"flowerbed" poems
People only ever want to ask me about
the poetry -
those verses about
busted up noses in outer space;
about the pros working
way down passed
the corner of Broad and Main;
about fistfights and hard, hard drinking.
But I built a flowerbed this weekend...
Twenty two tastefully irregular stone blocks
in a crescent moon shape,
filled with the blackest of soils.
The sweat of toil.
The digging.
The planting.
Exotic grasses. Asian maybe?
Purple and yellow flowers.
Zinnias or some **** thing.
All covered in a thick blanket of brown mulch.
It's a fine thing to have dirt on your hands
instead of blood.
No one ever asks me about flowerbeds.
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 10:12 PM UTC
It was early morning when she descended the steps
to the porch side, teacup in hand, dressed in her nightgown.
Steam billowed from her cup, and with a swallow
she examined her garden of weeds and unexpected peonies.
It was early for blooming peonies; frost, like glass,
still settled on the lawn, reflecting sunrise light of tangerine.
The radiant glow of tangerine
cast amber trails across steps
covered in an icy coating of glass.
Between her fingers she tucked her nightgown
and gingerly treaded the garden of peonies
that melted the frost in one great flower swallow.
The barn swallow,
perched not far from the path of tangerine,
must have also taken notice of the peonies
as he took the first steps
to nest-building. She imagined that his lady bird, also in her nightgown,
would enjoy the flowerbed of glass
that he chose for their home. Sipping her glass
of tea, she admired the familiar swallow
lover as she folded into her nightgown
bouquets of peonies that glistened in the tangerine
sunlight. She took the steps
back to the house, recalling her own swallow’s peonies:
Peonies
placed in vases of glass,
peonies lining the porch steps,
peonies presented over morning tea. With a swallow,
she carefully, methodically lined the tangerine
trail with the peonies from her nightgown.
Her nightgown,
stained with the rouge petals of peonies,
dragged along the tangerine
terrace of glass,
blood red with the memory of her swallow
lover’s peony-petaled steps.
The steps to the house creaked beneath her nightgown.
The barn swallow, quieted by the rouge of the peonies,
shut his glass eyes to the skies of tangerine.
Feb 16, 2010
Feb 16, 2010 at 4:49 PM UTC
She sat by me, in her skirt, hand grenade green,
And an off-white blouse obscured by a jacket with dust in its seams,
Like leather, like elderly skin, like a crossword puzzle with half the letters filled in,
She sat by me and spilt her sentences and her tea:
She claimed her husband had been killed by a cabal of spiritualists,
Killed by a bull elephant in the streets of Nepal,
Killed by the seven plagues,
And never killed at all,
That he was once a number
Somehow both perfect and prime,
That he was Prime minister of the sea,
And independent of time,
That his bones were cracked marbles
Bought from a widow in Tennessee,
That his name continued to escape her,
But that he looked something like me,
Leaving I saw her wings drag her heavenward,
I saw her terrible wings,
As I stumbled and veered from concrete to tarmac
I heard the pavements start to sing:
“I was once a flowerbed,
My father was a field,
My mother was a source of light,
Before which all the people kneeled.”
Then lost in the eye of daytime and night,
Drawn to the moustache of a Spanish racketeer,
He was once abandoned by his books and his babies
In the boot of a broke-down cavalier,
His pasts and ideas caught up to him,
And gripped him by his belt and his teeth,
His pasts gripped him in quiet of his nightmares,
And slashed his arms in the street,
Visions shook me by the bleeding palm,
Her terrible wings now pinpricks for the moon,
Visions shook me as deities died,
With eyes like a card-trick and fingers like doom,
Then stuck in the endless space between words;
She sat by me, in her skirt, hand grenade green;
Stuck in the endless space between words;
And an off white blouse obscured by a jacket with dust in its seams...
Mar 11, 2018
Mar 11, 2018 at 9:11 PM UTC
I built a flowerbed last night to soften my landing
because I always seem to fall abruptly
My lover promised to catch me
He said Sunflowers are something to hold on to
So he puts his hands on my hips and
tightens his grip as I loosen my heart he feels me expanding
making room for all that he has to offer
Welcoming him in and welcoming him home
Cuz I've been away from my Sun for too long
You ever seen a sunflower grow without the light
It's possible but I always find myself growing in the direction of his warmth
He asks me how does it feel
cautious to make sure he's giving me enough
I tell him I want it all
because who doesn't want a love without measure
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 10:37 AM UTC
Trace the scars at her back.
