"canopied" poems
In to the mystery of the night, i wander
the tangled tarantula garden
canopied with prophesies of light,
Lit windows are making
overtures to desires
night unleashes at these hours,
hear the buzz in the air
its time to make love,
darkness forgets hurt and embraces light.
i walk alone,
but an enchanting witch wait
for me somewhere in a garden bench,
to take me by my hand to her secret haunt
filled with thick smoke of ****
where she will remove the drapes
to let me see the truth.
On her quill and cactus bed,
she would make me understand,
how far is pleasure from pain
why darkness stalks light,
a jilted lover, walking a few steps behind,
I've heard her, once whisper
to wind in her husky voice
"A life written off by those
who measure out life with coffee spoons,
as spent in vein; this life of mine,
could have its secret treasures,
no charlatan could ever guess about
a serpent's diamonds
very few get to see,
its dangerous to pry, i forgive their ignorance"
Words induced by her dark power
has layers of meaning
but to many it was just meaningless jabbering,
just magic mushroom blabber
She nibbled and nicked my earlobes,
in between intoxicating purrs,
told me the meaning of caterwauls,
**"Its not pain, its not pain,
once you get in to the stream
you only want to drain,
in to the vast blue ocean"**
I recognize now, it's Walpurgis night,
as i walk in search of my witch,
i see dancers around bonfire,
revelers totally out of their minds,
carouse at the heart of the night.
And i see them all, witches in marine blue dresses,
enchantresses in blackly black,
coquettish red or groovy green,
I wait for her to appear,
the only one in resplendent white.
May 24, 2012
May 24, 2012 at 9:49 AM UTC
Our summer fellowships are over! We learned a lot - for instance - how summer’s a lot less fun when you’re hemmed-up, inside working. I mean, we preesh’d the clinical experience, the learning, and especially how good these fellowships will look on our med-school applications - seriously - but there were a hundred rules - aren’t rules incompatible with summer?
Hmm, Ok, let’s see, something poetic..
As the summer sun's blistering radiance waned, shadows,
muscled by sunrays to the marginal edges and corners,
gradually spread, like water - soothing, lenifying and assuaging
simmered nerves with their refreshing, canopied touch.
If sunlight scorched with heat, twilight soothed and gentled,
while varnishing, the dimming world with rainbow, event-horizons,
larger, more inventive, colorful and glorious than any mere mortal art.
Night gradually squeezed, unseen, through those vivid sunset cracks,
and refreshing night-air, drawn in by the last, escaping updrafts of heat,
rustled cooling relief to weary workers seeking the solace of evening and home.
back to unpoetic realities..
When work was finished, we’d retreat from the heat, racing up to the rooftop pool, like two happy porpoises out of school.
Whoever invented poolside food delivery, should win the Nobel Prize for ‘thank you very much.’ We wouldn’t go back to our rooms until it was dark and we’d started to prune.
Now, we’ve a month to relax before our Junior year begins. We got letters from Yale that said, “As upperclassmen..” “Upperclassmen!” We shouted as we danced in hand-holding circles, singing, “Upperclassmen, upperclassmen, upperclassmen, upperclassmen. upperclassmen.”
We’ve grown so much at Yale.
Aug 2, 2023
Aug 2, 2023 at 12:05 PM UTC
the sad branches provided a canopied space,
among the cold dew and quiet crickets.
the sun shown in small rays through the green branches.
peace and serenity consumed me
and i never wanted to leave.
leaving sounded so awful, so i stayed forever.
-/e.d/
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 1:56 AM UTC
I challenged him
burly ******* captain
stubbled beard as coarse as sandpaper
standing there in muggy dusk
arms akimbo,
mama san starched uniform stained with swagger and sweat
two silver captain's bars ******* any of my brilliance or bravado
all he had to do was speaketh the words
“need those maps, head out at 2230 hours”
and that was a death sentence
which was commuted to life
if four decades since has been life
there are not words for the black
of moonless jungle
except nothingness and paralytic fear
and through that lightless, lifeless, abyssness
I crawled, crouched and crept along
sometimes as slowly as the minute hand on my watch
the silence, the silence, the silence
became my splintered cross
to carry to my place of crucifixion
at my Calvary Hill behind barbed wire, blue lead barrels and
fearful eyes
silence, silence, silence, black wordlessness
black soundlessness
punctuated by shallow precious breaths
and imagined slant-eyed demons
waiting behind each berm
to turn the timeless night into timelessness
of more black
should I chamber a round?
