how i have ached to walk amongst the evergreens
encased by dazzling quaking aspen
in my rocky mountain home

i yearn to fall again while skiing
and catch a wisp of icy sky blue
snow powder crystals
on my tongue
******* feelings
rise and fall
as they melt
and disappear

i long to breathe in your scent
sitting on the peak of wooded ridges
amidst slate colored boulders
sea salt combined with cinnamon
laced with wildflowers
crisply filling my lungs

i hunger to once again
behold again your red rock formations
creating tender hollows
through which timid coral sunsets peer

i crave hiking at dusk
into your jagged emerald forests
and sit wistfully mid the columbine
while darkened sunflowers juxtapose
against the jet black emptiness
enticing the stars
to etch enchanting paintings
on inky cobalt skies

hankering to be at the sundance film festival
coyly peeking into restaurants
covertly spying on the movie stars
on old park city main

itching to experience waiting patiently
for a moose to cross the street
its majesty splashing gingerly
sending chills throughout the galaxy
magnificence abounds

i pine to have memories gently cradle me
like worn out patchwork quilts
warmed by incandescent fires
wrapping me in soft colored canvas
the past craving transformation
by an echo that’s now dim

faintly crying out for
an old familiar artist’s brush
that still lingers
to snag times gone by
and paint the future in

amalgamating the antiquated
with the present
luring in
my destiny

i dream to don my fringed leather jacket
and hear my cowboy boots
fiercely clicking
against charcoal shadowed midnight sidewalks
while i watch the harvest moon

i’m parched too see your autumn chestnut leaves
against the bloodshot auburn sky
as cardinal hues give way to glistening winter
melding into tender spring

your summertime birthing
tingles down my spine
as chartreus aspen leaves
morph to golden bisque
enticing ute country
to blow in
copper colored indian summers
with cherry fragrant wind

yutaahih you were called
by the apaches
their historic essence
somehow ingrained within
my every cell
thirsty to lie enveloped
like a long lost lover
in your rugged western terrain

once having left your presence
i return to you now
my heart flutters
with wild anticipation
to see your precious face again
utah

©2016janetaylor

The distant hollow of the high mountain pass
swallows the setting sun as it steals away southbound
behind the coastal mountain's tangerine sunset hued silhouettes
Mulberry plashed shadows pointing northward
across the evergreens outstretched dimming,
beneath the waning fade of each fleeting eventide

Sundown ebbing asunder the wafting daylight,
each gloaming of the day, helplessly a moment sooner past,
transfixed further south beyond yesterday's passing azure
The lazy days of summer escape unbounded,
nomadic as the sea I've seen sail away before;
evanescent as the beauty of the bloom summer days beheld
and the memory of the fragrance they exhale

The nebulous weight of the gravity is consciously denied
by the truths a human heart beholds
A moment’s epiphany afflicts like a rogue wave in a calm sea;
the only thing my heart ever wanted remains out of reach

Everything my heart needs consciously surrendering
to the poignant passing moment's beauty,
the falling sun at distance sets more suddenly now
Lost in the undeniable certainty
life's imminent season's change

Eyes drawn stubbornly from presence to a sky so far away,
knowing there'll be no restitution for the welling sense of loss...
A bitter sweet song mummers in the silence of the absorbing spell,
summer's sun stained pages of watermarked soul scribbles,
time tattooed reparation for the indelible ache
of a harsh grey winter loneliness

Perhaps too familiar, this whelming Déjà vu
that tears my soul;     that tugs at these roots
but cannot sever their sacred grasp
But for now, eyes fixed to the sun's
inevitable tightening tether hence —
to wear weary each fraying thread's  impending break

Each sunset leans a deeper angle southward
as it slips down through the firwood shadows;
illuminating other faraway latitudes
far beyond the distant horizon skies

The preordained continuum unfolding what will be ...


someone you used to know ... September 11, 2017 ... 7:30 PM

You closed the door,
But I was standing on the other side.
With shivering lips and numb fingertips,
You made me hide.
Peeking behind trees,
Crouching to where I cannot be seen,
A ghost with a pale face,
Living among the evergreens.

