steely gaze
Kept the birds away, but now
I’ve gone to seed, flaking
Dry brushwood and sown with doubt.
I grow strangely bulbous
At the centre, starlings nesting
And feeding near my abdomen).
I have questions of my own,
You know, and they all beg answers.
But yours, well, it came to me
Innocently, cut clean and smooth
Like a butter knife. A token
Offering, an afterthought.
I’ve preserved one half our
Peace of mind. My satisfaction,
You see, is a solitary one:
It tastes pungent, sweet, and
Maddeningly powerful.
Sep 26, 2012
Sep 26, 2012 at 9:55 PM UTC
My children will have a childhood.
I will make sure of it.
They will swim in ponds littered with Lilly pads
Dive down to muddy depths like fearless fish.
Sink tiny toes into slick black mud.
They will thrash strong tanned legs
Toward the gleaming surface above.
And **** deep breaths of country air.
They will slumber beneath the stars
To the sounds of bullfrogs and singing crickets
And the frenzy of flickering fairies of the night.
They will use glass wands of glitter
Just as a magician might
To hammer
All at once the warm dry earth
Sending grasshoppers springing
In startled unison-
Like magic
To escape the alien vibrations.
They will run barefoot through fields.
Drag behind them a big black beast named
Ballou or Bear- or something like it.
He who leaps on four legs
And licks with pink tongue.
They will dance to songs
They do not understand.
And fashion forts from fallen brushwood.
They will swing from high up branches
Only climbers of trees can reach.
They will discover an island of trees
Some sweltering summer day
As they wade through waist high
Green grass that breathes along
With the erratic waving of the wind.
They will claim it as their own.
They will name it Sail Away or- something like it.
And ***** a flapping flag of dishtowel and twig.
They will pull from backpacks
Granola bars and beef jerky
And gulp water from their base camp.
And return only when it is too dark
And they are too weary
To embark on any more adventures.
My children will have a childhood.
They will have one because I did.
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 3:12 PM UTC
To raise a seagull would be no small task – do you know why?
Because both you and I are not seagulls.
If an individual is perceived to be revolting, then the question arises as to whether non-conformity or debasement are the identifiable issue.
Like those cheapened activities which are secretly laid bare within the hotel hallways of Sin City, my immeasurable and baron liaisons have also been revolted by scorpion-like stings, as the wind promotes her seductive and tantalising thoughts through the brushwood of Autumnal celebrations around the vicinity of Nevada.
It is important to understand that the fullness of sound involves the synchronicity of isolated connectedness, and that we validate both the message and the messenger.
Balancing acceptance and change is horribly attractive.
Do you know why, my reciprocal affiliation of that which is considered to be humanity?
For that which is conceived, formed and reproduced within the solar system of Nirvana is not so readily articulated within the parameters of epistemology.
Aren’t ornithology and psychology both flighty?
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 2:12 AM UTC
One of my favorite William Bliss Carman poems...even though a Canadian by birth..it goes without saying that I believe all the Carman's are connected. Bliss I love your heart felt words!
EARTH VOICES
I heard the spring wind whisper
Above the brushwood fire,
“The world is made forever
Of transport and desire.
“I am the breath of being,
The primal urge of things;
I am the whirl of star dust,
I am the lift of wings.
“I am the splendid impulse
That comes before the thought,
The joy and exaltation
Wherein the life is caught.
“Across the sleeping furrows
I call the buried seed,
And blade and bud and blossom
Awaken at my need.
“Within the dying ashes
I blow the sacred spark,
And make the hearts of lovers
To leap against the dark.”
II
I heard the spring light whisper
Above the dancing stream,
“The world is made forever
In likeness of a dream.
“I am the law of planets,
I am the guide of man;
The evening and the morning
Are fashioned to my plan.
“I tint the dawn with crimson,
I tinge the sea with blue;
My track is in the desert,
My trail is in the dew.
“I paint the hills with color,
And in my magic dome
I light the star of evening
To steer the traveller home.
“Within the house of being,
I feed the lamp of truth
With tales of ancient wisdom
And prophecies of youth.”
III
I heard the spring rain murmur
Above the roadside flower,
“The world is made forever
In melody and power.
“I keep the rhythmic measure
That marks the steps of time,
And all my toil is fashioned
To symmetry and rhyme.
“I plow the untilled upland,
I ripe the seeding grass,
And fill the leafy forest
With music as I pass.