You'll find a constellation.
Trace her tears when it streaks down her cheeks.
You'll find a lonely river.
Trace her hair strands.
You'll find an aromatic flowerbed.
Trace her fingertips.
You'll find hurricanes and tornadoes.
Trace her soul.
You'll find yourself.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 8:20 PM UTC
I am the void left by hope.
I am the frantic scrabble,
the gasp for a mirage.
I am the empty box,
the joke with no punchline.
I am the end of the road.
I am the face you thought you knew,
the parcel for someone else.
the missing last page.
I am the second,
after the second,
that you knew it was over.
I am the coup leader
shot at dawn
I am redundancy
bankruptcy, lonely
I am the king
with blood on my arms
From the nails
I am the logo on the trainers
on the heels
of the one in front
I am the vibrating molecules
Of the sound
Of the door closing
I am the dawning realisation
That you are not
as good as you thought you were.
I am disappointment.
I am the sun reflected
The gleam of polished brass
I am the lace of frost on leaves
I am the newborn laugh
The vibrant flowerbed
I am the happy child
chasing the rainbow
of a bubble on the breeze
I am more than the sum
of the gaps between dreams
I am the strength
In the arms
That hold you
I am the other side
where mysteries are plain
I am the miracle
the rank outsider,
the last to be picked,
who scored the winner,
I am fresh hope.
I am unwavering joy.
I am the rock.
I am.
And I choose you.
May 28, 2010
May 28, 2010 at 8:57 AM UTC
With Body pretzled up, skins converged to form
branches of rivers, mouth slack and frozen to
a permanent scowl of delirium and manners-gone,
as many swears dripped from those dry, cracked lips.
One of my mothers – gumshoed from the alley’s way of family.
“Get gumption, girlie, because everybody is full of ****
I remember that lullaby, “A tiny turned-up nose, two lips just like a rose. She sits upon my knee, she means to the world to me.”
I spy the scar on my pinky finger from her cigarette.
Could the King be witness in the Room?
Were those buttons of hollow wood over her eyelids?
Wrung of cries – we didn’t see that coming,
though we heard the flies.
And Age’s stumbling rattle through the hallway.
Do you know who I am?
Do you remember me?
Should the window washer come another day?
This stubborn sovereignty over what is reality – the root beneath the porch, the fog on the windshield.
Loosen the grip on this natural plane,
Please --
Woman of my Childhood, harvester of my manners.
Stand until the grown-ups sit.
Look away and bow your neck.
This was called the boxing match between Industry verses Inferiority.
Not child through birth – no –
but life spawned by those
strung-high fists.
There’s finality in this phone-call.
I heard it happened an hour ago.
Treading grievances and grimaces, picking through a flowerbed only to stroke the weeds.
Lifting boxes of Lead from reality to the Bridge of Dreams.
Frankly, I stole the gumption from your knotted mouth and
still cannot cry.
In a splinter of reason – I cast out the fundamental jibes of sacred hope.
That promise held between dog and owner during business hours.
Except there can be no homecoming.
The sickest liquor on the alleyway fence.
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 7:08 PM UTC
I am an umbrella, a rain jacket,
For the Cinderella, a stored away packet,
Till the day the skies sputter rain.
I am a tool box, a first aid kit lain
In a dark, webs-infested dusty corner,
Touching no light; seeing no cleaner.
The kitchen accident and toys’ breakdown
Are such welcome picnics to the town.
Could have been a willow, nor am I a pillow
To cry on in times of immense pains in kilo
And to hug out of a heart exploding joy.
But I am a bomb-shelter, a floating life buoy,
A tower of refuge in times of need;
A furrow-deserted land planted no seed,
Awaiting to be useful again in season,
Not Jesus, but bearing a crystal reason
To be also a rock in that weary land.