Hiding so you won’t see me,
Shaking with fear.
The pelting rain,
Blending with my tears.
I see your shadow,
But fog covers the glass.
You were my first,
And now my last.

You are no longer my sun,
And rainy days have surely come.
Stumbling in 5 inches of deep regret,
but I have not fallen yet.
I miss your sunshine,
I was always the clouds.
Keeping your rays for myself,
But sometimes two is a crowd.

My lips still ache,
To one day whisper your name.
Until then my heart will break,
The world ends in flames.

towering gently overflowing with heightened awareness
subtle hints of blade’s keen glittering chiseled edges
untamed rugged surface powerfully averts gale’s acrid tempest
vigor pulsating that doth persuade the cloud’s reflections
if i shall not again embrace a meager glimpse; a demure echo
of thine towering mounts my soul shall ever suffer

my spirit soars with e'er one glance of thine majestic presence
replete with reminiscence seasons stir and beg thine tender mercies
to house the changing leaves at dusk of autumn’s auburn portraits
and give birth to crystal snow cascading peripherally in winter
which melding into spring then begs thy bluffs to cover
in soft amethyst of columbine blossoming first light of summer

‘tis not paramount to scale high aloft thine peaks in escalation
for small sheer glances stamp forever with imperial impressions
and ‘tho i’ve traveled ‘round and savored nature’s varied essence
none can compare thine evergreens laced in aspens nuance
my breath is gone and shan’t return ‘til in thy shadow casting
i stand and look upon thine hallowed face the rocky mountains

©2016 janetaylor

Walking and saying
Things our wellbeing
The soul needing love possessions
Have absolutely no meaning

Playing and praying
Overstaying and Under-paying
Rising sun and Symphonic searching

" Is this the way it is?" Tis the season

But the tightness no business like
searching business
  She is combined and mixed like a song
fully lined both with keynotes somehow
we declined
The feeling that you cannot breathe
or  trust both of us
 we can  bearly **** it all in
My music playing just click my belt buckle
Will start to begin

The soul is not a crime or just a rhyme
I barely cannot breathe
I am in a chuckle, you see his
smile raising up his dimple

Ms. Thumbelina cobblestone
narrow-minded street your
in the tightrope symphonic beat

But its dark outside your ringlets
Waved him on got excitedly mesmerized
His Goblet of wine she curls up in
his body heat brilliantly dazzled
The sky to your dreams he is
reaching your
soft side skin
whats actually within
our souls

So  hooked into your ride not to slide
better grades and goals
The awesomeness symphonic hatter
Victorian divineness
Her paper cut out hearts as real
as they come
The Eastside Symphonic tip of his
Heavenly Bliss private Quarters
What becomes of the broken hearted
Heads or dimes not landing on her stone
Floor heart
The Duke of all trades of the hat he's smart

Cool running ******
Addictions to the mind so fanatic
What a good soul sometimes
He overexaggerates about
love and fate darkness drives him demonic
What are you kidding me
She doesn't rest her heart on his
soul for the burning desires of food
for thought
She keeps piling his poems like any sport
He's her everything she learns to be taught

Searching lips pricing
Red bloodshot eyes of crying onions
She is so fierce controlling
Musically like a Tiger roaring
He is like a design of graphics tattoo
The earring piecing the sweetest taboo

More soul searching
She's the snake purse
to his snake eyes fancy,
he took a ride
Upper-false teeth
The upper west side
have some prideThe dark side
became her thing
The wildflower not to stand to
bloom and bang like her band

Westside sounds came deep
his pride and joy like a parade
and wickedly dark his charade

It was  sneaking up on her backside
And the other side was just hiding
and smiling
She definitely saw the light lamp post how
the smells came stronger the darkness of desire
she was famished not to have vanished