and follow its solitary sound
into the silent holy night
and shatter my own fragile fright?
would that end this knowing without knowing?
and answer the question,
“is this fear worse than the answer?”
since questions have answers but answers have nothing
the nothing of which I was sure I would become a part
in the silence, the silence, the silence
of the black canopied jungle
in Tay Ninh Province
in 1967
where I was sentenced to death but allowed to live
in silent, black wordlessness
sentenced to live
to wonder, after all these years of shivering fright and flickering light
did the captain become a human?
And was I really allowed to live?
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 9:58 AM UTC
Lilies in the long grass
wild with tigers, striped orange
under trees, cool canopied
buds of sun blossoming
pretty cats slumber
sleek they dream.
Nights,
twitching whiskery
breathing slow
slinking low
as if to stalk
shock the sallow moon
hunt and growl
purr and prowl
animals whispering
stark the tiger lilies
glistening.
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 12:47 AM UTC
It's been years since I have visited your grave.
It's been years since the last time I cried your wake.
It's been a long time and I missed the love you gave.
How I wish that tears won't fall if I step on your coffin and break.
In your silent sanctuary that only God can hear, I knelt down and pray.
In your silent sanctuary that silence canopied the wide open cemetery,
I release my anger, pain, hatred and agony.
In your silent sanctuary where you saw me sobbing silently,
I have no fear expressing my emotions wholeheartedly.
In your silent sanctuary, I found peace and prolonged harmony...
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 1:39 PM UTC
Singing honey sucrose stream
Tidy shelving snug underneath
Nestled neatly inter-wing
Feather down cream
Mothers stroking cradle rocks
A thousand ***** of foam spill
Softly avalanche and bury
Pure angels in snow hands
Petal sky smeared casual
Walks warmly sweetly
Silken fur raises brow
At the coming
Lily padded velvet pawed
Strong slender limbs graceful dancing
The Supple strength
Holds a breath for dawn
Long stalks arch backs
Purring release modesty
Pure unction weeps complete
Smooth shell face washed in milk
A banner sail widened arms
Outstretched for breeze’s kiss
A wishing penny glides
Through water falling leaf
Mallow clouds woolen sheep
Dandelion umbrellas borne away
Slowly sinking Sun dyes autumn
Watercolour cascades melt
Thinly delicately imagined
Fragile world Mary’s peace
Doll dependent doting
Soul canopied sanctuary
Silence speaks
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 1:20 AM UTC
Everyday I'm trying so hard to like my favorite things for reasons having nothing to do with you.
Today when I decided to drive on the meandering border of Walloon Lake,
Wildwood Harbor rd,
The canopied trees
flashing shadows of squirrels peaking through paws
reminded me of every motorcycle ride I accompanied you on.
Holding tight to your chiseled stomach,
hands cupping your belly button through your sweatshirt pockets,
you would maneuver your mobile machinery through every dip and dive,
garnishing curves with streamline, flawless breaking and acceleration.
I would lean into your spine,
imagining the path of your lower back as the map of our road ahead,
each bump and curvature a flawless representation of reality,
the living moment.
Something sensual existed about the way you and I forged a relationship on pavement,
riding the asphalt the same way your bending fingers rode my thighs.
And every time I choose to drive our road with my less than aerodynamic Marquis,
each stomach flip from the unsuspected slopes
transports me to lazy mornings-
Naked and alone in any way imaginable.
Purity and solitude,
truth, the end of it.
So I turned onto M-75
trying to forget every reason that I love Wildwood Harbor for you,
and only remember the reasons I love it for me,
but couldn't find any worthy of space.
You made everything so memorable.
