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Tony Sep 2016
My dear Conifer,
how long have you stood in this place?
How long have you laboured to become so mighty and sturdy?
Have you worked hard to achieve this strong foundation?

  My dear Conifer,
can I attach myself to your system and enjoy the fruits of your labour?
May I reside on your strong trunk and grow my berries from your sap?
My needs are small and you're so abundant
You won't even notice my presence on your towering body.
Can you afford me the advantages you have toiled for?

  My dear Conifer,
can I bore into your core and grow heavy in your honour.
I'll enjoy your kindness and establish my position from your greatness.
Don't be afraid,
I bear you no ill will,
I only want to become a part of your brilliance and reach the heights which you've suffered to attain.

  Conifer,
Have your roots become weak in the ground?
You sway back and forth from the most gentle winds.
Your foliage looks dry, withered.
Branches no longer reaching for the sky.
I've grown strong on your trunk,
I'm beautiful and ripe, my berries,
the most succulent of all mistletoe.
You're a frail shadow of your former self,
no longer worthy of sustaining me.
Some people will **** you dry!
Julian Jul 2016
Fragile egg-shell mind on dawn’s highway bleeding the segue between times traversed only in momentary dreams or in enduring excursions

We drag our droll and quaint 60s baggage like the luggage of a safari made of concrete girding a cavernous expanse of unheralded ground

With our ears oriented to the floor, we leap out of body never to deplore….never to ignore….never to miss the blue bus of our drafted imaginations, so carefully culled from brash elitism

I trounce the intervening time between being friendless and an ironic end, and an irenic comrade becoming the dearest amazed but always aplomb friend

We simper in our glorious traversal, and though bedraggled through an ornamented cavern we linger just long enough to be celebrated

Then a blues riff emanates from a vapid bar, and finally someone heralds my exhumed memory still rusty with the pavement of encased concrete on an empty or full tomb

So I wander in my mind to that roughshod Paris glassy tincture a romanticized gild of proper sensibility crafted in the tongues of lizards emulating the tongues of serpentine Anglicans

As the power of love transcends the love of power, both are afforded serendipitously upon the stately occasion of a fitful revolt where heads literally rolled and deaths still unfurl from the slippage of a violent malevolent eternity, crafting a new creative way to expedite the smite of preventable scourge

So, I see your picaresque side and your wide-eyed love for a listless ship anointed of a crystal blip just detectable long enough on RADAR to become the statistic to crack the slim WHIP

No wigs are needed at this formality, no figs grow from trees forty-five years buried and almost a full month unsung

Pitiable cretins of an invented insanity, they scoff at my ravenous and portentous heart for its excess and for aligning with an upstart verging on only a specious insanity

Why in all humanity could a month be mustered with every defense of history and yet for it to be so widely flouted as a risible exercise in futility

The irony that the artistic glamor of a past vogue becoming a revival that is often toked only to one song but never to the memorial of great cavernous and commodious imaginations, staggers with dismay where otherwise the mayday would be a disaster but still a great day

Then I look at a triggered-fingered omen of a death so ominous yet so brazenly confronted as the ambassadors of time provide plaudits to a fearless martyrdom

Why such a sad spate, why such a stringent but malevolent fate a malediction on a family whose crest is not crestfallen like rolling waves but ornamented with gravity impounding its own weight

A fugacious tomb, an eternal flame, a swan song announcing an independent authority on a prescient demise mashed and deprived

A single shot rippling through the broadened space between clasped eternity and a histrionic disgrace as a psychological confederate pays lip service to a reiterative applause

A cousin hardly American in a defected record of incendiary plumes of a hoarse hatred of waxen discs and flying discs alike,  climbs out of a bonfire mounted purely out of vindictive spite

Then upon a great white buffalo a wrapped package of Californian love before California ever alighted like something beyond an avaricious dove, saw a rocky park and a hearth of illuminated darkness the singular spark

Captain Morgan knows the jackknife applause of a botched deal morphing into a disbelieved spiel. A shibboleth of enormous mystical weight crashing down from an ethereal abode and heaven heavily saddened cannot hardly appeal

Then a loving spoonful of crystal blue persuasion led me to Ethel’s regimented keepsake and for once in my life nobility and I became a grateful waif. But temerity laughed, splintered spacecraft, and the wooden paws of a bearish applause led to resurgent clarity

Blinking stars shattered by knighted and raw applause punctured the liberated might of a sentient hortatory savior grasped by the internecine wrench of a waxen time

An indie track slides by unnoticed in an aleatory time, and the threadbare whine of centuries of lament becomes a dastardly barn set ablaze with the fury of ancients and the scurry of faineant patents

Perfidy slides in recess, and in gentle forbearance the winged angel lingers like a halo on conifer and spring above a remedial ring

I dial frisky celerity tingling the dangling claws of a raven’s screed and in plunder of all history’s pilfer secrets I eagerly weave a tapestry Indiana Jones himself would be proud to watch

Not the riotous ruin of a mystery tour of verdure crippled by genocide but overcome by the revived life of raised rain razing the moments of indelible pain

But the culmination of a proffered time taken at its word for its every careened bird, for its every brazen gird. The manger of proctored stars calls us home tonight and home forever. Life in quaked timorous stumbles suddenly no longer so fitfully absurd.

The quixotic plundered of pirates and emperors in direct emulation of some crooned pastiche of whittled integrity, surges above any encased blurb and any vain testament to a pyramid rigid in destiny and ragged in desultory and sturdy sincerity

Multiplying the ineffable by the division of arable divorced from edible is too creative to be eaten as pabulum when sparks curdle flickered moonlight crimson and that become golden only to the last laugh of ennobled ragamuffins

Frankly the desert of melliferous gorillas abetting the lark of a heavily vetted camarilla engaged in the sinecure of a rigged wall on a main street to block the tall from the lame bleat. Stocks grazed, costs engaged on a littoral beach at the end of a Bossy promenade

This prayer is a cutthroat collapse of a merry spare, a ribbed ****** waiting to plunge into the antithesis of female despair, but sincere in its restraint that vixens courted in love aren’t courted in litigation of a wagered dare

Ambulances chase Deloreans through the desolate moon-stricken skies of a time agape with fleets of phantasmagoria on a Cliffside too wise to ever mince words or excise cries

Skulking the red-teared caverns of entombed films and lampooned tinctures on a passion vetted only for certain and utter deracinated disguise, I wallop with winged men in a single soul Armed to the Teeth with inveterate tithes to eternal internments of poached and endangered gazettes

As growth older in wizened skin bets on epithets rather than epitaphs for rinsed peace and triumphant clefts we leap above in orbit of only the bellowing nether of blown tolls and untold souls aggregating the esoteric grasp of Alexandrian tomes