Feeling like a *** roast love continued
She had a gift for her lover, not the
toast who would brag to boost
Two ****** British what
divine glasses at a cost
The symphonic soul
captured them like the
Dark-Knight of words
Symphonic sounds came
hearing names
soulful hummingbirds buzz-net

And there weren't any more
words there was silence
Eating shepherds pie table was set

Taking over another soul that's a lie
just like magic searching for a love
so long ago became tragic
You need more perseverance
Her true love gave her
an incredible sixth sense
of deliverance
The top seat at the concert
classical wicked taste of music
candescent erotically sonic

She had this certain quality
He was a symphonic love bounty
Her lips moved so fitting fantastically
The flower shops caught her eye
She couldn't sense what was real or a lie
The fast pace of the people all worked up.
What a soulful smell music sounds
she faintly known

To her ear wanted to hear only him shown

Besides the faintly illuminated
shapes evergreens were
heartily trimmed
She stood out bright as the ground
She was turning gray losing reality
not to be found or heard
So soulful her lips speak
she was walking with her head up
in the air fancy dancey
How those men could speak.
You could smell all the ethnic
flavors of foods
She felt the search for something
of a Saint, she was trying to
hard to be good
What a Haydn, his wife
was the mad hair driving

Miss Daisy soul of hers crazy curled
inside her book
She's the lady-like curler
How he played through her hair
Hunchback of Notre Dame who was to blame?
How his eyes wondered playing
and observing
But she was holding his stare

like a womanizer and his eyes flew
what a haunting moon
But Samatha the harp shady tree
He said, my fair lady,
He's stringing something together

What! creepypasta but sometimes her powers were weak
The symphonic love potent every other week

Some Gothic man symphonic music started
Playing Rossini Opera he could stand on his head.
She was pinned to his eyes
Pinterest such interest
she was all bloomed like a fly

By witches, flower came he passed her and he knew exactly who she was as is but wait not his?
The pleading the beg humbug far from her tunes of the ladybug

Razzamatazz all body of Jazz jitterbug
He winked she-devil
summoned him on
What a binding spell
She wiped the sweat off her face
She was beautiful with pale
porcelain skin
So alluring walking
with her parasol

F- For being faithful like a forbidden fruit truthful
R- Ruler of fruit so passionately about his love bite
U- Understatement how she layered her
salad love ingredients
Google it
Utmost website take a bite
I- Included in everything We know it the poets
Ring coming like diamond my fruit of the crop
T- Timing, Fruit for thought rhyming tremendous
but tedious fruit-salad love

I- Truly   

S- Strawberries lips of cherries falling from the tree.
Feeling free Robin bob bobbin along loves strawberry pie
A- For such ambiance, Miss Ambrosia
such allure "Pink lady" apple smiles so
animated graphic artist so cool and waves shore
L- For Living eating in good health breathing
the fresh air Earth Baby Bella green lettuce.
Lacy Length of her wedding bodice spiritual rice
he promised her hand in fruit bountiful marriage
A- For a party of love fruit masquerade party
Connoisseur of fruit smarty oranges
vibrant animation fruit forever apples,
I tune's of apples
D- Divine dressed up with layers
of fruit salad
Devilish eggs toppings designs of
dandelions daisies, fusion
with fruit crazies

D-  Digging exploring forbidden fruit
Cranking up the Cranberries
I am dreaming the Blueberries
No Sir, not your Monday blues
Dow Jones way up I Apple phones?
R- Rev it up Robin Recharge, rambling
lucky reds fruits
Italian the lovers of red wine and a salad
avocado smashing up her Money green
Eldorado entering her fruit palace

                      She rules

E- Energy vitamin E for exceptional inviting
fruit salad with everything piling
Elderberry Evergreens Huckleberry
S- Symmetry art salad Palm of hearts
Fruit season
love storm style sophisticated a poem with
the style you're sure to smile
S- Autumn leaves falling on the
sleeves crabapples
Silver smooth skin Kiwifruit sour cherry on the
          " SILKY"
Dogwood in the Sierra Juniper
E- Enlightening some enchanting evening
how his love fruit fell from the tree
His fruit for the soul so enthusiastic you loved
to entertain this is love fusion nothing simple
I am not one to complain

