"forrest" poems
i miss you so much it hurts my whole body.
do you remember when we talked about going to seattle?
you said you liked the rain
and the fact that no one there would know you,
i just wanted to be wherever you were.
i was never afraid of the dark
when you talked about yours.
i still don't have words for what i felt
when you told me the only other number
you had saved in your phone apart from your mother's was mine.
i keep telling myself you're not allowed
to just exit and re-enter my life as you please,
but i leave the door unlocked,
so what does that make me?
the last "i love you" from the last time we spoke,
is still stuck to the roof of my mouth.
other lovers have tried to pry it out of me,
but the memory of you is like lockjaw.
i miss you so much it hurts my whole body.
do you remember the lizard you caught last summer?
you let me name him forrest.
if life is a box of chocolates,
there are pieces missing,
and whatever is left has gone stale.
i can't smoke cigarettes in my backyard anymore
without wondering where you are
or if you're smoking too.
i hope you're not drinking,
i know you hate what it does to you.
your secrets are still tucked between my ribs,
i will hold them safe and repeat them back to you
if you ever lose your way home.
i miss you so much it hurts my whole body.
do you remember when you told me
about the person you were afraid of becoming,
i said i wasn't scared,
and i told you i was proud of you?
i'm still proud of you.
i hope you're in school or at least keeping busy.
i hope you still make yourself laugh.
i miss you so much it hurts my whole body.
do you remember what movie we were watching
the night you got arrested?
i still can't finish it.
i am holding the place.
can we pick up where we left off?
can we stand up and wipe the dust off?
i never got to tell you why i only write in pen,
or why i can't sleep with socks on,
or about the day i caught god with his hands in a public fountain
fishing for change.
i'm not mad at you for disappearing, but i'm lonely.
the only reason i haven't called
is because i'm afraid of being sent straight to voicemail,
but if i ever find myself in indiana again,
you'll be the first to know.
- m.f.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 11:04 AM UTC
scarlet, vermillion, saffron, in air
samhain sacrifice for the coming night
brushstrokes 'cross limbs soon laid bare
arcane characters for the fair
symbols ward them till distant light
scarlet, vermillion, saffron, in air
offered to old gods in ritual prayer
last colors of autumn before winter's white
brushstrokes 'cross limbs soon laid bare
an iron will to survive, they do declare
a solemn pact and a sacred rite
scarlet, vermillion, saffron, in air
herald the end of summer's affair
golden head bowed to geimhreadh's might
brushstrokes 'cross limbs soon laid bare
still stand proud they do, with defiant glare
the trees of the forrest an enchanting sight
scarlet, vermillion, saffron, in air
brushstrokes 'cross limbs soon laid bare
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 10:31 AM UTC
Well morning came and it dressed the sky
in a lovely yellow gown.
Now the shops, they are all opening
in that narrow hallway of downtown;
filled with people who are shopping for
their lovers and their friends
so they won't ever be lonely again.
Well, a forrest bench becomes backyards,
like songs are born from sound.
And the apple fell and it taught us all
that we are chained here to the ground.
So here we go, but there ain't no escape.
Yeah, these streets are just dead ends
so I will never be happy again.
Well it seems you too see a painful blue
when you stare at the sky.
You could never understand
the motion of a hand waving you goodbye.
"Bye bye."
But as the story goes, or it is often told,
a new day will arise and all the dance halls
will be full of skeletons.
They are coming back to life and on a grassy hill.
The lion will lay down with the lamb
and I won't ever be lonely again.
But until that time I think had better find
some disbelief to suspend,
because I don't want to feel like this again.
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 1:59 AM UTC
Call me fox and I will call you Jaguar
I normally walk the paths
gawking at every creature I pass
squawking loudly, regurgitating my wisdom distastefully
I spoke like coyote
foolisly
I continued on my way, in hopes of a creature large and as fearsome
as fearsome as you
Jaguar
to strike respect and fear into my heart and my actions
so that my meaning would not be soiled by my uncomely behavior
as I stalked you for days on the forrest floor
looking, watching your muscles flow over your skeleton
in a magestically dangerous motion
You can feel me
in the place all creatures feel, sense, and connect
as one
there is unspoken understanding between you and I
oh powerful warrior
and I am to know my place
in the order
you are beautiful and fascinating to me
a worthy objective on my walk
you are a specimen of the wonder of the world
of the god-like integrity and compassion
that penetrates the soul
you leave the marrow intact within the bone
for me to treasure
for my mouth to salivate and consume in haste
but in awe of the judgement you pass
the power bestowed unto you without a single act of self rightousness
we sleep on the same earthen bed
we dream from the same deep sleep
we touch, our stories, our tales of survival
they reach one another intuitively
and so long as I mind my place
silence my ego
I will forever walk beside you, following in your gracious example
as we venture deep with in the forrests density
living vicariously beside one another
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 7:45 AM UTC
The Ashes of a million souls drift down to the Baranco Wall and Moorland.