The denumeration of certainty is a carousel of wonder, a splurge of time ripped asunder with majesties of paparazzi scuttled impacts a throttled iniquity of regalia’s indicted blunder frenchified but still clean with inestimable sheens

With twenty-five dollars, a dime an assist and a nickeled reiteration of currency already so personable it is divine and sublime in crazed desist I watch the embroiled natives clash in denatured violence with the warriors of a crossed repast hearkening to an old land much of ire but too much of grandstand to ultimately last

Itching for a holy field husk of peerless ties listed as rumpus and beer, a two-packed smoked by bludgeoned blokes careless in irascible sputters of a muffled doom, a Vegan becomes the author of too many sacrosanct homilies becoming defiled witchcraft brooms dead on arrival too many lionized tombs

In plaudits and the scause of an amplified “what if?” of an olfactory nightmare of petrified fog of effluvium bogged in Wade and in heat it is always clogged, sinewy libations of toasted preemptive revenge become a powerballed hog

A castle in the sky founded on Franklin but scourged of wineskins brimming with a distilled time, a swift repartee becomes the whispered ladder of saints blather becoming not rather other than a Dan Rather spatter

A door breeched by a broached inconvenience of amphigory beyond common reach, I clamber excess and whisk the lingered love into destiny beyond any word other than a beseeched preach of nothing tired but everything inspired of noble love with abundance often to teach

Fireworks of turned tides of fallow tithes to aliens beyond any conceivable bribe the bushwhacker writhes but survives Stayin' Alive without even a hint of garbled jive a 27th floor glass elevator is quite a resplendent ride

Wellsprings knowing radical rolled tides of errant dice also themselves guilty of confessional tithes to the monolith of avarice at the nooked cranny of an evaporated time we whine as the police sting the album rained with songs too lugubrious to sing but in their elegy every lonely heart has a propinquity phone of souled resonance ring

Iterative mastery of a mathematics of love, loss decay and the dross of a dental Occidental floss, the sweep of screened queues become questions of inestimable importance to foreign dues on A Horse With No Name but so consumed with fumes

A fright occultist Thriller prowls in a waylaying daylight, masquerading an innocent confection for a rescued triage of a dawn stabbed with knives in our last dying days of trembled plight

He resurrects only the wraiths of detest, squinted at by the putrefaction of summoned cardiac arrest and littered with bullets that somehow can penetrate even impregnable bullet proof vests the wrapped carcass of the mummified husk of ready despair offers itself a ghoulish and raspy prayer

Synchronized in a low roaring swathe of rollercoasters too immersive to ride, the terpsichorean obscurantism of deliberately shattered fragments becoming blurbs dismissed with hijacked deride the carnival of a summer sun becomes the ocean of limitless love becoming endless fun

We forget the drawl of the droll old tales that haunt like specters in the closet and beneath the bedridden valetudinarian of an effrontery of shackled fright, we sprawl the innumerable caverns of prophetic insight afforded by the pantheon of history enter stage left, depart stage right

And with their insight I write and write, I grasp the tusk of democracy and wage an insurrection against the doubt of plodding limitations in otherwise immaculate sight

*** and tyrannosaurus rex, of litigable offenses leading to pardonable arrests, the gated entryway of a poetic splurge leads to the demiurge of a demotic enlightenment and suddenly the frank becomes the frazzled retirement and that haunting hounding bunny transmogrified by a shattered eye averts the car crash that careens ponderous engines out of limitless twilight blue skies.

Diamond lightning in pristine skies escorts the telegraphic totems of riddled modems from distant forbearance to nescient ultimatum and suddenly all venerable personages converge on a teeming scene of a union unified by a universal dream. To become everything and yet nothing and out of light and darkness to become a beatific beam
Marshal Gebbie Aug 2013
Back to my land of verdant green
To feel the bite of winter chill
To know that while all this is so
That far off land enthralls me still.

That far off land of granite peaks
Of crystalline white massif high,
Of conifer which scale the *****
Of rocky outcrop to the sky.
The baking heat of desert mesa
Spread as far as eye can see
Sage bush in its fragrant aura
Tumble **** soon rolling free.
Squirrel dart on shale cascade
Of green grey slate on alpine flank
Bright blue birds in curious hover
...For this, my reeling senses thank.

Fishing boats in bright array
Adorn the West coast sheltered lee,
Crab and mackerel brim the bin
Of bearded fishermen with glee.
Pounding surf of North Pacific
Carves the rock of bastioned coast
Embryonic currents cold
Do modify the climate most.
Redwoods huge clad coastal ranges,
Bright geraniums do sing
From earthen pots outside the cafe
Hot coffee fragrant from within.

Hilarity as laughing people gather
Watch as yelling Serbs do sling
Huge silver fish across the stall
Amid Seattle's Pike's Place din.
Colour paints this market place
Flowers stacked in every hue
Noisy vendors bawl their product
Creamy ice cream cone for you.

Streaming dust in streaming hair
Scree slopes avalanche past for thrill
Mountain crevasse yawns aloof
As ATV's roar up the hill.
Wild terrain of wilderness
On mountaintop of forest fir,
Cougar, grizzly bear and wolf
In pack are found herein astir.
Atop the very precipice
We view the everlasting peaks
Magnificent in summer sun
Embalmed in snow when Winter speaks.

Freeways snake from coast to mountain
Clover leaf in junctions pile,
Forty ton trucks pull big trailers
Endless day for endless mile.
Barrel straight these concrete tarmacs
Stretching far as eye can see,
Headlong surge huge pickup trucks
But cautious eye for Sheriff be.
Roadside diners loud and raucous
Selling burgers, selling beer
Neon flashing through the night
Old ***** waitress' toothless cheer.

The years have clad our friendships well
Familiarity's warming hand
Allows resumption of our words
Despite the 40 year gap spanned.
Houseboat floats in crowded wharfage
Swimming through a clear cool lake,
Californian wine with friends
Hot chilli food and fresh bread bake.
Eye fillets grill on barbecue
See the distant mountain peaks
Summer snow endures aloft
Glows indigo as sunset speaks.

Endless skies of cobalt blue
Cloudless in the summer sun
Gracious denizens do offer
Generosity unsung.
Graciousness across the land
Across these people so diverse,
The wondrous gift of ready smile
Friendly hand and open purse.

History tells these people spoke
Electing leaders for their time
When sanity's quiet need arose
It was promulgated on the line.
With Washington and Lincoln
Through FDR to JFK,
The Presidents who bed-rocked
This Foundation for the nation's day.
Astounding, that exceptional men
Have carved this face from stone,
Have caste the global presence
That Americans call home.

I understand the feeling now,
Of pride and patriotic stance.
I understand the inner strength
Of America's great, true romance.