D- Dressed to the fruit nines perfect 10 salad
Mad Alice in Wonderland hair so much hair
obsessions love of fruit blueberries and
she's a bit sour cream
with daisies and dandelion teas all,
please and what else is another
fruit of a pain
To remain in silence but that burst of flavor
is like science fusion of soulful rain

F- food for thought furry but fireplace hot
love frenzy comfort foods A la carte frosting
"Buttercream" food pleasant dream
The freshly brewed coffee I never heard of
fruit your in luck
Blueberry coffee homemade Moms
I  girl scout you brownies and
Saltwater sea fruity buns of a breeze

U- Unique how you utilize passion-fruit
prize music
fruity Pop blend fires out up-tempo
your feeling unbaked
Not the right ingredients of love fruit cake

S- Serendipity New York City the
fruit never sleeps fruit stands love for
keeps or Dorothy surrender spices
of Sage Superfood salads

I- Yes we have bananas wearing paisley
bandanas fruit is ripe to improve a love
how it's written
Inkwell an index of fruit swell

O- Out worked outlived on time for only
fruit about the abundance of love
So soothing the fruit tunes of his music
Overjoyed Silk Organza

N- Gift of fruit not like any other day
Neighborly of kindness just dress
Organza Gown of fruit
So naturally spoken love so near Fruit salad he left a notorious love tear.

I want to wake up
With a voice on my back
That traces all the bruises
And the scars
That I’ve had from
Turning away
From things and people
Because I was too afraid

I want to wake up with a forest
In front of me
And the knowing
That I’m not yet done
Exploring
I’ll walk to the end of the evergreens
Feel the fall on my bones
And eventually
Find the courage
To turn around

Polished clean
among evergreens.
Under Winter's
eyeful watch.
And Spring bows in,
Her slender wrists
and waist
ankles dusted in
wat'ry show and ice and
Leaves.
I watch Her dance the cold away.
I hid in branches, ever green,
despite the snow and ice and leaves.
Despite the cold and
vacant Winter.
Strength in spite
in spite of death.
But when She comes, they
stand with pride, they
welcome Spring's sun
shine.
Reluctance because I know,
I know She'll love the maid
of Summer, who woos
the gent of Fall, who's slane
each time by Winter's beast.
And yet, my friends, they stay, ever
Ever Green.

He is a tree swaying in a snowstorm in late autumn
A not-so-evergreen, with browning-red streaks all over his limbs.
Pushed around by the winds of the storm,
gasping for air and yearning for sun to give him the strength to stand,
only receiving more stress and pressure from sharp seasonal winds that seem to exist solely to shorten his year-round life.
Lack of oxygen and too many cuts leave pink, brown and yellow leaves on his limbs,
making him look out out of place among the rest.
The rest that evidently either don't care or just forget
that he once looked like them, acted like them, felt like them, but no more.
Of course there are always those that love the different ones,
sympathize, empathize, and emphasize the fact that beauty can exist in what is not conventionally beautiful.
But even the warmth from these good souls will often be diminished and become soulless when winter comes around.
A time in which one watches, with notches for eyes,
as the red and yellow and purple blotches that the select and wonderful few once loved decay and drain away.
He looks dead.
He acts dead.
He feels dead.
So he believes he is, indeed, dead.
And consequently, so does the rest of the world;
as it is a universal truth, it seems, that the way someone looks, and acts, and feels, determines what they are.
A fallacy; one that has caused the downfall and tragedy of humans and trees alike since the first man spoke and the first plant bloomed.
If a person is gone, it is best to forget and bury them, and if a tree looks dead, it is best to cut and burn it.
Of course, most trees tend to either stay green or spring back to life
after the dark days of winter, flourishing in the dog days of summer,
but every year it is a tree's biggest fear that he will be one of the black tragic few
who do not come back, due to being overshadowed by taller, fresher, better trees
that mother nature had more meticulously pruned.
No, his fear grew that he would never bloom,
he was one of the lesser ones,
outgrown and outmatched by those evergreens and ever-okays that needed less sun and love to carry on
intentionally blocking light from him, leaving only a few sadly relatable meek rays that cut through
the sharp pines like an even sharper knife.
They would shine down on him like a spotlight, or even better, a laser beam capable of lifting him up,
severing his roots to his past and bringing him up to face the public eye,
exposed and vulnerable to the judgement of his scraggly twigs for arms and thick trunk, leafless, better yet lifeless, a thing to behold in a depressingly pathetic light in the middle of the forest,
isolated and alone among a crowd of superiors, allowing any random passerby on a hike to look down on him in pity, as they learn what it is like to see something slowly, carefully, inevitably,

