"forested" poems
One brisk spring afternoon, a boy found himself adventuring down a local forested path. The sun beamed down through the trees, creating golden stips of light that fought their way through the newly grown greenery. The crunch of the earth beneath his feet could be heard from a distance as unimportant thoughts drifted through his mind.
He paused and set himself down on a large rock by a bubbling stream. The water created an ambiance that made a rush of calm flow over his mind. His eyes drifted around a bit, taking in his surroundings when suddenly a butterfly flittered down and flew around his face. A smile spread wide across his features as he lifted up his hand to try to catch it.
The butterfly grazed his hand, but then flew away as fast as it could, as it was afraid of the boy. He frowned in disappointment, wanting nothing more than the butterfly itself to flutter down onto his hand so he could admire it once more; But he was left in despair.
Two more butterflies of the same pattern found themselves drifting along the face of the boy, and he tried to catch them as well, for maybe they would fill in the gap that the first had left. He caught them both, but only briefly, as all butterflies were beautiful, but fleeting.
The boy tilted his head in disappointment, and sat there alone for some time, an array of butterflies coming and going, none of them filling the void left by the first.
Suddenly, a pure white moth came into view.
The boy scowled, unsure of what to make of the moth as it was nothing like the other butterflies that he had encountered before. The moth flittered around his face, and he raised his hands slightly, prepared to swipe the creature away.
The moth found itself landing softly on the nose of the boy, its fuzzy little wings tickling his skin upon contact.
He couldn’t help but smile, but felt a little uneasy, as he was only used to butterflies.
The boy lifted the moth gently from his nose, and perched it on a nearby branch. It’s little wings lifted its body from the perch, and tried to fly back toward the boy, but he gently shood the creature away. Finally, it gave up and landed itself back onto the branch in which the boy had placed it. There the moth stayed, watching the boy chase butterflies endlessly until he could chase no more.
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 10:08 PM UTC
driving south
to see trees in bloom
after a night of sleeping in the snow
& letting the hail beat up your face,
i can imagine is like
seeing color for the first time.
i am the new wick of a candle--
turned on by spring sun,
hot,
the light shows the beauty in strangers
like red-haired, shirtless Steven
whose eyes graced me with
the radiance of sunlit olive,
a shade i have never dreamed before:
gold & green globs twist in circles
in his irises, like magic
no wonder warm blood of new loves
is harvested in this season.
at the pink rock on the parkway,
i saw a collared corgi get lost,
enamored with strangers.
cannabis clouds coagulate
the air to power young hikers.
i spy front seat fever
in the car next to mine,
heads disappear
into the laps of their lovers.
for me, it is these woods,
the nurturing ways of the willows,
the numbing wind of unspoiled silence
by the glasshouse over the lake.
the bloom of new cycles
in the ancient--
what was always there,
like lovers that are always within,
part of you.
dogwoods crack open
to let us come together in a forested space
where all trails lead to treehouses.
this is my spring love,
this is bliss.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
Amazon tribes looked through forested twine
to catch me with sharp sea creature needles
streaming through air currents to soak into my behind
and they brought me back to be one of their people
gold leopard spreads paw fingers to scratch the earth
and green twisted vine latches rock to wood
I have danced with fish among the surf
in mountainous shadows have I stood
weather so damp you breathe inside out
feet have become greedy eyes drinking the ground
salty skin seems to constantly pout
I am technically captive but feeling unwound.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 10:28 PM UTC
meadows that stays so green at spring
and so bared in autumn
magically white in winter
scorching and gold in the air of summers
perennial.
how do they do that?
to stay the same on the foundation
yet ever-changing on the surface.
what difference does it make really?
what kinds?
of the surcoats of hazel and acorns
or the blankets of snow on the slender branches
of trees?
don't they, even once
feel weary of all the undercurrents,
of shifting shapes of shadows?
and stand their ground
and shouted their demands
and push at intractable walls?
and flop down
and sift like flour
and grate like mozzarella?