This poem bequeathed to our good friends who inhabit this land... Big Rich, Suzie and Mike, Our mate Stevo and Ian, Heidi, Wyatt and Cooper, Dear old Greg and his elegant lady, Holly.
But most of all, with gratitude and love, to our marvelous son Boaz and his lovely lady, Angela.

Marshalg & Janet
At "Foxglove", Taranaki... In the Southern hemisphere's mid winter.
2 August 2013
Zak Ridge Mar 2010
Hanging my innards on a tree Carrion hunters flying low
Branches look so smart with my intestines dangling
and no one seems to care about the pain I go through
to make this thing jolly by spearing my kidneys on a twig
no one even notices my liver dripping down the bough.
You don't stop and ask about the way my skin is blowing in the wind
you don't ask how I got my Heart so high that birds are nesting in it.
No one even comments on the bark smeared in marrow and blood and bile.
I only did it to make you smile and laugh, I only went to the trouble so you would notice me.
And did you?
NO
Ignorant *****
Olivia Kent Nov 2013
Upstanding citizen of forest floor.
Tall and proud.
Lowest level.
Tall and strong.
Home to many.
An ancient realm.
Mighty den of bugs and grubs.
Detritus munching in the hole.

A deciduous conifer.
Gets undressed for winter.
Redresses early spring.
Parody of pine tree.
Wood as red as fire.
The itching sky she needs to scratch.
Always reaching upwards.
Until her time is done!
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Boring Nature?
Never boring a delight
Hal Loyd Denton Nov 2011
A special Christmas tree
Back home in California we would go to Disney land for Christmas we stayed right across Katella the street that runs in front of
Disney we stayed at the Anaheim Hilton Anaheim in German means home and we purposely asked for the fourteenth floor I loved to
Set that high and look out those floor to ceiling windows and type away that and on stormy days hideaway all day just watching the
Beauty of the blustering wind and the effects it would have on the grounds far below a tiny taste of heaven there was another reason
For requesting this floor the hotel was so dark on that side and we would put a small Christmas tree in the window how it glowed
Others like ourselves some much father from home than us could see this little twinkling tree in the whole of this black glass wall gave
Those a sense of home and their tree back there where ever that was we bought cable car decorations from San Francisco other
Christmas items were on the table when the maids came in they had a nice showy display a comforting scene to enjoy, the in God we
trust coinage is the universal way of saying thanks Abe and Hamilton are always welcome and really say have a great Christmas.

I’m not turning morbid but if you come to our home there is no outward evidence of Christmas it just any other day except the
Sacred honoring of his birth its not our choice it’s the hand life dealt us but I have a tree more beautiful than any great conifer of this
Earthen wood can produce the lights are the main attraction although the tree holds its own this town this life has very dark spots
I relight them at his special time these lights glow with familiar smiles faces filled with joy they come back from a far away land they
glow so white no need for diminished power from this earth they are glory white but as gems they come in all colors and sizes like a
Conjurer magician with a toss of his hand this wondrous spray of color gently falls in all places on the tree and of course the very top
Holds the star that represents the star that stood over Bethlehem you will probably recognize some of these gems by name there on
My tree for different reasons her are a few of their stories and names and who they are to me Clint my grand pa for many reasons
But especially this one I was four I was in the old white School house and I heard the story how he used to walk two miles to school
In the snow they couldn’t afford proper shoes so he wrapped his feet in rags he did this but it didn’t continue I guess just to cold the
Reason I know it didn’t continue at sixteen he went with me to city hall to get my driver’s license now an old man I had my heart broke
As I watched him sign with an X my heart just broke again the tears flow anew he is the gems that are extra special I call them my tear
Washed ones my dad is included he couldn’t read or write but he read the bible though haltingly three times asking me what words
Were Gary M. was another we were in eighth grade he couldn’t read simple words like at I would rather someone beat me with a
Board than see others suffer or be laughed at he was smart as a whip on cars his future was with his hands I know I’m A godless animal
But Gary took care of the guys to big for me I took care of those my size except for these two gems I was helpless one a student the
Other teacher I watched them both cry openly from the treatment they received one asked supposedly by an educator and principal
To quit school he was too much of a drag on the other students helpless against him and a teacher I respected did respect the others
Who hurt jerry C. physically got to experience how it felt to kiss the side walk at high speed that’s where I put them and other acts of
Vengeance they had coming now the teacher he was a preacher and math teacher I set their daily watching these bozos misbehave
Taunt this man until he cried in front of the class and right there he gave up his teaching job if I had a gang behind me like Butch H.
There would have been a whole class bawling he resides on my special tree I can’t tell you where they belong. I guess this goes along
In that vein this will have to serve as the tree stand do you know you can smile to much in this world I worked up north on a line in this
Factory and this Mexican what’s with these guys well this one proved to be deadly he glared at me and asked why do you smile and
Laugh all the time I thought man what kind of sad life is he having a pretty sad one the day I was on another assignment this same guy
Stabbed a kid right in the heart killing him instantly and blindness settled on everyone standing there no one saw a thing I will repeat
I’m a coward that’s the outer pen you push through the inner gate and you will face a bull, this guy walks free to this day if I was there
He or I would be dead most likely me he waasn’t just a kid I had an advantage over the MP waving a forty five in my face he was tall a and thin as a pencil
You don’t poke a bull with a pencil and you don’t try to whip me with a forty five like I’m a piñata he would have eaten that forty five
He had the teeth for it his problem he hated gringos but he only had a fist full of hate I had a whole body and life full of hate I walk
Slow talk slow but in a fight they had this saying in the service the quick and the dead he would never have seen what hit him but I
Hated self not him it feels better setting her than in Leavenworth. Sorry went from the tree stand to showing my roots I don’t do to
Good in some respects but depending on how hard you’re backed up against a wall the harder the better I look.

It takes many sides of a person to make a life I will soften with this gem’s story this is my crippled lighted gem my Grandma Denton
I never seen her when she wasn’t in a wheel chair I fixed this by observing her one sister in particular she was the same size and beautiful I
Transposed grandma onto Rosy and truly experienced all that was missed by the prison that was her wheel chair I have a picture of a
Native American woman dancing the shawl dance I just substitute grandma in her place and she made up the rest she set there I stood
By her side she took me with words to places and wonderful travels we had the greatest times now she holds a special place on my
Tree others on this tree is found in fathers’ story, solo flight, life force, lost friend a blend of people and nature’s monarch Imposter a
nation defined and many others enjoy his birthday season.
Colin E Havard Mar 2014
I love the majestic ugliness of the Eucalypt;
Aesthetically more appealing in its twisted, gnarled appearance
Than any uniform northern conifer;
Infinitely more adapted to the unforgiving antipodean climate
Than those idealised European deciduous living monuments
Still transfixing our collective view of how a tree should be.