die.

I walked the woods today,
strolled under the quite shade of
towering old growth evergreens,
their scent upon me conveyed
simple peaceful solitude, there were
birds and squirrels unconcerned
with me, busy with their own pursuits.
A young Buck Deer browsing raised his
antlered head for a quick peek, then went
right back to eating. For a moment I felt as
if I was the only human in the world and
that thought did not disturb me in the least.

Yet I Am Ready
Watching the waves eat away the castles made of sand
Staring at the way wind is churning at infrastructure       land
like a big bad wolf who found the fear and lean foundation of a brick house
I am ready for her hand

I am all ready
Traversing fields filled with fruitless wonders
burning tundras rolling thunders
A Man attempting to put out its grand made funeral pyre
with nothing but a Jack and Jill bucket filled with reverse osmosis electrolyte infused hydrogen oxygen expired prayers
I am Ready for no man land

I have a radio already
Listening to Nokia raven chirps and bubble bee gyrations.
Evergreens whispers as wild blooms break concrete and asphalt and building plans
giving smiles to homeless man and woman
dreamers flowering in the night lights that were supposed to replace stars

I am ready
for the woods to takeover the hoods
for bear feets to take over the streets
for napkins to become extinct
to write with my god-given red ink
so that my being will dye into stone and dirt
To leave my DNA on my mothers belly and hear her cry
As she covers my mouth closes her eyes tearful from radioactive winds
let her know that I loved her and hugged her every chance I could
I am ready to give up me for we have not given back enough
We have devoured the essence and forgotten how to seed and harvest  
the nothing has become us
which is why Earths flesh is colored rust
like  blood mixed with scratching dust
we have bruised the body
and wonder if we can blame something someone else
but US
Every time the finger points the object of our deflection disappears
Rearrange the letters she was trying to help us HEARt
Rearrange the letters EARth is trying to make us Heart
I'm trying to make us Ear

These MTHFCKRS are among US.
We have bred them with our love lust
still unaware that they a fungus
These MTHRFCKRS have become US
they save a life to **** it from us.
they manufacture fakes to stunt us
These MTHRFCKRS have become US
Ideas devoid of what we need to come up
She must go now and rip it from us
We must shed our blood just to fund us
Cause these MTHRFCKRS have out done US

The day you died I went into the dirt,
Into the lightless hibernaculum
Where bees, striped black and gold, sleep out the blizzard
Like hieratic stones, and the ground is hard.
It was good for twenty years, that wintering --
As if you never existed, as if I came
God-fathered into the world from my mother's belly:
Her wide bed wore the stain of divinity.
I had nothing to do with guilt or anything
When I wormed back under my mother's heart.

Small as a doll in my dress of innocence
I lay dreaming your epic, image by image.
Nobody died or withered on that stage.
Everything took place in a durable whiteness.
The day I woke, I woke on Churchyard Hill.
I found your name, I found your bones and all
Enlisted in a cramped necropolis
your speckled stone skewed by an iron fence.