to toss the gauntlet
say
'enough!'
doesn't anyone ever muses then
of whether the slideshows of nature
being flagrantly displayed and paraded
before their soon indifferent eyes
would feel of their performance.
but oh,
those poor meadows,
those poor meadows,
those pitiable meadows.
continue with your acts and scenes
that shall never pauses nor halt
oh no, no.
for you are impressive actors
on the forested stage
and the eyes, belligerent
yes, they are
will be watching the other way
never straight to your eyes
your artic, chilled
encasing a turbulent, melting, whirling
hot caramel core
yeap, right there on your irises and pupils.
so go on
go on
my delectable
my neglected
my pushover
my poor meadows.
Mar 5, 2010
Mar 5, 2010 at 10:53 AM UTC
scorning sun bursts into the aisles of graying curly waves,
punching yellow teeth and candied sweets with the
green of loving laughter that i've not heard in years.
you taught our fingers to bleed of bramble dew.
so sticky in our attempts to keep Genevieve's crystal filled but,
clear of improper pounds. collected ounces that rudely
overflow, are picked with mudded, forested feet.
consumed so clean and sweet, from thorns
between the brush, the aisles buzzed of summers paths
that only lead us where we knew.
through the scales and passed the cords
where drying life would heat our warmth,
nights would drop with echoing sounds like trains
slowly passing through our country's vacant crossing.
you voluminous sap of unaccounted ooze.
you sweet maple so never barren or dull.
you flame of northern light.
take me back to the path we passed
where cords are dried to burn
where frogs croak in Côté's creek
where my memories live and yearn
Mar 30, 2017
Mar 30, 2017 at 4:12 AM UTC
Autumn was an old Viennese street held up in sacrifice to the sky,
With burnt-song offerings that still see through the clouds, as they see through you.
His was cobbler craft of reed-winded flame for the foot in tune,
Amid the outsnuffed shopkeepers’ lights and the candlesmoke of midnight hours,
Pulsing above the inner heart of the Ringstrasse
Of brass signs and paving stones, misted and mute.
His was the candelabra of wick-notes
Wanded through the windowed rooms of forested night.
His were those woods filled with doorways, bookcases, and stairs
And everything dim and warm with people, no longer there.
*********
The winter sunlight played across the keyboard of crypted windows,
And in the muted under-roofs of ice and snow,
On one window, like a hand in whole rest,
The caramelized glass swallowed the flame-image of the stray redbird
And the black carriage wheels that passed.
In the long hallway of the Viennese flat,
One candle remained lit in the mouth of song.
Jun 20, 2019
Jun 20, 2019 at 6:43 PM UTC
I feel the cold bites, mittened children yell
they’re sewing sky flowers as they run with yellow or red kites
ocean makes that great space with tides that linger over the rocks
we fashion nothing like the clouds and feel small
As storms build up I walk a coastal trail
where ashes of an old beach fire left roasted pinecones littered
an Osprey flies up above the shore’s edge
and as I read your book, I feel the restless melody in your poems
Tides flap and slop against sand the color of worn concrete
ocean’s spoiled lives permeate everything, my skin tastes sea salt gargle
gulls and passersby all watch the waves moving towards us
I’m lingering here for too long and return to my car
clicking heels behind me in the parking lot
the castanets of other lives with their importance
arouse such unpleasant thoughts, I walk back down to the beach
hurrying until I no longer hear their rhythm
But now the fog rolls in and the ground is covered with wings
all the doors are locked when the sky drops down like this
thunder knocks in the distance saying ‘“celebrate!”
its echoes wake the clouds, rain gives an answer with applause
on the threshold of storm I turn away from the ocean and look east
a forested mountainside crowded with fading painted houses abandoned
a single car on the road with headlights, we have hundreds of days of rain here
in other words, most people forget anything but rainy weather
the chill from Alaska reaches down only in gusts but snow is distant
This Sunday when Netarts bay is full of kayaks and fishing boats
Oceanside’s patch of beach is strewn with sea grass, people with their dogs
walk amongst shed crab shells, a lone restaurant opens selling coffee and pies
none of the people in rain slickers and hoodies move off as the rain falls
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 12:31 AM UTC
I'm an artist
My canvas is my life
I'll make everything beautiful
Through even the pain and strife.