Those dropping leaves allowing scenes beyond;
Those tendrils of bark denoting Darwinian fitness;
All tug at the heart of we new Australians,
Conflicted, as we are, by sensibilities born elsewhere,
But borne, nevertheless, into an Ancient Eden.
10/1/2010
The Missing Link - Gaia's Boy Toy
Andrew Jun 2019
I have pine
growing inside of me.
Strong and thick and
resilient,
but not unbendable–
and able to be shaped.

There have been fires
inside of me as well—
burning away the old
beliefs and scars,
and shaping me once again
into something new.

From the tiniest of sprouts—
from sapling, to mighty
young fir, and old wise
redwood; I will grow
peace and endurance
and strength and hope.

- A. I. Myles     26 May, 2019
Everyone grows and changes from day to day. Thanks for reading my poem!
-Andrew
natalie Mar 2012
the air bites at my nose
like an icy mosquito,
and raindrops plop onto
the roof and the giant
green, car-shaped tarp.
beads adorn the pointed
branches of the conifer
like tiny, fleeting noses;
they leap from their
makeshift perches into
the frosty darkness
of the garden below,
joining their brethren,
already pooling together.
Marshal Gebbie Sep 2011
We strode together in another age, my love,
You, in your earthen gown and beautiful dark tresses.
I, the wearer of the long plaited, thong and sinew sandal.
You and I, we strode through quiet valleys of tall conifer
Where huge rock falls left monolithic edifices... as monuments to past largess.

Together we walked as one, in a world much simpler than the one we live in now.
In a time, without the inhibition of contrivance or sophistication.
We walked in clarity and drank from clear, clean waters.
We dallied in the honeyed light of a huge, summer moon.
A field of dandy lions in the warm April sunshine, was the byre in which we made love and produced our babies.


A love ... un-harried, unhurried and devoid of any preoccupation other than that of the beautiful desire
We felt for each other.

The love we feel now is the same as the love shared then;
But in this age it is diluted and complicated by the urgencies and imperatives of the day.
Then there was just time...given and taken.
Without cost or penalty, without blame or insinuation, without hurt or harm.


Time in that better age...was a friend.  
A friend who augmented the beauty of today into the promise of tomorrow,
A friend who exchanged the serenity of yesterday for the excitement of the new day’s dawn.

This was our time, when the bond of eternity sealed our commitment to each other.

For however many lifetimes we may live in...

We shall be one.

Marshalg
For darling Janet
12 September 2011
Molly Sep 2019
Weary winds seek solace
in the arms of conifer giants,
having not yet discovered that
even mountain pines shiver
when winter is at its darkest.
An illusion of perfection.
BB Tyler Oct 2014
snapshots!                                                  
                                        the poet & the photographer                                  
                                                                ­                      marvel                                

~~~

felled trees                
                                nesting Ferns            
                                               restful            

~~~

Temperate jungle
embrace all traces
of change

~~~

peeing in the rain                    
understanding the clouds

~~~

Leaf-fall carpet                          
conifer curtains                        
The living room

~~~

parallel the River                  
the road
much slower

~~~

bare-feet over needles                      
Redwood witnesses                          

~~~

                       under this
                                                            ­           a blank page