I am a handkerchief in a man’s hand;
Ironically stuffed useless in the back pocket,
To blow away flu mucus off the nosy socket,
Or wipe the intermittently rare solitary tears
That graces the dry eyes from heartbreak fears.
I am not a flowerbed; I am a mango tree;
Having no admirers save the monkeys, free
To shelter, mate, play and make all merry,
Spring has come with flowers and I draw very
Much attention; the promise of fruits abundance,
Needed, loved, and embraced in a scarce annual chance.
I am an audience for the sad breaking news;
The princess’s Eulogizer in dilemma to possible views,
I am a lawnmower in her abandoned backyard,
A joker of little importance in her game play card.
I am a muzzled ox treading the corn;
A mockery of treasure, glittering scorn,
In her darkest times, the cherished glow-worm;
An apologetic shelter in the times of storm.
Feb 13, 2012
Feb 13, 2012 at 2:59 AM UTC
~
*Strapped to the catapult
I sportively plan my escape
By listening to pictures
In stereo
Of the flight
Of a fitful fugitive
Who sculpted depressions in ice
Throughout the flowerbed
Where there is no true sunlight
Only its influence
And by inhaling this fragility
Onto glass
Lowering the thermostat
Like a guillotine
Until hypothermia
Took his oppressors
This coldness might well
Be everlasting
But then, so is the will to survive*
~
Aug 7, 2021
Aug 7, 2021 at 1:53 PM UTC
1.
The old lady sits on the garden bench, a fixture,
from the days so far, colonial times to be precise,
thickly painted green, coat after coat,that covers up age,
after the incessant lashing of copious monsoon rains,this evening
the bench has a secret gleam, as if it's age has been washed away for ever.
2.
Her hair, resplendent silver;the children playing on the sand bed
in the open space in front of her bench, stand wondering:
far removed from realities familiar,she seemed,"Is she real?"
The old lady plays with a child that ran to her and embraced,
curious to touch her hair, happily it springs on to her lap,
her starched Sari gets crumpled,to it'smother
the old lady softly says"Don't bother children need space,
freedom and care, love his smile, don't want to see it wither"
3.
She looks at the flowerbed and smiles to herself,
as if she remembered her own dreams a day too far.
The old garden bench, senses a magic,with a start it wakes up
from it's slumber and begins to prattle,"Yes, it's really her,
remember the passion filled kisses she exchanged with her sweetheart,
when darkness came stealthily,like a crafty lover out to rob hearts,
right here on my lap, at a time love was a scent wafting low in the air
Where has he gone? I now wonder,a lot of monsoon clouds
burst up on me limitless quantities of water,after that"
4.
A wind so strong, like the hands of time ruffled
the leaves of the giant banyan tree,that stood sentinel,
leaves started a cheerful dance, reminiscent of the play of life*
Perhaps the night the death waiting on the wings is little disappointed.
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 8:12 AM UTC
Arouse me from this winter slumber
For I've been too long in this wasteland
*I yearn to frolic in feathered meadows
with childish glee
Eden calling me to her garden
Intertwine your roots with mine
Bury seeds deep in my flowerbed
**** the nectar from my petals
Your rising sap mixing with the
Quiet lapping of my Spring flood
Chain your daisy to my buttercup
Sit quietly by my babbling brook
Swimming in the sunshine of my gaze
Accompanied by nothing
But a gentle fluttering of butterfly wings
And the sound of a serene awakening*
In an afternoon of
Spring delight
(C) Pixievic
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 10:12 PM UTC
One morning out cleaning drains and gutters around the house, doing manly things
Basically just messing about
Suddenly it hit me, yea! I had a moment of clarity
"There's still time y'know, Yea, there's still hope, you could still meet her/ find her
And she'll kiss you and suddenly your hair will start to grow again
And your eyes, they'll grow clearer and brighter
And the cherry trees they'll bloom again in your heart
Your whole world it'll be transformed....."