Because isn't it the worst of times
That we look back and see
The vibrant colors, stories to tell
Painting our lives brightly?
Reds of passion
Blues for pain
Yellows on the nice days
Keeping out the rain.
My favorite days are purple
Or perhaps maybe green
Days full of mystery
Or in a forested ravine.
But whether days are good or bad,
Black, green, blue or even plaid,
After all is said and done
My life will be an amazing one!
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 11:53 AM UTC
You who have never known the loveliness of love,
Gather your heads on the torn pillow’s edge of mud,
Under the wood-tar shadows of camphor-aided sleep,
Where your low-flung groans are starvations of sound,
And the amputated clouds, insinuated with gangrene
And blood-stained woods, are still bound to the shooting
Stars that fell beside you and flung up hissing rays of grass.
Parents of the midnight sky, the stolen stars of your children
Open their broken mouths to the battlefield heart of trespass.
To their soldiers’ eyes, the floor of heaven is uncut grass,
Wet with rain and mold and the unlifted wings of Pegasus,
Whose unearthly hoof to unearthly earth scuffs the clod
Of the lunette for the cannons to divulge the great, stuttering
Coda of everything old, malformed of breath and bone.
Some grass somewhere will now seem the hair of a sweetheart,
And those dead eyes will aways stare, too fond of love unknown.
So the dead soldier and grass and sky conspire to hold a woman,
So the soldier makes the truce between earth and sky,
Between man and the divine, though the chestnut trees
In red human tongues, pay their deep-forested encomium to distance,
In misspilled gorgeousness like Apollo surveying his own tomb.
Jul 30, 2019
Jul 30, 2019 at 2:38 PM UTC
Perilous mornings lighting what was once a night devoid of light
as the Sun whispers to us secrets of warmth
Sunlight trickling amazement ‘cross the horizon as it is of striking blue.
You and I could walk the earth as it is painted in sunshine.
Like water on a rainy day, replenished and unsightly beautiful in mystic drip-drops.
Hand-in-hand, connected for these pines to see
with me
Lost loosely in the trees, lingering forever with you.
seasons come and seasons go
to and fro with the snow
where the other is not.
i lie sleeping on this cot.
The feat of your words undeniably strikes me off my own feet, smiling all the while:
Glimmering
&
Glistening
Glares
You,
My
Eternal
Snow-drop
“just close your eyes”
and see the sunrise
i will leave you to surmise
What divinities of love are shown to me in the eternal glory of this -- a full moon.
Love is a hike, and I like your path.
mountains that crown the continent.
camped in a forested palace
many the paths to take,
with you, though,
i shall not be lost.
for it is with you,
that I am only truly found.
The light shines back to us,
the reflections
of smiles aplenty
and laughter
on and of the water.
Nothing is normal and everything is strange.
in this moment,
in travelin’ cross this land,
in the shining sunlight,
what are we to forever share?
Grow and go unto this world
where you are free to see all there is to see
and be.
Jan 11, 2012
Jan 11, 2012 at 10:29 PM UTC
Kozarev, you are like a summer's day:
Bright and brilliant; exotic and vibrant.
Smart and gallant; generous and elegant.
Our story is flickering like these smooth bushes
of May; ah, but why I saw thee not today,
I knew not why.
How could I dream of thee not?
Ah, my dreams are bad.
Nature hath probably cursed whom;
whenever they enter into my mind at night.
I hate their promises, and their tongues-
they are forever and ever slandering
my faith-by chanting about thy presence,
their mouths are fraught with lies;
leaning to me like those filthy, ungodly,
savagery; if I was to catch thee not-
why should have they insisted so?