~~~

October sky                                          
the heat setting with the sun
                                               colors following

~~~

brush stroke clouds                                
                    the Moon shines through
the ink
Humboldt, CA
&
the Sierra Nevada
mark john junor Sep 2013
pour her slowly onto the page
each inch of her soft skin released in liquid
onto the ambiguous background
sharp and clear
her features worn with the hours
seems bleak to the touch
seems to be a long distance to travel for a tear that never falls
a bitter moment
pour her essence onto the deep white page
and she fills the void
she is the void
with alive colors
with dead space between her words
and i lean on her ear
but the things i say evaporate
and the things i feel become whispers of smoke
that she puffs on with causal care
tenderly caress my mind
as i pour her out
eclipse her with brush
overshadow her with shutter speed
and wait for her to capture me before i can flee

i poured her onto the page
every soft inch of her skin
a liquid flowing careful and easy on
the white portrait backdrop
i capture conifer scent
and her profile lanced by pine needles
leisure in the wood
her voice a narrow sharp instrument

her wide hips
swinging slow and ****
packed in skintight jean
and making my mind hazy
with things i shouldn't feel bout a friend
but she moves back and forth back and forth
and the thoughts wont leave me alone

she is a portrait i saw today
and i loved her
as she was seen
and i knew her as she was meant to be
forgiven and forgiving
in an endless night
martin challis Aug 2011
after cutting timber
at the top of the hill
I waited for you
not long enough for the magpie’s
wing-feather to fall from the conifer
and then your silhouette
along with the sunset
struck me
and drawing closer
your smile
drawing closer
Martin Challis © 2011
www.martinchallis.com
Nigdaw Jun 2023
he tripped through the streets
towards home
still light of foot
under the LED lights
but another unsuccessful hunt
meant he'd be hungry tonight
perhaps he knew it was
the last time
familiar sounds and smells
preying on his mind
tonight he'd sleep
under the stars outside
curled up to keep warm
on a mild spring night

I found him under a conifer
still in a fetal curve
some time later
nature had taken it's course
his brush was still there
and some of a thick red coat
but the putrid smell told me
he had chosen my garden
to take his last breath
and I was honoured
to give him the burial
he deserved
Lawrence Hall Feb 2018
A pompous pine lives down the road, a tree
So well aware of his own dignity;
I speak to him on evening walks, and he,
He nods a centimeter in courtesy
Marshal Gebbie Dec 2013
They have their own immortal feel
These monolithic trees *****,
The ancients with green wash and brush
did etch these hills, I do suspect.
The Gods did bless with outstretched arm
Descending mile on mile of pine,
Fir and spruce cascading *****
In green and turquoise laughter mine.
Delicate in tiny spines, cones of copper rough are born
Nostrils twitched in acid scent of conifer, of coniform.
Magnificence across the hills as far as eye can see they span
Share wilderness with bear and wolf.... I weep with joy, because I can.
M.
The meaning of the trustees and the ablution of the signs respectively were based on the word ficare "in the proportion of providing signs and building", as a complement to the concept, in the case of Zefian's Virola, it is given to the ring that rotates in its elliptical as a virtual particle, similar to the Muon. But always in a semantic ring or circle look. Linguistics will attribute both the Virola and the Fero; in this case "leading or leading" The dissociation here is the semantics in the object not entrenched to be used as a common kind of language, but rather as "Virolifero", it is understood that this word will forge the Zefian Arrow into the amalgamation of the ring that leads, to abduct all energies towards a Central Whole. The product of all this energy will be called channeling of the mental representations of the "sign" of signifying, evoking independence in each terminology by itself and represented, rather in the theological physical elementality, associated with the Virolifera plane.

As the treatise of this codex suggests, a term between terms, to assign mnemonic and etymological chaining of meaning most of the appropriation of terminologies attached to a properly vernacular word. The horizon that is stipulated is of a Vernathian nature, where the average life-turning receptacle is of enormous proportions in its multi dynamics, especially in the moral, ethical and theological, especially in matters of emotional articulation associated with a significant meaning. Vernarthian dreams are of Speed of Quantum Physics, therefore they are pure metaphysical and meta-biological, appending to restricted spaces of stimulus and impulse speed, hiding in the residual mass of the unknown, to attribute to them chromatics that is settled in the Corpus Callosum of both hemispheres. Neuroscience yes, but that deposits physical values in the concentration of rest and active energy in areas of the cerebellum, to unleash a choice of names or anthroponyms. Where all the names with a certain alacrity of reason, meaning is attached according to their toponymy, in this case, Virolifero, could be a factor of canceling choices and adaptation of higher energies, on the universe, as a patronage of the Universe "called Rings of Zefian ”endowed with electron elliptical Muon particles.

The signifier of Virolifero will be its phoneme, perhaps more associated with the subject being the ring, associated with its mental representation. This force of Vernarthian thought indicates semantics and phonetics of speculative endowment, for becoming of building rings associated with an eco-physical and eco-environmental scheme. The entire philosophical Vernarthian range has a Sacred Geometry in its verbal and numeral composition, either in the connotation of concepts-ideas and of signs that represent the mental cultural heritage.  Literality will advocate the chronology of gap and verbal-linguistic space, contributing figurative, Greco-Latin barbarisms, such as Virolifero's verbal vigor if we place it in the reference of a building ring, being able to be figurative as a ring that makes or leads according to its practical verbal use dialectical. And in context, it would appear as something sacred in what will be referred to in this Codex of Nuraga Complexes, where each fold of lithosphere will be of the geological relationship between Stonehenge or Nuraga in Sardinia, each one appropriating age in what could be more or less an archaeological conflict of origins, or of comparative aspects of the referenced union, for the end of times, nations, civilizations, political states, and generations of socio-economic persistence. Making an archaeological contextual fact as in these terms, of such references of reception or political exile, but also cultural, adding the terminology of the intracultural contribution of the region. In the argument of Pythagoras and his self-exile in Italy, it is said that he had been condemned to exile from Samos because of his aversion to the tyranny of Polycrates. Around 530 BC settled in Crotona, a Greek colony in southern Italy, where he founded a movement with religious, political, and philosophical purposes, known as Pythagoreanism, and which generated duplicity of context in his sacred mathematical pilgrimage, towards a process of exercise contrary to his own Pythagorean School, expropriating a persona non grata in internal conflicts with personalities from Crotona itself, where he had to flee later. Here ipso facto the verbal exercise exemplifies his transliteration by an unfailing fact, in favor of what emerges from a coercive task, abandoning the same in what placidly sheltered him, and virtually ostracized as an immigrant from Samos.

Hosted the Pythagoreans in Sardinia, Italy.  Being in the colorimetry of the 6th century BC. He was peering into a universe that wasted infusion, clinging to the unknown roots themselves, with undulating harmonies in what we inhabit as an ethical and religious wave and vibrational entity. The prefix Vilori will indicate sacred mathematics, adapting to the numeral and algorithmic harmony of three plus three + 1, which would be the suffix, Fero. The external exaltation of numerical sensations will lie in human sensations already pre-established as a socio-environmental existential order, towards a divine-human being. What is strictly formative is a sacred legacy, since its equivalence is composed of mathematical formulas and figures that all point to the creation of an ambivalent whole, upward and downward proportionate. Focusing on originality of thought and work, embodying the prose, prophecies,  and intensely solid parables.