Then as I bent down to do something
Suddenly I jumped back with a start
Something had moved, just there, just then
Something had well...jumped out
Was it a mouse or worse still, a rat
I couldn't see anything,
As I looked closer though, suddenly there! well camouflaged
There was this big frog
Hell I thought, I hadn't seen a frog in years
Wasn't that strange, wasn't that a coincidence
I was just thinking those thoughts and suddenly this frog he jumps out
Maybe it was an omen
(Probably meant it was gonna rain),
But then I thought wasn't there a story once
Yea, The Frog Prince
A lovely princess kisses a frog and he turns into this beautiful handsome prince,
I wonder I thought, I wonder could there be such a thing as a Frog Princess
If I were to kiss you would you turn into a lovely beautiful Frog Princess,
So I bent down close to the frog and whispered
"Are you my little Frog Princess"
Suddenly the frog he takes off, starts hopping madly away from me
As if saying "Gotta get away quick from this feckin' ******
Don't go! Please don't go!! I shouted after him
Come back! Come back to me, you are my destiny!
Finally he hops into a flowerbed full of weeds and is lost forever
Alas! I thought to myself, Adieu, adieu, sweet sweet adieu
Obviously I thought, obviously he must have been a Frog Prince and not a Frog Princess.
Then I thought, y'know at my age and with my luck
And I called after him 'I would have settled for a Frog Prince!".
Jan 5, 2022
Jan 5, 2022 at 10:39 PM UTC
hyacinths and daffs in the flowerbed
those eager plantings of last summer's heat
they are the voices of our dearest dead
we have not asked just what the blossoms said
nor listened long to the black loamy beat
hyacinths and daffs in the flowerbed
have no regret nor signal any dread
their meaning is not evil it is sweet
they are the voices of our dearest dead
returning to us in the garden spread
in sudden colour in the light complete
hyacinths and daffs in the flowerbed
each shocking signal sent right to the head
and heart that with old sorrow is replete
these are the voices of our dearest dead
gone now but leaving us with souls full fed
since life refuses to accept defeat
hyacinths and daffs in the flowerbed
they are the voices of our dearest dead
Apr 4, 2010
Apr 4, 2010 at 1:58 PM UTC
When ever I touch the ground that’s hot
With the sole of my foot that’s bare,
I never fail to recall a time,
And the memories lingering there,
Of a day when I was just a boy,
Beneath equatorial skies,
And the tactic used to keep me indoors
While the missionaries rested their eyes.
My mother was sick with malaria
The curse of the tropic zone,
And while my dad was away on the hunt
Their station became our home.
And after lunch when the sky was hot
And the morning’s work was done
They took my shoes away from me
To keep me out of the sun.
The veranda air was still as a grave,
Not a sound to could be heard outside
Save the click-click-click from the beetles
And the grasshoppers jumping to hide.
Or the scratching scaly slither,
Of a snake on the flowerbed verge,
Or the distant cry of the crested crane,
These are the sounds that merge.
The sight of the distant Koru hills
Shimmering in the haze
Beyond the frangipani trees
Return once more to my gaze,
And the prickly spiky Crown of Thorns
That lined the garden ways,
These are the sights that ribbon back
From my early Kenyan days.
The smell of the room was a mixture
Of scents on the garden air,
And creosote coming up through the floor
From the pilings under there,
And paraffin from the pressure lamps
Which hissed as they gave us light.
With the hint of oil of pyrethrum
Sprayed round the eves at night.
The step to my door should I venture
At noon was as hot as a stove,
The soil on the paths and driveway
Would burn if ever I strove.
And the thorns in the earth would pr ick me
As I cautiously picked my way through
To the shade of the frangipani tree,
From there I took in the view.
So, when ever I touch the ground that’s hot
With the sole of my foot that’s bare,
I never fail to recall a time,
And the memory lingering there,
Of a day when I was just a boy,
Where the images I find,
Set smells and sights and sounds of
Africa sizzling in my mind.
Redding, California July 4th 2005 temperature 105° Fahrenheit
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 4:32 PM UTC
She vanished in the shadows
of a mid-March Sunday’s moon.
When I first heard the news
an orange leapt from its bough.
There were bees in the flowerbed.
Grass shattered under my feet;
the smell of soot and ash
clung lightly to the breeze;
her smile fell
from a Hong Kong orchid
off Market Street.
The news first came
dead-ended and one-way.