Seventeen thousand feet is All
Deep and dead is the cap on Kilimanjaro.
If a tree falls in the Forrest. you will hear it on Kilimanjaro.
Haunting stones on Easter Island whisper in the dead of night
and speak to Kilimanjaro.
Pitcairn Island far and lost.
Fletcher Christians mournful ghost wails and screams as the Bounty burned
a light seen from The Kilimanjaro.
Supai City Arizona in the bowels of the gaping gorge
looks out to Kilimanjaro.
Oymyakon Siberia. Minus 93 degrees. chatter and freeze
akin to The Kilimanjaro
World ends in the stratosphere
Fight for breath face you fears.
Where minutes pass like plodding years
in grasp of Kilimanjaro.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 3:01 AM UTC
In contemporary belief.
A archer went to a shaman for relief.
A answer to ease fear of thoughts.
Finding his way home, the trail of war became too much.
He struggled with the regret of building a life away from what he knew.
When he came to the shaman.
The shaman hung his head low.
Smelling the stinch of blood.
Still he could not turn his back to the archer.
When posed with the young archers question.
He sat puzzled. Summering the long winded statement to "a great change must be made. Else all will fade."
Knowing of the young archers longing for a maiden.
The archer looked puzzled.
Yet the shaman spoke nothing else.
The young archer was called upon.
A war broke on the opposing side.
They needed his skill in fear that survival was utmost.
Without time to think the archer grabbed his bow. His arrows and darted quickly in the direction the war has taken place.
He quickly coiled arrow to bow. In repeated motion until none were left.
A field of arrows covered the small space.
War does something to a man.
A brief clarity after the slaughter of contemplation.
The shamans words dawned upon him like a snake.
He darted to the shamans place in great discoverly.
Finding that the shaman as well as his possessions were completely gone without trace.
He darted back to the field.
Searching through a forrest of arrow.
A heart wrenching feeling stuck on his face.
Guiding his way through the arrows he found a familar hand. Connected to a familar torso.
A face stuck in agonizing eternity.
The shamans words made more sense.
Backing away from the body.
Thinking deeply. Damning his hands.
The thing that came as habit.
He broke his bow in the reflection of his maiden's eyes.
This war gone astray inside of him
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 12:00 AM UTC
Rob me for ****
or rob me for smack
but oh ****** please don't rob me for crack
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 7:27 PM UTC
There is a bullet in a box of crayons with really strange names like Parkland Perrywinkle, Sandy Hook Sanguine, and Great Mills Green in a place where children play Russian Roulette with their school supplies when they reach in to grab one and they’ve been learning about probability this week Forrest Gump will tell them you never know if you’re going to finish the lesson or turn into a statistic my sister likes to create mosaics by putting a hairdryer to crayons melting cascades of wax down a blank page sometimes she reaches in and it’s the one lead crayon at the top of the page and it’s only one color that seeps down into the crevices of the cafeteria’s tile floor that proceeds to wash away the Proud Honor Roll Parent stickers washes away the Proud Honor Roll Parent stickers I see another child reach into the box and I write another word problem I write another word problem: “Zoey reaches into a box of crayons. What is the likelihood she will not get to hang her drawing up on her kitchen refrigerator? What is the likelihood her funeral photo will hang there instead?” Draw students’ attention to the key word “likelihood.” Tell students This word shows that the question is asking whether or not you will live to tell your parents how your day at school was. and I wonder when school desks will take the shape of caskets in a place where both screams of laughter and screams of terror
are permitted
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 1:02 PM UTC
sunrise
first optic pins toe-tipping play across the meadow
wind bends the forrest fringe west away
the trees adverse to receive
priestly daylight
after all the
business
completed
during a most
competitive and predatory
night
May 18, 2022
May 18, 2022 at 9:19 PM UTC
The cop asked me for my license to which
I replied what the hell is that.
Officer Tillman I belive i met your wife in a restroom
down at the laundrymat.
She didnt do ya justice.
Cause you arent all that ugly
but you are kinda fat.
No my last name isnt Knoxville but I
sure had some fun in Tennessee.
Met darlin that left a burnin feelin behind just for me.
My life is like a tweenty four hour cartoon.
A wreckless wonder.
If ya wanna ride along theres always room.
Gotta babydoll I often reffer to as Tinker.
She's my favorite semi insane funsize drinker.
Got a amigo or two.
Some fake ID's cause some people just happen to be looking
for me.
I thought you already knew.
Some people like to hate.
Clive. Forrest. Ian.
Dont be jelouse your still living togather in the same basement
no hope ever having none inflatable
date.
Iv'e taken some pretty hard licks.
Put my mind in a blender .
Now all im left with is becon bits.
Im the Jackass of poetry alone I hold the crown.
Some might call me a village idoit.
But I would say im most fun fella in town.