In this charity ward, this poorhouse, where the dead
Crowd foot to foot, head to head, no flower
Breaks the soil. This is Azalea path.
A field of burdock opens to the south.
Six feet of yellow gravel cover you.
The artificial red sage does not stir
In the basket of plastic evergreens they put
At the headstone next to yours, nor does it rot,
Although the rains dissolve a ****** dye:
The ersatz petals drip, and they drip red.

Another kind of redness bothers me:
The day your slack sail drank my sister's breath
The flat sea purpled like that evil cloth
My mother unrolled at your last homecoming.
I borrow the silts of an old tragedy.
The truth is, one late October, at my birth-cry
A scorpion stung its head, an ill-starred thing;
My mother dreamed you face down in the sea.

The stony actors poise and pause for breath.
I brought my love to bear, and then you died.
It was the gangrene ate you to the bone
My mother said: you died like any man.
How shall I age into that state of mind?
I am the ghost of an infamous suicide,
My own blue razor rusting at my throat.
O pardon the one who knocks for pardon at
Your gate, father -- your hound-*****, daughter, friend.
It was my love that did us both to death.

Where did you come from, bright star?
What heaven did you leap from, dear love?
How can I spell your name
Without the sound of autumn
Underneath my tongue,
Without acknowledging the lovers who bent me in half
Bless them for bringing me to you
How can I say your name
Without also breathing the words
My god, I found you.
How can I ever speak again with this mouth
When it has found where it belongs
When you touch me, I am a bed of calla lilies
I will build a house and fill it with evergreens
I will paint sunsets on every wall
So you can only see beautiful things
How can I say love
Without wanting to fold myself into you
Like a thousand paper cranes?

Dear one,
I was halved the moment I was born
Either piece of me is inside of your mouth
And I was found whole the moment you spoke.

The month of crescent moons and indigo flamed candles.  
Of burning sage and twinkling hooded lights flickering in frosted windows.  
Of chipped nail varnish and lips chapped with bitter cold.
Of darkened mornings with knitted scarves wrapped beneath pink noses and wet lashes.  
Of lonely evergreens and sleigh bells a distant howl in the wind.

The Pigeon Gent,
He woos and coos around the river bent.
Pursues his muse with artful dance and skillful prance,
With inflated neck and ruffled plumage, until his energy or luck is spent.
He then resides by ebbing tides to ponder on his next advance.

"Now Now", "Whats This" the gent exclaims,
A shadow looming from the skies.
With ***** and claps he glides and lands with  full surprise,
He spies the intruder, "A fellow Brooder".
Pigeon gent cant believe his eyes.

Pigeon Gent cannot believe the sauce,
The scurge seems intent on taking his prize by force.
At once he knows he must respond,
And force this illbread vagabond to abscond.

At once chest puffed and muscles flexed,
With wild eyes he jabs and pecks.
To teach this ruffian respect,
So on his actions he may later reflect.
He stands his ground both large and proud,
To make example of this foul winged burglar from the clouds.

"You insult me sir" he shouts aloud,
To make his intentions clear for all the crowd.
For several rounds they fight and scuffle.
With intruder retreating, feathers ruffled.

Then bested suiter fairly parted,
The quarrel ends as fast as started.
The vanquished victor displays and grooms,
As peace and honour now resumes.

Soon the ripples upset the green,
An armada of ducks come on the scene.
Alerted by the heightend coos,
They race to see what act insues.

The mighty mallards, Kings of the river,
None contest their right of way.
Their ways of conduct such generous givers.
Majestic river royalty, the law is always what they say.

On bank or shallow pebbled river they have always been,
They love to feed and breed amongst the river scene.
There royal cape made up of browny reds and shimmering greens,
reflects and intejects on mirrored water skies and evergreens.

To their mates for life and lady lovers,
The mallard gent is like no others.
Such loyalties are seldom seen,
In modern times and different dreams.
Fine and lean with striking features,
Best examples of river teachers.