Vernarth and Etréstles began the attached Rituals in these megalithic complexes. On each Solstice, they arranged sectarians related to this phenomenology, in such a way as to incorporate them into this millenary civilization. They always attacked the archaeological area of Orroli, which is in the center of the soft plateau of Pran'e muru, in a strategic position to control the territory along the middle course of the Flumendosa River. Normally here they performed twilight liturgies similar to those perpetually held in La Mandragora, Sudpichi, Horcondising Region - Chile. Vernarth, always got all the provisions and utensils off the sailboat. Pyramid Torches, Oil Fuels, Sacred Drums, Proved Firewood, Stonework for Obsidian Workshops. Mapuche  wind instruments such as Trutruca, Cultrún and trompe. Buzzers to repel zoomorphic beings of the Bestiary, Alchemy, and Esotericism. Etréstles, coordinated content and other related duties by illuminating all the souls who once lived here. To which Vernarth masterfully adhered, filing them with impressive themes of the prehistoric world. To consider more than five volumes by concept before departure, to then break into the sacred space and meaning, limpid and originating from the session of totem animals and trance with Navajo drums. Each oar looked like a Karibu daunting a maple or a conifer that wanted to change its bark skin for those of the goring of the Karibu or the Moose him. While the eagle with its claws dropped crashing down on the Rehue line to Gnegechen, on the Cultrun, whose plural palpitations of the mandrake wanted to seem to be more than a hallucinogenic thrilling herb.

Describes Vernarth in Regression of him: Theater and Aeschylus, Dance and Athena, gifts from Stonehenge and Borrehaugene in Norway on Viking ships. They walked over the suspicious stones of the Nuragas.  In each ritual in these sets, they concelebrated next to the gorges, through which said river ran, being globally submerged in two artificial lakes until today. A territory deeply marked by man since prehistory, confirming the extraordinary concentration of remains found; from the Neolithic to the Bronze and Iron Ages, Roman times, and the Middle Ages. The Arrubiu was the main bastion, around it, satellite Nuragas gravitated, dominating strategic points and access roads. Near the complex is the tomb of Giants from the Sword, here they would consecrate their dynamics of the Xiphos Hoplite sword, to develop the bronze rites,  as a heritage from the linear insertion of Sardinia with Patmos,  to which they will go after the Solstice from the Nuraga complex. In his prehistoric speeches, he always had to stand out and go back to years prior to 1000 BC. Today it has become the symbol of Sardinia and its distinctive culture. The typical Nuraga is located in a panoramic place and has the shape of a tower with a geometric shape of a truncated cone or divided in half, some higher, others very low, reminiscent of a Tholos (Ancient Greek circular construction). Right here Vernarth, they poured milk and Pranayama, to delineate the points of the Sun to align them with the whims of Brahma and Xifos; swords that are gleaming over the eyes of a stingray. Vernarth, as post-frontal poetry, in treachery that decorated such a hendecasyllable, undertook to rescue the largest real estate fire, from where his own subsistence will hang. In the main protocol, in a drumming trance, he pierced the brains of all those present. Fragments remained everywhere ever imagined, on the timeless Nuragha ruins under the treetops and their Templum. Misleading beings that attacked the underworld of Persephone, and the Nuragic Gods who were elemented, by prevailing in this ceremony that they did not know if it was their own, not knowing that they were included.

Isaías sings (bis): “The presence in the corresponding versed folio makes it relative to the prophecy of the Immanuel born of a ******, which is associated with a similar Virgilian prophecy of Cumana, justifying its prophetic symbolism. Here is the warning that blackens the skies where the light retracts, thousands of attendants in the Nuragas are chained during the announcement of a thousandth that climbs abysses like the fateful Strigoi, and only tribulated pasture will have to transplant rebellions, which lie asleep for the wind of the ideal of incipient spiritual ******* dressed in execration. Has the conflagration of the heart that resists death and agonizes several times in the Templum ritual been unleashed ... The conditions await for the apostates when they refuse the water that does not make them optimal, and makes the radius of obedience of the Vernarthian heart elliptical, full of granules of lumpy Physconia, whose frequency will become embedded in bodies of treacherous, kingdoms and fungal lineages. The reign of the saints will judge diversity on the thrones with devastation in the fatuous beatifications in Pergamum, already admonished by me also in Sardinia”
Codex XIX -  Ultramundis  Nuragas
Butch Decatoria Aug 2016
What breath in this chest I take
Take like the night at Dawn's wake
Wake as eyes must at our birth
Birth and pulse of a Heart's worth...

What shame I now must hold and own
Own as ball to chain, as flesh to bone
Bone deep to have been wrongly had
Had like used knick-knacks, paddy-whacked...

And yet, what colors made a learned soul
Soul as bright as faithful to All who's Whole
Whole of the infinite universe made absolute
Absolute to know my love blind and my hate mute

No one to speak to, no words for proof
Proof of life pursuant to heaven's roof
Roof without rooms for an emperor
Emperor, what am I but a seed to the conifer?

What am I to him, who dresses his sons in gossamer?
SONNET LOOP POEM. Combine the formula for a sonnet with a loop poem... This is a first attempt, maybe the first of its kind ever. Not a quantum loop, still an original. (Who the heck is Hellon anyway?) now what d'ya think...? discuss...
JC Lucas Jun 2016
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.
James Gable Jun 2016
‘OLD AGE is a SHIPWRECK’
Charles de Gaulle

Some boats sink themselves slightly in order to
sleep—they awake with grog hangovers, leaning against

rocks, tillers askew as sea is softened by golden dawn.
The boom swung, tipsily; when the drowsy sail

was hoisted it groaned: *auxiliary!
Poking its prow
through the greybeards, the cutter then gathered pace,

parting plungers and apologetic waves as it cast off,
taking leave of the harbour in a cloud of spindrift.

The sail was slumped dizzily on the once-strong
shoulders of the mast—it sighs for its sorry spar and

state, remembering arduous journeys on seas of glass,
but no one dares say how conifer bark rains down in

flakes when it sleeps. The signal lamp, once brilliantly
bright, fraternising with the stars each night, is now

outshone by the eyes of abyssal creatures; see it
wrapped up in a pea jacket, perched on the yardarm.

On the weatherdeck mop and bucket are talking
scuttlebutt and canonising shipwreckless legends of the

past—when the laughter stops, and the deployment of
nets, perhaps they stop to think why, and sloppy work

and holystone and, sky…



Kittee-wa-aaake, kitte-wa-aaake—looking for a
school of fish whilst, in their numbers, orbiting the

vessel in an ellipsis; suspicious eyes on our walty
cutter and its measly midday catch. Tragic wrecks of

birds and ships alike, who is to say—to draw the lines
and make divisions of sea and bird and wood? Birds in

their collective strength move like waves, how they
could carry ships! This one is anchored fast, riding it

out as if a storm. But this collective strength, these
birds with villainous intent nip at the weather-worn

fishing nets and lines and a few ***** are lifted. The
barnacles sleep, nightmare visions of keelhauling—who

knew they had such wounds to heal?—forgotten
underneath in the darkness, they are plucked from their

shells by beaks regardless.

Back at the harbour the boat and its weary flanks and
planks and parts and hollow and hull are comfortably

submerged and sleep. The sun is sinking too it seems,