Eight years’ reflection on that day
have hoped it was a turn in life:
the harrowing left onto Texas
from Mulberry Drive –
the high-branch’s snap
in the old, ragged pine –
when I was lost
in an Irish poet’s mind.
Hearing her voice, years since passed,
among this phone’s old messages,
I hear myself the day I heard the news –
Christianity’s eternity
became eternally confused.
Her long, black-curtain-hair,
the books piled at her feet,
the way philosophy
rolled off of her physique…
All I hear now when I think of that day
is the frail rattle of
a noose’s sway: pebbles beneath the midnight train.
April 2012
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 8:01 AM UTC
....and in your gigantic presence
With your miniscule body
You are the mirror
Of the deepest stars
Past the spaces between
Spaces,
Into the mist
Your red tailed gaze
Into the echoes
Of Babylon's Gardens,
A grace in a dance
Of your broken life,
The glutton behind the father
Who took you,
The tumultuous perfume
Left with scars behind the drapes
The neighbors couldn't hear,
The sadness in your soul
Inside the woman who
Loves me,
Slender hopes under the lines
Of the dream's eyes,
Your ears never caught
The exhausted bitterness
That only heard an immense
Change in the future,
I am here woman,
As you bite your silver lips,
Arc your metallic spine,
And the bronze shine in your
Otherwise copper hair,
I become a Magnetar
In the metallics of your body,
Mighty embraces will kiss
The crystalline eyes
With lips on fire
And singing redemption's lullaby,
Together killing your past,
Your hands hold distant visions
That bloom living roses,
Who tears are of lost lilies
In an ebony pond,
A fertile present
Gives birth the momentous,
No one can change your past,
But you're a basacrifice
Void of alcoholic bliss,
The grapes before
Now dead forever
Is a sober feeling.
Magnolia of mine,
Like a flowerbed of omnipotent
Desires,
You bloom the ***
With a martyrs sacrifice,
Your hopeless days are gone
And I am grateful for
The circles under your eyes,
The vain of your existed
Pains,
Your heart transfixed by the
Newness of our love,
Though you still look at the old
Curtains,
The confused and turbid tumult
That bore it's hole
Into your ways,
I have come when you began
To love again the life
Over a darkness under the
Nights skin,
Tearing away the darkness,
A dawn song has spread
Over the horizon,
And your light is a melancholy
Of stars,
From your eyes grow
An ocean of time,
And here we float with hope
I can only Revere
That all the worst
Life gave to you,
A fleece of golden grace
And I can only be thankful
As your sorrow
Has birthed a certain kind
Of grace with the
Pieces left intact.
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 1:57 AM UTC
There is always a breeze here
and there’s a white gazebo
in the shade of the house
it is all as perfect
as it would appear
to Norman Rockwell
In the back, there’s a flowerbed
the names of the flowers, I don’t recall
and perhaps
never knew;
but the names on the headstones that sleep there
I’ve always known
and I will remember them
until my name is worked into a rock as well
Over here used to be
nothing,
but now there is
a taller than tall apple tree
as old as I am
and twice as wise
I come here sometimes when
life gets too congested and I
need to breathe
or sometimes just when
I have nothing else to do
but think and write about things
I don’t know
I sit back in the gazebo
pretending to admire the comforting cornfield’s endlessness
like the simple man I sometimes wish I was
I imagine I believe in God
or at least, Heaven
and pretend to feel them looking down at me
*I smile at myself
on their behalf*
I think about all the years
my grandpa spent building that house
and the stories he told me, my father,
about the kind of mother she was
and I think it would make them happy
to know that someone hasn’t forgotten
about the place that,
for some reason, I can’t quite figure out,
always has this breeze
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 12:19 PM UTC
I want to be the wildflower in your neat little flowerbed
But I am just another red rose
Apr 6, 2021
Apr 6, 2021 at 10:12 PM UTC
I want my book in a children's library
I want my book in a maximum security prison
I want my book resting on a cloud in a sky
to be seen by a passenger in an airplane
the passenger to crack the escape hatch and jump
survive the fall
I want my book to be a parachute
I want my book surrounded by tiny hands,
hearts,
and mouths,
saying I love you
I love me.