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 4:37 PM UTC
can we go swimming in
Argentina already,
and fill our hair with knots and ocean salt?
can we walk swaying like the tide,
along the damp, moon-lit breast of the beach
and fill the empty bottles in our clenched fingers
with lavender and red ocher,
a pallet of dawn
reflecting off glass?
can we drink coconut water in
beer bottles,
and drape ourselves in hanging hammocks under a
wide eyed sky?
i only want to listen to the distant roar
of water attacking sand,
like soft, silk whispers in a
salt canopied bed,
crickets chirping through the night time
warmth,
and tropical, sleeping
breath
slowly unleashed.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 6:42 PM UTC
Cupid’s ***** must be candy hearts and colored cards
His rough night must end in heaving twisted over the toilet bowl, boxes of chocolates and caramels dumping into its porcelain chamber
Naked, he probably limps into his canopied room
Pulling shut the purple curtains, climbing heavily into his bed of roses
Head throbbing, beautiful blonde curls drenched in sweat
Waking up soaked in fallen tears; flower petals
Feb 7, 2011
Feb 7, 2011 at 2:25 PM UTC
*Smell of last rain still not dried on their bark
They stand skyward taller somber and dark
I part the sodden grass to see if there’s a mark
Of the autumn’s trail when I last walked the park!
Does it still survive there the hushed canopied shade
Where sweet nothings were whispered commitments made
Dreams grew like wild grass and then in despair bled
As time ripped the woven words made them a barren glade!
Do they still come there in two lover’s timeless face
Sit on the wooden bench embraced in sculpted grace
For in those summer noons they hadn’t an address
Except in the labyrinth of heart a misty priceless place!
Can I still find them the two heads drawing close
Looking bonded for eternity breathing from one nose
Never making it but never timeworn forever new
In the pursuit of autumn’s trail the duo of me and you!
Smell of last rain still not dried on their bark
They bough over the couples in foliage green dark
For years will breeze past but they’ll make their mark
When they choose to hold hand and walk into the park!*
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 7:18 AM UTC
The ten commandments say nothing,
in the translations I’ve read,
against coveting my neighbor’s good
fortune,
timing,
intentions,
sense of style,
or the countless other intangibles
gifted by Nature
and our DNA's mischievous inventions.
I’m a strict constructionist,
when it suits me, and especially so
with documents carved in stone
by invisible hands
having no recorded fondness for the market.
I’d trade places with any nameless witch
caught cavorting in her coven’s canopied oases,
their cauldron-ringing capers
and care-free cackles cheered
by owl hoots and cricket song;
Or the smallish, self-sacrificing spider
who rather than a cigarette gets a close-up
view of his mate’s spinnerets dispensing
the silk sheets to wrap him
as a happy meal deferred.
I also envy their creepy hatchlings
who weeks later will climb to the tip-tops
of firry fingers, cast a single wistful thread
and wait for the wish-fulfilling wind
to carry them lifetimes away.
That’s how I could stiff this chill
that taps me on the shoulder, and chase
after a far-off warmth I’ve weened
since my weaning was done.
I count these covets no sins.
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 6:37 AM UTC
Tonight, the morose melodies
hummed by our silence will remind
us of our hearts' ambivalence.
Tonight, the moonlight rays
refracted by canopied leaves,
that leave broken shadows
showered along this pavement,
are ears that will hear the mellow
whispers of yesteryear. Not even
our fated fears from captivity of
time and oblivion could deter us.
Because tonight, one thing is certain,
love will never leave us...
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 6:49 AM UTC
Your childhood plaything
Became your clone
You traded crayons for
Your mother’s lipstick
Children’s fairy tales for
****** romance paperbacks
Your room’s rose wallpaper is
Canopied with Audrey Hepburn posters
At night, you braided your hair
For those sophisticated waves
You ****** on lemons
To perfect your pout, and
Brushed with baking soda
To bleach your teeth
Your envy: the doll’s porcelain skin—
Not too unlike the seat cover
You clutched after meals,
To keep the spirit clean.
Jul 14, 2010
Jul 14, 2010 at 6:43 PM UTC
It's near to midnight,
and the work week fright,
so let's last-raise our glass,
and be upstanding,
let the words of
sleep-steeped prose of
a younger poet
rest our heads,
leading us to wander
off to sleep,
where we meet and greet
our poems borning
in their rawest form:
*can we walk
swaying like the tide,
along the damp, moon-lit breast of the beach
and fill the empty bottles in our clenched fingers
with lavender and red ocher,
a pallet of dawn
reflecting off glass?
can we...
drape ourselves in hanging hammocks under a
wide eyed sky?