But at any moment no matter how abrubt,
A river duel may easily erupt.
Battle can ensue and rage,
As both apponents approach and engage.
For they mate for life as duck and wife,
A rarity in any age or life.

you can train the trees he says
as a pair of garden shears take hold
and snip the lengthened limbs that stretch toward the house
guided not in
but up and out
the branches will follow
and I stand eyes fixed up from below
arms raised high above my head to steady the ladder
his feet find balance in
and I wonder
what would have happened if those synapses hadn’t been pruned?
would the evergreens still grow or reach new heights
had they not been subject to their sapling surroundings and watchful eye of the gardener?
what would I become if left up to nature's desire
unaffected by the calculated, planned attendance of the caretaker
would that fate still take root?

Some people like fall, but not me.
It's full of death and decay, the gorgeous pieces of fire drift
from their skeletal homes and burn out into
sodden mushy brown paper.
Hard smooth and brown pebbles, spiky holey bombs, and twirly helicopter blades fall from the same skeletons and hide
beneath the paper, waiting for an innocent victim,
lying in the perfect position to slip someone up so that
they lose their bags and packages as they themselves go
slip slide crashing into the ground.
The victims are sure to rise up again, but with some bruises and bits of soggy brown, stuck all over their clothes
In fall, all the blooms of color decease, all fruit and vegetable and good green things die and leaves the world sodden mushy and brown.

Some people say they like winter, but not me.
It's a cold cruel and heartless season, robbing any last trace of life
from all helpless and left-behind creatures.
The vegetation becomes glazed over with melting glass and is the
one spot of beauty, as the only green left resides on prickly evergreens, housebound plants, and the occasional tacky
coat.
In winter, there is no way to leave your personal fortress without mountains of clothes, and so every person becomes a
chapped lipped, red cheeked, stiff fingered puffball.
Every time you jump into a mound of the white fluff that accompanies the dread season, some is bound to creep into your shirt and boots, freezing whatever it touches, and then ever so so slowly flowing along your skin, one of Gaia's little tortures.

Dedication:

Nectare bred of an artist's haught testament—
        brings only stunted buds of tastelessness.
Be it naught for the height in numerous tidal of Muse—
        to cause the strike of warmth in bruise.

Upon the cheeks shadow'd in might—
        strength of amour upon near-sight.
You!—Blossom, are of a frightful power—
        to journey nestled mind of dark tower.

As though a hawk perched higher than the peak—
        of mountainous and controlling streaks,
Colourblind by potent affair lost—
        by centuries of sicken'd fever crossed.

By and by another name, honeyed pursuit—
        yearning that cause a poet becoming mute.
Meagerly, he instead scribes his burning allegory—
        that shall cause a life—eternal fragmentary.


Dangers of Kimberleigh

“Love Jo all your days, if you choose, but don't let it spoil you, for it's wicked to throw away so many good gifts because you can't have the one you want.”
― Louisa May Alcott, "Little Women"

I.

When the morning demands you and I—
        our ghosts shall pass empty resides,
Against fields where lines opposing light, force and bind—
        of Angel's breath and Dæmon's spine.

Of shrieks louder than their first meeting's kiss—
        residing now—perfection upon midnight's bliss,
Abiding near the tender gardens upon the blinding dark—
        creating haste of love-song made by grave Skylark.

Who in joyous play—should cause collapse—
        towards serene, augmented lapse.
Lapse of falling, of where gentle screams—
        of every child that's ever been,

Who stroke themselves against empty glass—
        and where visions pray upon the grasp,
Of wind—Of blinding—Of melody—
        to hold faint—Immortality.


II.

This shall be where morning seeks—
        no longer calming of beauty's cheek.
Instead to lash with vain and hostile mount—
        crimson over dashed and harsh doubt.

Until image engraved by forgiving rite—
        speaking neglect of fiend or fiendish blight.
In-versed—coole angelic heart to passéd—
        passage beside Lilac's memory in mortal castéd.