“I hew the raw, rough granite
To loveliness of line,
And when my work is finished,
Behold, it is divine!
“I am the master-builder
In whom the ages trust.
I lift the lost perfection
To blossom from the dust.”
IV
Then Earth to them made answer,
As with a slow refrain
Born of the blended voices
Of wind and sun and rain,
“This is the law of being
That links the threefold chain:
The life we give to beauty
Returns to us again.”
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 5:23 PM UTC
Queen of the fallen tree and the gneiss ridden
shore, ruling over an empire of celadon
moss and early spring waters, you stand off
to the west (of me) and i see your breath shift
over your lip and dissipate in loose tendrils against
the evening sun
I catch him staring up at the trees arced over
our heads with a strange boyish grin,
this is sorta what I imagine my life to look like he says
*all this **** in the way and then beyond that it's clear.*
He wipes his hand across the sky as if to illustrate the
supposed clarity beyond the tangle of branches. I am startled,
I meet his gaze briefly and nod because
if not a mess or entanglement, what better way to
describe the way I feel than to elude to the bracken
and brushwood ?
Out across a wire fence, deer gather quietly and stand
stock-still as we pass, aloof if not for their big inquiring eyes
watching us smirk and bump shoulders because
we don't know how else to be close (I already tried my tricks).
But he surprises me now and again with his gregariousness
with a determination to get to but an equal pleasure in
idling, in stillness, in gliding across my instep, performing
quick studies on my nails or briefly succumbing to the shadow
beneath my collarbone--
Quite arbitrarily, i ask for his pocket knife
but it's him that carves our initials into the
snarl at my feet, his hood pulled close
around his neck as he sets to work
Bis now with those hands that
have been kilned and slipped
with engobe, I am stirred
stirred
stirred
and
awake
awake
and
afraid.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 4:49 PM UTC
rain mist wreathed
virid groves
of evergreen
sun languished
behind clouds grey
overcast sky
lachrymose;
distant rumble
thunder;brontide
pellet-laden gusts
of wind;cold
leaf-stirring
nubivagant drops
falling
glistening foliages
rustling;
celadon leaves
rain-washed
brushwood damp
galore humus
dewy silence;
gerful downpour
incipient
Oct 18, 2020
Oct 18, 2020 at 12:32 PM UTC
She touches the ground to undo her pain
yet never the wanton Earth Mother,
having shed her tears like brushwood,
sweeping perceptions source.
Never the prophetess
self preservation is tying enough.
The moonlight runs countenance
never in congress
with those ethereal spirits
who have lain in wait, now fade
after-all its a truer life being you.
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 2:31 PM UTC
From between hewn peaks, a far-off moon
emerges at the edge of my brushwood gate.
Ten thousand trees sharing its clear skies
as shadows blur toward the heart of night,
its radiance offers emptiness white images
and its ch'i invests wind with ice-cold dew.
The valley's silent. Autumn streams echo.
Deep among cliffwalls, scraps of azure haze
linger. Crystal pure, it enters isolate dream,
opening shadows, embracing empty peaks,
then I wake at my ch'in window confused:
pine creek at dawn, not a thought anywhere.
Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 7:51 PM UTC
A man rode to town last night
but soon was drawn off course
Lost in woods out went his light
for wind did blow with force
He looked long without his sight
Far away came a glow
he made his way with all his might
and long his path did go
Thick brushwood put up a fight
but soon the path grew hot
the guide flew up to a height
the sun then took its spot
Dec 13, 2017
Dec 13, 2017 at 4:00 PM UTC
Took an amble through the countryside.
Saw the hills climbing over the landscape.
Appearing as the humps of a dark dragon.
Or maybe a sea monster.
The dusk edges the hills.
They spill over the lumpy landscape.
**
The evening copse hides sorcery.
The magic of the night.
Took a silent peep.
In the brushwood hid the equine form, edged with silver glow.
Slight in build.
A single twisted horned beast shivered.
It scrapes the floor with it's front hoof.
Flicking the night with it's mane.
**
You move to the side.
Oh hell there's a rock.
You trip.
It's aware of your presence.
Whoosh, off into the night a silent blaze in the dark.
**
That lump on the side of your head hurts so much.
Even to the softest touch.
Or was it really there at all?
**
Morning came.
The dew fell.
Marching rambler came across a distressing sight.
Had he been there all night?
In silence he slipped away.
(C) Livvi
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 5:18 PM UTC