i only want to listen to the distant roar
of water attacking sand,
like soft, silk whispers in a
salt canopied bed,
crickets chirping through the night time
warmth,
and tropical, sleeping
breath
slowly unleashed.*
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
Hiking in a musty wood,
A path is laid in mulch and fern,
Dark and canopied, rung evergreen
And deciduously rooted. My one goal
Set to plateau, reach of hilltop meadow,
Others had told me, lay a pond in the sky,
Was there to experience a peek, where tall
Grasses and dry luster of flowers wild, sang
In highland clearings of golden lace and tarn,
Set with sun to fly and by sharing the long ocean
Straights, beyond the wildest, white horned mountains
Of the moody pacific and with eyes casted once more of
Youth, after sanded sleep and then to steep in wandering
Cloud, as eagles, robed in light and gleems of night, drift,
Careening wistful and free as running dream or simply roam
A foot as the wise, bearded, mountain goats sure and snowy
As they ruminate and forage.
At elevated breaking point,
Of storied, pristine clearing, a smoking, lone marmot knotted
His voice in plead and alarm as I was about to breach,
As brigand, the sun clad forbidden, citadel unbidden,
Home of pious souls, of cerulean still waters, intact
Peace, untrampled sanctuary. As made, that day,
Unwashed interloper, I gazed through threshold
Ends of trees and respectfully circled,
Reverent in spectacle and joy,
Back, down, earthwards.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 6:48 PM UTC
Sunrays peep in through imaginary windows...
The heart of the canopied forest
beats a deep throb of chlorophyllic pulse,
Invisible organisms wait in hiding,to smell my odour
The wet ground tries to take me in...dragging me deep into it.
This place always makes me blurry eyed,
Even today as tears run down my cheeks,
The sunlight refracts against them weaving for me a rainbow of psychedelic hues!
Amber memories hanging by the barks makes me weary of my thoughts...
But just then when I take a step to touch them, I hear footsteps coming behind me...
A quick run and a hide...I see him moving upto the exact spot where I had left behind my candid footmarks,
I feel a tingle when he touches them calling out to me with a cracking voice...
And yet I choose to remain in hiding, feigning oblivion much like the way the oceanic storms do in order to take down the will of the mighty ships.
If only I had sunk deep into the centre of the earth,
I would never had to be the mistress of this strangest potion of a feeling, one that just blends longing and feigning perfectly into one!
Some kind of pains are like the fires of hell
You never want to be burnt alive...
I strain my ears trying to hear him out, the farest sounds return to me amplifying a hundredfold, yet all that lingered in the air was a human silence.
Maybe he had understood my dilemma,
My resolve of not wanting to see his tender face again
The fear that once again my petrified heart would be cast away from the spell... That it would set me free...
All I wanted now was a locked space for myself and my heart.
Once out of my hiding place, I ran, stumbling, up to the place where his footsteps had frozen in a previous time.
Touching the place, I could not contain myself
It was my turn to call out to him, only but in a voiceless language!
Jan 22, 2021
Jan 22, 2021 at 9:12 AM UTC
.
Hiking in a musty wood,
A path is laid in mulch and fern,
Dark and canopied, rung evergreen
And deciduously rooted. My one goal
Set to plateau, reach of hilltop meadow,
Others had told me, lay a pond in the sky,
Was there to experience a peek, where tall
Grasses and dry luster of flowers wild, sang
In highland clearings of golden lace and tarn,
Set with sun to fly and by sharing the long ocean
Straights, beyond the wildest, white horned mountains
Of the moody pacific and with eyes casted once more of
Youth, after sanded sleep and then to steep in wandering
Cloud, as eagles, robed in light and gleems of night, drift,
Careening wistful and free as running dream or simply roam
A foot as the wise, bearded, mountain goats sure and snowy
As they ruminate and forage.
At elevated breaking point,
Of storied, pristine clearing, a smoking, lone marmot knotted
His voice in plead and alarm as I was about to breach,
As brigand, the sun clad forbidden, citadel unbidden,
Home of pious souls, of cerulean still waters, intact
Peace, untrampled sanctuary. As made, that day,
Unwashed interloper, I gazed through threshold
Ends of trees and respectfully circled,
Reverent in spectacle and joy,
Back, down, earthwards.