I will survive
I want a book that is a house
for the abandoned
I want a book that is a vacany sign
Rent me.
I want my book that is a headstone
I want a book that is a flowerbed
I want a book that is a matchstick
a Tire Iron
an oil tanker
I want a book that is a leatherman
in a hunters pocket
in the belly of a deer
in the zip ties and cellophane
of a childs Christmas present
I want a book that bleeds
I want a book held by tiny hands
with wide eyes
wider because of me
I want to destroy the innocence of children
by handing them courage and wisdom
I want to inspire revolution
I want sad eyes and clenched fists
I want skydive
wings grown during the fall
I want a nation run by answers
with blood stained sheets
I want a book that is every question
symbiotic book
single cell organism
splits in two hearts
I want a book that is a surgeon
saving lives,
holding scalpel
I want a book with hands up
no rubber gloves, just a gun to it's back
an engine running
I want a book that is a bank robbery
paper bag mask
on fire
Molotov cocktails
disguised as champagne bottles
Destined for VIP
I want the man who threw it
to be the only one burning
and well read
And *****
I want my book in his VIP
I want him to read it with a melted eye
I want my book in his prison cell
to be next to me
maximum security
my casket
I want a book resting
on a cloud in the sky
in a children's library
surrounded by tiny hands
Before I am gone.
Aug 15, 2017
Aug 15, 2017 at 1:49 AM UTC
Couldn’t sleep well last night,
Decided to ride to Aylesworth Forest
My favourite place
Two miles from my Barkshire home
I needed to be alone
what I wanted to do...
What I wanted to be...
In this peaceful and beautiful land
Of oak trees , flowers and wild plants
Perhaps by thinking deep under a tree
I may find the answers...
Brought my lunch, a picnic alone...
I met a team of gardeners on my way here
Cutting grass and old branches of trees
For a second I thought,
I would want to be gardener too...
Plant tulips and colorful flowers on a flowerbed
Its cool to stay outside all day and watch things grow...
Hey... I don’t need to be so clever at school too!
Here it is... my hiding place ... the forest
The chirping of the birds on the trees
Grey squirrels chasing one another and
Once I even saw a fox too...
But today I am alarmed to discover
This forest has been invaded by strangers
Braved myself I approached the men
Who claimed to be land surveyors
I am devastated now , upon this knowledge
My precious forest is to be turned into a concrete jungle
Trees will be cut down in two weeks time
Blocks of Flat houses will replace my oak trees and wild plants
I feel even depressed now..
This isn't fair!
Where will the animals go?
I lost my appetite for lunch
I must save this forest! I must do something!
This problem is even bigger than mine...
Slowly I turned and walked away...
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 5:32 AM UTC
there was a time
when you were something
for me to begin
like a space where our roots
could settle in
we grew around each other slowly
the buds of ourselves
blooming in the quietest way
many suns have warmed
our leaves since then
our petals lost their colour and scent
and i still blame the rain
for washing you out
so i don’t have to remember
that there was such a thing as
loving you too much
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 5:34 AM UTC
here we are,
i've found the center of the universe—
it is when you are beside me and suddenly
all the planets in their orbits are disrupted,
they run in circles the way my mind does
whenever you come around.
the trees dance and sway
to the rhythm of your hands,
for you are their favorite musician.
suddenly all the world's gardens bloom
in my heart, there is a flowerbed on which
you are invited to rest—
come here, be with me.
the sun's warmth transfers itself
into the adjacent stars below
your forehead
upon which the moon plants a kiss every night,
because it loves you so.
and the wild seas would never dare
to bring tears of salt into your eyes,
the darkest storms would never dare to steal your light,
and here i am,
looking at you,
peering at you curiously,
feeling as if
i could travel every corner of the world.
now, will you please continue to map
the way to you for me?
let me know, and i will follow.
Mar 20, 2018
Mar 20, 2018 at 11:07 AM UTC
They sell bundles of clothesline for $6.99.
That's how sad men play shirts from the tree
we named Alice after the ugly old lady
who waters her flowers in postmortem.
Or more likely denial, as water
and love and care and rich soil
is no way to conduct an autopsy.