In the unwashed Earth, where the unwashed play—
        'till they unfairly capture it from younglings— Away.
Lonesomeness of watchtowers in gossamer's breast—
        when airy words strangled from bless.
  
Reachéd by the hand—abide in fable—
        quiet tho—in fruitation, a single silver Maple.
Shyly envisioned inside salvation's solitude—
        where tenderness drowns tenderéd concludes.


III.

The sister was lovely—inside my sight—
        in our union—created Nature's first night.
Through our throats rendered fragile lullaby—
        which slaughtered silence and made soldiers cry.

Her bristles—exploit in darkness—I could not see—
        or merely recollect in memory.
A mouth moving inside of mine—
        creatures in mawkery of untouched divine.

Eyes whom beatéd harder than the breeze—
        to remind me—gently of the ease.
Of being caught in cognitive stance.
        which leaves surrender to in traditional, disciplined dance.

Upon the backs of universal forestry—
        and inside their stomachs to where we would meet.
Offended to death by requiem—
        made inside our faint dream's drum.


IV.

Where dreamer's would lash upon in endless screams—
        innumerable Rubies ruin'd before their first gleam.
Upon reflection in lover's loss—
        diminished to demise before their first gloss.

It is upon the fool's finest end—
        where lies his fantasy—condemned.
The jester who remains as undefeat—
        before death shall cause lackluster's retreat.

Unaware tho, in current mode—
        as body by body closely will hold.
And messages of Gold conspire in streaks—
        immersed—affection in mind eternally correlates oblique.

Ringing and humming throughout what laid—
        against blonde grass from Sin was made.
Refraction's cast that betrayed—to promise me—
        endless nights of haunting harmonies.


V.

Held tightly in grieving bourne—
        broken—in new blood is sworn.
Across the snow-cover'd Evergreens—
        where the temptress grave is left unseen.

Not upon her kiss—did darkness fall—
        alone—in shining pieces did crawl,
Against creator—and thus creator hence—
        bitter loving shrouded by bare defense.

As her finite skin had laid eternal flesh—
        of what laid inside Pine's parting mesh.
Holding and crying out for uncertainty—
       feelings moaned into sudden Mercenaries.

Morose and fledgling in their stand—
        spiritéd to Death's light misunderstand,
Of peerless eyes and broken brooks by the sea—
        casting ruined cloth over our Evergreens.


VI.

Unfurnished dawn may scour for length of furnished night—
        quick—until mirroréd ebbed ocean does wrong.
To consume the idles of Man's afraid mind—
        fairest—lest His idles struck into divine.

Exclaiméd none tho, in archaic lust—
        deceased—firmest in high robust.
Where pleasure finds comforted pause—
        inside arched-back in neglected cause.

Betray the shallow grimace flee—
        and ethereal composed by the breeze.
Lies delicate delusion before sorrow—
        that shall thieve away the Artist's morrow.

And in thievery is where the Angels lie—
        angelic beasts with unlawful guise,
In courts—castrated by the throat—
        hardened in assumption by blackened elope.

There are no more bad days.
There are moments
          of ingratitude
          of rage
          of self-pity
          of hatred.
Those do not last.
There are
          friends
          family
          caregivers
          kind strangers.
These are evergreens.
Bad moments need not
become bad days.
The song of life
plays on between them.

Walls of wind batter the house
Its that time oclock
Bullet rain keep all inside:
willing prisoners.
And all one can feel is cold
with a sense of not really taking part in life
just a waiting for better days,
everyone and everything your teacher;
you a pupil who knows nothing and
needs to learn a lot.
The Evergreens, how do they do it?
some special chemistry the alchemy
of which is beyond thinking about
and reasons? who knows.
Until you bring God into the equation all is futile
And means nothing and then
one has to admit one knows even less.
Good enough or should enough  are not valid questions
And no answers are forthcoming.
All is dead or dying except the Evergreens
who welcome the wind and bullet rain
as their brothers and sisters.