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 5:42 PM UTC
Amperage of connections fallen out and lost
No carnival party to revive.
Ashore astronomical beholders vision,
A needle through the rich man's eye!!!!
Camilla scents,
Canopied distinguished in canistered tents.......
Century carols confine the interstate mind!!!
Circulation is impatient wherein clots block chloroform vine's....
Wed-lock intensifiers waiteth to be fed,
Trapped,
Packed,
Chained to their beds....
Hath thou lost thyself yet???
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 11:59 AM UTC
i do everything i can to feel alive. i’ve ran until my knees felt weak. i’ve jumped into the cold ocean waters. i’ve gotten high. i’ve gone on the wildest of roller coasters. i’ve canopied before. i’ve eaten crazy spicy foods. i breathed. and i don’t know how to explain. i think it’s just all the headaches, sleepless nights, and lies i’ve told. i think it's just all the times i’ve cried and tried to die. maybe that overcomes the things i’ve done to forget time. maybe that overcomes the cheer of when the sun rises in the sky and the wind that caresses the trees under the bright moonlight.
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 10:47 PM UTC
And the forest was silent again…
Splintering shadows creep slowly
across the overgrown footpath
frantic fingers slivering in sinister shapes
Slumbering moon beams cloaked,
abaft of a stately oaken veil,
a canopied thorn and branch woven tapestry
Wallowed whispers cling to cavernous winds
pushing chinaberry stalkers deep
under the cover of moss coated roots
When suddenly…
Underbrush fantasies flourish
behind vine wreathed curtains,
on fallen leaf stages of assorted colors
Foot light fireflies trim the edges
in panoramic illuminations,
flickering to tickle every fancy
Fairies perform pirouettes on tippy toes
Glistening wings flutter, shimmering to the
melodic sounds of hedgehog harmonies
As bullfrog baritones and spider web sopranos,
sing the sweetest songs in the key of autumn
bringing smiles to all of the creatures in attendance
When suddenly…
Far away on the eastern horizon
the faintest specklings of amber appear
slipping through the densest drapes
A great horned owl yawns and blinks,
gazing eyes follow the turning head
as he surveys another day in his life
Sounds of scurrying, bristled brush
echo through now glowing limbs
signaling the end of the evening
And the forest is silent again…
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 7:38 AM UTC
On brown earth and fields of clovers,
a glade has grown to be.
Its cool breeze and green leaves
offer peace and solace to me.
Spears of sun pierce through the shade
and paint the thirsty wood.
Its tendriled veins writhe and stretch,
beneath a canopied hood.
Atop the ferns a parascope rises
swaying back and forth.
It moves to the left, it moves to the right,
and then I hear a snort.
My dog eared friend brings to me,
a long and pointed gift.
But such a prize is recognized
to leave just as quick.
The air is filled with warbeled songs
from treetops far and near.
But an incessant buzz cuts like unkindness
and comes to fill my ear.
I see it plain above my zenith,
a machine of flying plastic.
Its rotors spin in four successions,
it floats and moves - stochastic.
This hovering sentinel watches all
with a tiny gazing eye.
But who's to gain, learn, intrigue,
by spying from the other side?
From up so far a world so small:
he sees himself a king.
Out of dangers, out of touch,
to him no harm can bring.
And though he thinks that he remains
concealed, secure, untracked.
He does not know, below the grove,
I am staring back.
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 5:59 PM UTC
meaningful in its meaningless:
windows rolled down
nightair canopied outstretched
fingers
memorized streets flushed with
the transience of our
itching notions
we spoke of the seemingly surreal future
getting out of this red, square place
and slipping into a big city blissfully
unnoticed
words became arbitrary
as we pulled into the driveway
kicked back our seats
cried defiantly
the pending beauty
the potential tragedy
the growth spurt still
quivering in muscle spasms
Clarity:
the world holds more for us
Feb 26, 2011
Feb 26, 2011 at 7:35 PM UTC
We walked two miles through July wheat fields
that undulated beneath Sunday morning sun
like golden swans.
The pond was glacier stone smooth, and canopied
by silver maple and swamp oak; willows lined
the banks.
Miriam unfastened her hair, tossed her blouse
over my shoulders, kicked her cut-offs
toward the boat’s bow,
and dove.
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 10:58 AM UTC