She saw green when we saw dead.
Yet day after day we drove past her home,
pink paint peeling. White windows whining
and creaking for salvation from her songs.
Alice loved to sing to the floral corpses.
Alice wore pajamas just in case it was time for sleep.
The others called her hag, hippy, and witch.
The others would yell, but we only watched
from down the street or in the park, we watched.
And listened
to Alice
singing.
We sat on the tree named Alice
which hung bent in defeat, an ugliest sin
smoking spewing like milk from our lips
as we murmured along, mesmerized.
She sang low with her tapered watering can
cradled like an infant in her calloused hands
drowning the shrunken bundles of empty stems
just in case, she hoped, it wasn't time to sleep.
And after Alice played shirts
we heard song no more. Just city din.
The empty dead blew away,
the house bought and painted green.
The owners planted hedges in her flowerbed.
The secret irony,
a grand conceit,
was that to Alice
the hedges were brown
and the tree was evergreen.
Mar 9, 2012
Mar 9, 2012 at 2:34 PM UTC
Chopin's Nocturne opus 9, number 2
A sonorous performance,
The mellow yet melancholic undertones of the masterpiece reverbates through the meadow
From the reflective rubato streaking past the flowerbed,
To the passionate conclusion in a whim, echoing through the garden,
The garden in which a willow rests
Its twigs holding a chalice in its embroidering,
Twines glowing in the shimmering of the silver moon,
Its dark-red fluids seeping from the cracks
It gazes through the dark crevasses for an eternity,
A panorama of planets and stars dwindling to dust as it stirs its nebulas,
Clouding its view as in parallel,
Universes as large as needle tips deteriorate to nothing
There's just naught, nothing, nothingness,
The black mass piercing,
Puncturing the veins of the solemn soul wandering through the canyon
Rubato, stringendo, it walks its own pace and in its solitude
The moonlight its guide, the music its guardian
The darkness its friend
The walls enclosed - an impasse clad in an aural hue descending from the stars
An eternal mirror flowing accross the pond
It took a gander in the deep lagoon and saw the galaxy unfold
Sparkling candenzas fluttering through the sky like fireflies
Ever abiding, expanding galaxies within the grasp of its cortex
The moon flows, the stream flows
The sound of drizzling water emanating from the distance
Timeless endeavour snaps back to reality
I found myself sitting in a dim-lit room, glass in hand
The mellow taste of the blood-red wine
A bouquet of fine grapes with cherry undertones
In the corner rests the mirror I gaze in occasionally
Seconds pass and I gazed into an abyss
Minutes pass and I gazed into an abyss
A murky shadow lurking
Hours pass and I gazed into an abyss
A murky shadow along two red stars
Days pass and I gazed into an abyss
A silhouette hued in rubescence grimacing with hollow eyes
Weeks pass and I gazed into an abyss
T H E E Y E S W A T C H M E W H E R E V E R I G O
Months pass and I observed a whole new universe
As I looked at the crevice staring back at me
It smiled and reached its hand
Years pass and I gazed into an abyss
The opaque mass piercing my glassy veil as familiarity reminiscences
A supernova of grief and destruction strokes my back, pinching my neck
The willow is dead
The moon is red
A brittle chalice crusted with blood
Then it fell silent and yet the nocturne faintly lingered in my head
As I stared into the mirror for the first time in centuries
It stared back, bearing the most unnerving grimace
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 7:17 PM UTC
The exquisite taste of iron
Lingering enclosed
A sanguineous river
The bequest of mine adversary
A purple mottled blossom
Burgeoning forth
Flowerbed of
Battered frame
Extinguished flame
The corporeal battlefield
Ravaged
Iniquitous intentions
And dominating force
Unabated terror
Reigning forth
As with every new bloom
It claims new ground
A daring boldness
Possessed of strategy
With motives unsound
A brink battled raged
Body consumed
Lost shattered frayed
Within and closer
A planted cerebral seed
Rising forth malady
Nevermore unchanged
Though the body heals
The mind retains
Lasting casualties
Slivered charred remains
Dec 10, 2011
Dec 10, 2011 at 1:26 AM UTC