melting on the tongue of the sea. The broken-backed

vessel, dead doors shut, sail folded, mast
unencumbered. The signal lamp, intimidated and

outnumbered by the many who are brighter in the sky
with light years in their eyes, it decides to sleep out

and keep check for the night for the crows in their
murders covet nesting spots on board.


Splinters and vibrating minutes and the bitter end,
perturbed by the day of eddies and unseen internal

waves, nipped by the endless Kittiwake, they are
consulting compasses for the correct hour—

but no response, just the obviousness of the moon,
even from fathoms down and not a whisper.


As in every dark night here there is no silence for the
utterance of water and rustling of stars. You can hear

Sargasso **** dreaming, after hundreds of years afloat
without making root, dreaming of something better or

at last nothing at all. And in every creak of wood there
is a year of bad weather. And within the strength of

every bird is an empty stomach and a restlessness of
wings. In every decomposing fishing net there’s an

echo of vengeance, heard beneath the ringing of a bell
on the harbour. And in every compass there is a needle

tirelessly at work, endlessly referring to the stars—

The red-tipped needle in its binnacle tower
—confused it still spins and swirls

and in every skiff, freshly built or sea-worn and sore,
there is always a desire it will never speak of:


   to
   dive
   for
   pearls


                                     on the ocean floor.
Part Eight of The Man Who Longed to be an Oyster (see collections)
yokomolotov Oct 2014
Sculpted by the wind-
bent back and
black,
sprouted high
planted on a curving road.
Sea on the shoulder
beat back with
conifer on the left
twisted and gnarled,
I’ve seen it sculpted in
faces.

There are people
sculpted by the wind.
Who drive slow-
who harbor a sorrow
in a blonde slick back
stream of high ravine-
like a maze
I’d give my life to be
lost in,
practicing refrain-
walking a practiced
gait-
because oh the intensity!
of being
sculpted by the wind.
Olivia Kent Nov 2014
It's Christmas.
Get out those garlands.
String out those lights.
Drag in the conifer.
Smells so fresh.
Make those mince pies.
Ice your regal cake, crisp with white royal icing.
Um my heaven.
Buy packets of presents.
Hang up your stockings for Santa.
I'm sure he'd like you in them.
Men usually do you know.
***** Christmas present.
You know what?
Today 8th November.
The windows are sparkling with varieties of coloured lights.
It's 46 days till Christmas.
Someone tell my neighbours.
Hell it's much too early for all this hurly burly.
It's crippling the national grid!
(C) livvi
Bah humbug x
SøułSurvivør Jul 2016
RED

passionate rages of
body and soul

the ardent obsession
of two entities
to merge into a
whole

lovers swept into
an ****** of desire

two Phoenix to die
in dust and ash
and meet fleet
again
in new life
of *fire!


~
ORANGE

fire has cooled
age is wise to lust

two of God's creation
working together
under one yoke
habits understood
partners fair
and
just

~
YELLOW

love of family
refined as purest gold

give and take
young and old
parents sculpt young minds
children break the mold
go to their own families
to have and
to hold

~
GREEN

love for nature
creatures great and small

the beautiful earth
the sylibant shushing
waterfall
conifer pines and
russet leaves
that fall
floral offering
in spring
colts breaking from
the stall
summer's slice of life
and winter's pall
we love the
burgeoning
beauty
of it
all!

~
BLUE

love of friends you
hold so near

a shout out to buddies!
loud for all to hear!
forgiveness and
compassion
for those who hurt
and fear
those you like and
those like second
family
dear

~
INDIGO

who can understand
this love so often missed?

love for spiteful enemy
who've wished
only evil for you
even kissed
your cheek
or your lips
in lover's bliss
now turned
and are
snakes
which
hiss...

~
PURPLE

the greatest love
the one most won't applaud

an irony.
HE'S THE ONE WE
SHOULD MOST LAUD!
tho we stand the
mountain
or in valley plod
in humility
most regard
as odd

love for
Abba Father
Jesus Christ
Holy Spirit

GOD**



SoulSurvivor
(C) 7/23/2016
Thanks for reading!!!

-
branches run like the veins
across my fair-skinned arm
much like a dead one
am I unrooted
fallen, life poured out of me
a bare conifer still breathing
life into something
someone
Gaia, her mother must astound
When hubbub will cleave cyber
But she put me to emcee just a grace factorial
What brevity has commanded with hers.
Still a remnant jolt in my program fork
Her crab a gossip awhile fore gathering near moon,
And her progression ensuing romantic liaison
That perhaps with a heather where inroad shall conifer a creed
With only kissing shaken them from these trees
Our virtual leaf will tie hers together in a scroll
That heighten our kingdom resolve here these intents
Do flow gleefully in toe with so a stance we sugar please.
Davina E Solomon Aug 2021
An evening set in metered rhyme,
of pinecones, gainfully bracted
in the manner of spiralling time.

No perfect measure yields a woody cone
although conifer strobilus gilded ratio makes.
The standard mesh of numbers alone

symbolise a hope that a glorious God
assembled in a perfect factory line,
this defiant change to perfectly flawed.
https://davinasolomon.org/2021/07/18/no-perfect-measure/
Monika Jan 2019
if i have a nature
it is the eucalyptus forests of california,
of portugal. the forest whose burning
seeds and bark fly like spittle from
the mouth of a rabid raccoon.

if i have a nature
it is the trees in central park
living on a token plot in a
jungle of someone else’s design.

if i have a nature
it is the evergreen that
chokes on holly, smothered
by the weight of its peers.

but nature is always changing.

and so, if i have a nature
it is a conifer heaving a gasp and another
despite the hands at its throat.
it is the grass growing in the cracks of
the concrete jungle, reclaiming its home.
it is the flower, clawing through the ash
of those who came before
to turn and face the sun

if i have a nature
it is dreaming
it is pleading
it is vowing
alongside the germinating green

Upright. Upright.
the idea just came to me today at work
Jonny Angel Jul 2014
Shadows dance upon the hemlocks
as falling sunlight kisses conifer-tops,
the warblers fight the settling breezes,
echoing the symphony of cicadas
whispering good night
to all the other beautiful trees
& wood spirits swimming
in the cool gurgling-creek.
Thank you Lord.
Jude kyrie Sep 2015
She was five today
We walked to the park
A low brilliant winter sun
Lit up an evergreen conifer
Like a Christmas tree
The pine cones on
the edges of its branches
on fire briefly like candles
She squealed in delight
Look mommy
The angels have sent me
A Christmas tree
For my birthday.
mar Jun 2016
It's a new level of age
To forget that the weather changes day to day
And as she looks out behind curtains much older than I am she comments on the rain
"Like blood,
Splattering sidewalks
Drenching us in sorrows
Sylvia
My Sylvia
High noon and her heart was in a novel of faraway lands
I miss her more than life
I miss her more than I miss the sun"
But clouds always pass
And the ****** scene patios dry up under the lights
Removing any evidence that we'd been soaked in gods wrath
And I can remember her asking me about God
Clear as the day that breaks after a storm
She leaned in close
Breath hot from sherry and eyes a little wild for a woman of over a thousand full moons
"What do you think of God?"
I was struck
Never once had her lips spoke of anything holier than thou
She told me that God was a woman
Stormy hair and ocean eyes
"And I know she's waiting for me
Sprinkled in the mist
Hidden in lunar beams
I speak to her sometimes
But never does she coax me closer into the dark corner of this room
But when she does I'll be ready
Thin skinned from age
Ready for flight."
But she hasn't come yet
And you sit in that chair looking out that same window as the conifer dances in the breeze
And at night you cry yourself to sleep
Cursing that God who took your baby from you
"If she is a mother-
Why does she bring me this grief?
I want to hold my Sylvia
I love my Sylvia."
November 21 – December 9th, 2020

I.
Holding My Mug of Peppermint Tea
I See My Ride Arrive,
My Fingers Fill with Danish Cookies
Bells Sway in the Wind,

Spearmint Steam Warms My Lips,
Tisane takes the Chill Away from My Cheeks,
I Sip into Delicate Ecstasy
And the Pullman Comes to a Halt,