I am jealous of those hidden faces, unknown
Behind thy walls, impatient to grasp thee
with a bite of lustful words, swearing at
thy benevolence, for I canst be more so,
and more generous than thou hath thought.
My blood boileth with sickly temperaments-
whenever I am bound to one thinking
Of thy prudence, and tactfulness
Towards the glamor of insipid dames.
My soul becomes problematic, and forested
in severed distraction and dismay
by averted lips of choking and gasping all day!
Ah, yes, suffrage shall be beneath my eyes,
until no more breath is perhaps to remain,
and only wreaths of crossness
Frantically treading about the paths
of my gouty lungs; wreaking away bit by bit
their brevity, washing off every virulent trace
of devotional identity, and gravity.
This is harassing me-the knowledge of
being unable to see thee once more,
this evening, perhaps-
and I am twisting and glaring at
these painful thoughts like a dream.
And you, you are-as the butterflies start to file
Out of their realms and into our world
You are just like their epic poems;
fruitful and delicious indeed-
but humble as those thorns,
smiling at the sun though wounded;
and laughing by the smallest of whose delight.
Kozarev, you are my man; and as you dance along
the gravel paths by handsome moonlight,
you are even more glittering than which;
and with thy stateliness
You will but own my heart once more,
lifting it up from every dim deprecation
and fruitless laudation it hath hitherto ventured into.
And I love thee and might just love thee more every day;
more than every promise my poems can say,
I adore thee and cannot live without thee
Swift and marvelous is my love,
blessed and ingenious as it shall ever be.
I love thee, Kozarev.
Obicham te.
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 7:41 AM UTC
An elk ran through the open field of snow,
She tired of lending time to shade
And yearned for the heat of a seductive glistening clearing,
To glide above the sparkling diamond sheets,
To cut through the crisp winter air.
Her cautions lingered in shade,
Too quiet for deserving notice,
As no mountain lion or wolf could take down this great best
Regardless, all the forested animals, large and small, watched this elk
Defy whatever instincts or rules nature upheld against the open.
As the elk reached full pace,
Her strides were so long but one thing stopped her
From taking flight was the powdered ground below,
She defied the familiar surface mid-step and began to climb,
But the sky and valley boomed with revolt,
Echoing thunder without lightning,
And the great elk collapsed to the cold snow below
With a ****** hole in her tender side,
Coated in specks of stinging white crystals.
In the elk’s last moments,
She noticed 3 men appear from the trees
Behind her foggy breath,
Boomsticks slung over their shoulders,
But without hate or anger or malice for the hunting men of sport,
The elk died, comfortable that air,
Floating above all she knew, embraced her.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 9:20 PM UTC
This simple dance
revolves around itself
repeating intricate figures
until its inevitable end.
And then?
A riddle wrapped
in the loose skin of the night
beckons to us all
the certainty of death
leaves us wondering
while stumbling along this frosted
winter shore.
A thousand times
a thousand ships
have sailed daily
and sent nary a missive home.
The signal fires are burning
on forested headlands
here along this rugged coast.
Dark and solemn capes
gather the pelting rain
into their skirts.
The signaling smoke
from fir-fed fires
wraps itself in salt spray
serves as a beacon for the lost
a message to the departed.
Yet not a word
not a message in a bottle
from those who have set forth.
180 degrees of the compass
and not a sail.
The sea splendid and empty.
If no news is good news,
then bliss is our birthright.
If no news is something else
again,
then simple silence
will be our wage.
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 10:04 PM UTC
Canoeing
written March 7th, 2021
I have spent the last few days
canoeing the Mackenzie River
making the journey in a book
with maps and words.
As I read it takes me back
to canoeing in my youth
the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness
along the northern border of Minnesota.
I can feel the paddle
pulling through the water
and hear the loons
crying at night.
The land around me
almost untouched since
Huron, Chippewa, Cree
Dakota and Ojibwa eyes
were the only ones
that had ever seen it.
Now I travel in thought and memory
the clear cold waters of the lakes
the portages through forested hills
taking me from one gem
of a lake and a memory
to the next.
Mar 7, 2021
Mar 7, 2021 at 7:38 PM UTC
Mountain air as sweet as wine,
Stone layers forested in pine;
These are another's words, not mine,
And it is she that they indeed define.
She basks in a light that's all her own,
From newly paved streets to ones of cobblestone;
From her blackest of nights to glorious days,
Halos of holiness blanket her mazes.
For those who love her, she does treasures unveil,
And if you will hear it, she'll tell you her tale:
How she fought for her children, tooth and nail,
So that she could newcomers hail.
You'll hear it in her winds' faint sighs,
Her buses' roar, her peddlers' cries:
How long she's suffered through the false claims and lies
Of the ones afraid to see her rise.
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 12:48 PM UTC
When the King came down to the counting house and found all his money had gone
he ranted on as only Kings can in the Kingly way
for a year and a day,
which was surprising but only in that it reminded me of the pea green boat and the ***** cat
the loss of his dosh had nothing whatsoever to do with that.
The King was now potless
not a penny to spare
he couldn't sell knighthoods or forested woods,
he was as they say,'boracic lint'
skint
a pauper.
His Daughter,
the lady Jamille
cried a lot
for now she'd to deal with the peasantry and pleasantly so,
she had to learn how to grow,
cabbages,turnips and broad beans it seems she did well enough to feed the family with vegetables
she could stuff tomatoes with mince because quince was 'orf' the menu
she made ragout and that was a mess,spilled it all down her best lavender dress and she cried a lot more.
Being poor was not good and being knightless and single was worse,she was sure she'd been cursed by some well versed old witch who was concocting a spell to leave her quite naked,not even a stitch to her name,
I did mention her name was Jamille?
yes
Jamille learnt to steal and to lie and to cheat
a normal occupation
if you have to stand on your own two feet (in shoes which she stole)
She got caught in the end and in the courts of the justice was ordered to mend her ways.
The old King was ashamed but could hardly be blamed for this circumstance which caused him such grief
it was down to the thief who stole all of his money and the same thief pretends now to be posh,
well he would do with all of that dosh
but we know different don't we.
Clothes may make the man as much as any amount of money can but
it does not make you a king and vice versa,
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 11:51 AM UTC
Retreat from the dancing Sun
Evading flaming streams of light
Shearing exposed trees, the Gatling gun
Fixed on the horizon fraying the Night
As it engulfs the lake in foreign shines
Simmering the boiling bodies of water
Emerging are the Sillhouettes, the divines
Created in constellations have brought Her
Shape-shifting the landscapes in its caress
Nature's networks entwined in silence
Glorify Her benevolence, Her enchanting dress
Illuminating celestial twilight discarding violence
Enshrouding earthly bodies with Her own star
Temperate tempests of the snow-forested land
Subdued in an eternal biome, isolated from afar
Suffering by the accord of God's arbitrary hand.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 5:38 PM UTC
Incendiary asperity:
The world's existentiality
Agony, the Merciless & Mercenary
Scourging me entirely.
The Angst of the Aeons
Are the pedigree, the genealogy, the history borne to emancipate Me as a Vessel of Sanctity
For the valiant souls
Are the souls of transcendence, who revere in remembrance
The Amour of the Yore
My Vestibule Heart
Expands, contracts, being consecrated demands just as
Starry-Wombed the Cosmos, we
Must grow, burgeon through our learning & yearning, deserving & pining for the Promise of Morrow
For we were not formed
To wallow in sorrow.
As I gaze to the heavens
O, ***** and Gomorrah I remember
The Wife of Lot looks back forever: emblazoned as a Petrified December,
Then Fire & Sulphur descended, mankind nearly ended;
What is the lesson?
Of faith we are descendants.
Why do you
Roil my ravaged and brutally savaged soul?