Chimes Ring Louder & Faster
I Bite into My Butter Biscuit,
Pinwheels of Snow Blow in the Breeze
The Air is a Lully Balm,

I See the Hoarfrost Hang from the Train
Dangling off the Window Frames,
Children Toss Snowballs Between One Another,
Among their Fun, Laughter is a Muse,

Upon the Platform, Rubies Spiral,
Snowflakes Descend like Flower Petals,
Leucojums Rise Through their Mingling
They Ribbon Around the Trees, and Coat them Like Icing,

I Savor My Peppermint Sip
As it Drip-Drops onto My Lips,
Horns Alert My Eyes to the Holiday Lights
Their Sound is a Bellowing Echo

II.
I Step onto the Trolley Car,
Riders Sit Down, Ready to Travel Far,
Green Apple Grapevines Enclose the Copper Walls
Their Light Bounces off the Raven-Shaded Trees,

Kids Sample Cider, They Leap Between their Seats,
I Gaze at Them, Acrobats on Trampolines,
Their Flips Make the Passengers Giggle
Chuckles Pop around like Snapping Peanut Brittle,

I Take Another Taste of My Tisane,
Mint is Fresh and Tepid,
Windows Align with the Picture-Books of Youth
Our Dining Car is a Giant Gingerbread Carriage,

Rolling By, the Jovial Jump Between Compartments,
Their Joy is a Gem More Valuable than Snow,
Watermint Heats My Hands & Throat
A Gift from the Tea Sommelier,

Walking up the Hallways of the Train
Each Entry is Marked by a Pinecone Wreath,
As if the Fontana della Pigma was Right Here
Every Cone is a Crown Made of Art, Faith, and Yesteryear,

Tea Mist and Conifer Seeds Awaken in their Wait,
I Witness their Blend Radiate,
Emitting Beams of Beauty, Flying Across the Carriage
Eyes are Transfixed in the Pull of their Passage,

III.
The Coulter Saplings Await their Bloom,
My Peppermint Tea Has Been Gulped,
I Take One More Look Outside the Train,
A Descending Breath is Showcased,

Cousins, Kids, Parents and Friends, I See Them All Return to their Seats,
They Huddle Together with Quilts & Crayons,
Tea Cups are Shared as Holiday Presents, the Air Hums a Soft Lilt,
The Warmth is Strongly Felt,
Thus Ends the Tale I Have Woven, of the Peppermint Tea Pullman
Connor Jan 2017
A generation of pinched
Fruit we
Lay still in a wickerbasket
        & the childless theatre
              Remains grim and nettled with
              Unfamiliar voices

You stray from ample forgiveness
With waxen fugues

       The martyr of unrest
       Keeps to the typewriter
         Imagining dramatics and
         Flowery dust accumulates
over
          Musings of herself
         And the city that has devoured her

Beached priests who
Hear the seagull candor
Kiss windchimes idly,
Staying on a thought of expansive
Clouds with rings delicate around their patient fingers.       The brass clamor of the ocean (assisted by Erroll Garner)
Creates beams of carpeted
Fantasy to the Priest. The wind tugs at his robes like an eager lover
      
Dementia
Of the coming Night
Makes senseless the mortal line
Of sand and branded stone
(the perpetual *** of land/
The curving sea) creates a poet
And kills a priest

Do not ease that Nordic instrument into its casing/velvet Absolutely
Conifer perfume/
   quarell of the shaken gulls observed thru
     A car window
     & lamps cosy our continentless
     Home where
     Conjurations exhibit themselves
     Without expectation or
     Pride
     (a hairnet trapped in the shower
    
     Your sheltered ribbon hung from a treebranch)
    
A spherical whisper with crimson properties
Buried in the parking lot
To be experienced in Stoneness by someone else

& the dying
Retreat back to an overwhelming
Burden of self

....Crayons lacking regal touch to eroticize them!
Do wait with optimism within the jar of
A kitchenette
    
For you and your unmeditated softness to return here to me
Written Nov 2016
urushiol Oct 2014
Dead beat (5 cents).
Dead pan (10 cents).
Dead dead Franklin head

Early deaths –
Casualties of the war of the changing seasons
Brings me back to a time without reason
When all I knew were the leaves and the road and my family –
My family  -
We, us, together, now!
Quick, gather in front of the tree with too many decorations,
Too many forced memories –
Do you remember?
Of course I do, Momma,
I know it.

Of returning fearful from a night of supervised sneaking
Uniform series of street lamps keeping us safe
But we did not know,
Knew only the fear and the fun and the one night a year they broke the laws of all that we know and mixed against the will of the world like oil and water
Together now

“Deformed Discourse” –
The body monstrous,
Explains my professor.
But where is my body?
Monstrous – of course I know –
But the body monstrous –
The body –
I think I’m better off without.
I’ve spent two years without a body
And I only miss it when a new one begins to creep on my bones
And I want to run, run away from
The settling, the thousand sufferings manifesting themselves in the forms of slopes, rivers, valleys
Etched deeply with the urgency of the years.

Oh yes – it’s a long way back to the Garden of Eden.
Even then,
Did hurricanes shake the foundations of the earth?
Did they ever cease?

We cannot see where we are going
Hurtling through the abstract of billions of collective souls
That’s a star, we say, that’s a conglomeration of gas reacting to give us heat.
There’s a planet,
We say,
Aggregations of solid matter drawn into itself –
Drawn to circling its parent material, again and again.
For years,
For ever.

Does the tree feel growing pains as its Cambrian layer holds its breath and expands?
Does it take into account the thousand other entities which drain its life blood?
The rabbit doesn’t know,
Shivering in the snow beneath the drooping needles of the conifer.
The sapsucker doesn’t know,
Drinking it all,
And leaving the rest to weep down the bleeding tree.
We don’t know,
The sounds of our saws retching back and forth drown out our inhibitions.

I wonder if the last lynx
To sneak through Wisconsin
Knew it was the last,
Knew its loneliness
Knew the trail it left through the snow
Would forever haunt its disciples.

I wonder if
The swooping hawks crying out
The streamlined white tail leaping through brambles
The silent oaks painting the sky with their fingers stretched upwards –
Do they know what we have done to life, to ourselves?
Do we?

Pennies clang in their cage
1,2,3,4,5
It hurts my head
6,7,8,9,10
To count every single
11,12,13,14,15
Moment of time wasted
Again and again
They, them, together now!

We will roll them together

And promise to promise ourselves

That it was all worth it


As they transfer from sweaty palm to shaking hand
I feel you
so close to me,
       penetrating
             into my five senses,
into my visual field,
      contrasting
            my point of view
        and
making me think
     that I'm hallucinating,
              seeing your contour
                           everywhere I go.

I feel you
     in the vibes of my ears
                leaving fingerprints
in my tambourines,
       printing your voice
                    into my neurons,
          like little whispers
which I hear them
   so clearly
     like a thought in the wind
               that dance trough the
conifer trees
                of this wisdom forests.

I feel you
      under my skin
           stealing my touch and
        tackling my entire spine
    with your velvet hips,
taking roots across
                 all the surface
     of my epidermis
                         and
            drawing,
with the ink
of your skinny fingers,
    dreams and desires,
              as if my skin was
                        a prehistoric cave.

I feel you
         in my flavor
     mixing with my saliva,
              making me addicted
                   to the orchard essence
that you have
            in your lips,
                         like an elixir
          ready to envelop me
                 in his spell,
  clutching my tongue
                    with your venom.

I feel you
     even
   into my two atriums,
into my two ventricles,
        pumping my feelings
                       like sediments
through rivers on fire
              coming from tall mountains
             and
          storing them
      into my heart
   who's prefaced
into a crumpled paper

I feel you...
      I feel you so close to me
                       maybe inside of me.
but,
    when it comes
                          the time
expressing yourself,
          I find it too hard
                         to unleash you
into the outer world,

        
                        love.
#love #feeling #fivesenses

— The End —