Must bitterness be the wage for days spent having prayed
On my knees, for armistice, by The Empyrean One’s decree?
Though I have fallen,
I shall rise up
For the Fate’s Auric Visage radiates light upon the leaven,
Dost ferment the flesh dominating mine spirit.
Hearkening to
The susurrus of the Sovereign of Songbird’s Sacrosanct Love.
Let the Ethereal Tides of Time
Bathe me in baptismal & divine tribulation, trial
For a writhing while,
Sacrality is a war,
The Primal Instinct’s Immemorial Diminuendo.
Where has fake paradise of the Sylvan Shine
Those forested, emerald Eyes
That glisten in mine dreams gone?
Your visage twas my divine.
Though I am forlorn,
The Cosmo-Plexus of Empyreal Love hath sworn
To the Days of Yore
That I shall soar once more.
To my Enfettered Soul,
Excelsior.
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 1:20 PM UTC
I want to hold you
And trap you in the sap of these pines
Because I know you would not run,
You find beauty in the ugliest of places.
I want to lock you in a cedar box
And leave you be until you beg my name
Because I know you like the smell,
You always were more with nature than I.
I want to hang you up in a great oak
For the whole world to see
Because I know you think you're wretched,
But you're beautiful to me.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 9:10 AM UTC
The carpet is stained with your beer.
You used to have the sharpest mouth
a tongue like a serpent's in slow motion
as it flicks, nay as it laps into the dark of my mouth.
Your lips felt like frozen lines of gasoline.
They tasted like the fires of the oil refinery.
I used to beg you to let me ride with you
through the forested paths lacing behind my house
on your mobylette we would fly down the gravel
like birds upon a cloud, with more bumping and rattling.
But birds aren't aroused by the turbulence of clouds.
I loved the feeling of my arms about your waist
holding you close as a reminder that if I let go
I would fall and when the day came that I let go
standing in the living room as you drank beer...
There was no where to fall but up.
Mar 16, 2012
Mar 16, 2012 at 8:35 PM UTC
I remember
for less than a blink of an eye
a majestic V of forested slope
Far below it
A tiny stream
blue from the sky
Two low roofs
a yellow patch of
sun drenched beach
My fingers rasping across the wood
in a desperate effort
and
then I stood alone
in a cold and rain swept night
A ticket
*Good, when validated, for
one trip to Verna*
Behind it a date, gone,
long since, the ticket void,
punched in a pattern
of tiny holes
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC
~for Robert C Howard, inspired by his “From Many, One”
I know nothing of poetry…
or ballet or symphonic works; a ******
a passerby, a glimpser of other’s artistry,
neither can I add, nor delete, just observe their
intersection, a triplication, and yet, a snowy
Saturday Sabbath is colored now by their story
a story of many, a symphony playing a concert
of harmony, the notes are grunts and shoutouts,
the high notes of squealing tires screeches, the bass
of growling heaving hearts, engines-beating revving,
music growing louder, to a crescendo of resounding success
sudden silence is the fiercest applause, a reverbing
mark, echoing in a forested heartland, quietly absorbed
into the scarred bark of the witnessing trees, adding a minute moment to their long playing recordings, approving an
endeavor of many unasked, self-tasked to help, many into one…
a merging of a singular memory
Jan 30, 2022
Jan 30, 2022 at 8:05 AM UTC
I'm looking down a forested path
Winter white
clings to the rich brown branches
And misty fog
hangs like heavy hope in the air
sun shines
seemingly brighter
than its typical summer rays
As it is reflected
in crystalline daggers
The atmosphere
is set for a jovial run to the end
But I only wish
that I was at that foggy gray expanse
between the trees
seemingly too tight together
farther on
I want to be there
Yet the trip is unimaginable
The snowy ground
sparkling in the sun impassible
Clinging snow
sure to weigh on my feet
Causing me to break
one more perfect surface of white
as my last act
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 4:52 PM UTC