And if ya read this work and still cant see.
You can go to hell.
And thats one thing apon me my imaginary friends
and my little badass tinker agree.
Oct 18, 2009
Oct 18, 2009 at 11:55 AM UTC
you are an exquisite pain,
an acquired taste for tears.
to love you and to leave unscathed
is like running through the summer forrest
and trying not to be torn by the thistles.
my flesh split to pieces
yet there is more blood to give
and wolves are howling in the distance,
they won’t give up.
the agony, the ache
of the almost that is ‘us’.
to graze something so wonderful
but in the end, fall short.
to love you is to give you my all
and have you still ask for more.
to drain the light from my eyes,
chasing until vanished
and I am left here, in the dark
with no way out.
Aug 16, 2016
Aug 16, 2016 at 12:46 PM UTC
Ah here sits the stone on the ground
The shrub on the hill. A
Natural state of affairs if you will.
Retched Earth, abominable stone
Why the nerve of the rag tag tree
To perch ones self in stark relief
Blocking the skyline, space invader.
Thief.
Why the unmitigated gall.
Of the rain to fall on withered
Pate..
Tis the empty barrel that rumbles profusely.
The shallow stream that muddles at the bottom.
Pyramid craniums, issues forth babble.
Slackjawd mouth-breather.
Knee **** Buffoon.
Perched in perpetuity,howling
at the moon.
The my way or the Highwayman, astride a cocked horse.
The cant see the beauty of the Forrest for the treeman.
Bull headed, Ram goat Salty old ******
Failure to Communicate.
Rush to excommunicate
Monolythic seer
Cotton eyed joe
Constipated thinker.
Oh the comfort and surety
of riding in the ruts.
.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 12:13 PM UTC
Piercing through the outer skull,
Deeply into the brain, into the maiden thoughts of an unborn child,
You arrive at a magic place
Far past the feelings of this animal protected by it's mother.
Uncarved like dawn,
With its blueprints for a life it must live as other tell him to.
Past the deep rippled hills in his mind, into the forrest of feelings,
Filled with thoughts of happiness, with plenty of room for despair.
Purple trees and two green moons, creatures unknown to man.
The child kicks his mother, and the brain starts to tremble.
Trees fall down and start burning, it's starting to rain.
The child opens his eyes and starts to cry.
The mother looks at the baby and smiles.
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 9:48 AM UTC
"Gone to one’s Glory" so they say.
Where exactly is it that, if we’re all headed that way?
Let ’s ask around to see where and what people think Glory will be.
It might be one place for you and another for me.
Some people, view Glory as a place out beyond the blue, with pearly gates.
They imagine it will be like walking into a magical, nirvana escape.
"I am a restricted diabetic who must pass up the desserts that I like.
Glory for me would be a place like Food Network where I can indulge and delight, and never worry about an insulin spike"
"As an athlete who loves to train my body to the highest level of fitness
Glory for me would be a place of perpetual summer Olympics."
"I am an obese lady with a hundred pounds to lose.
Glory for me would be a place that receives all, even those as big as a caboose."
"As an amputee who lives with stumps
Glory for me would be a place where you get new legs, to run like Forrest Gump."
Winfrey, Bezos, Buffett, and Gates?
Have you discovered Glory here on earth?
"For me, an astronaut, who loves to travel in outer space
I would find Glory to be a place to encounter those outside of the human race."
Glory might not be as far away as some make it seem; we may be shocked!
Glory may be another town, another neighborhood or just around the block.
When ones we love go to their glory we moan and we grieve
But what if we’ve got it all wrong like most other things we believe?
Going to one’s Glory might just mean going on to achieving one's highest dreams
The ancestors described what they thought glory would be
Using their highest imaginations and creativity.
For us It may be imperative and the right time to change that old narrative
Glory might be one place for you and another place for me
In the meantime, in this life, let’s stay present, and be all that we can be.
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 9:15 PM UTC
She was independence
An importance
Born
Mostly from the highland
Her climate exceeds on the equator
Beauty beyond the Amazon Basin
Which no one can resist
A woman whom I loved
In the tropical rain forrest
Arousing so abundantly
Her sources superlative
But largely unexploited
An ethnic mixture
The vitality of her arts
Owes so much
The Samba we showcase
Thriving with crafty influence
Her language craving
To charm my heart
As time expired
A woman with cultural succession
Leaving her
But feeling breathless
My lady Brasilia
As I depart
From the lovely beaches
Of Rio de Janeiro
Her remembrance
Carving our Samba love
Jun 27, 2010
Jun 27, 2010 at 10:13 PM UTC
A pixie a nixie,
a fae all day,
To these I must say
oh me oh my, oh what am I
to do on this fine day,
this fine day in early may
with pixies in the air and nixies in the sea
the fae of the day, all around me.
Nov 10, 2020
Nov 10, 2020 at 6:21 PM UTC
Your fingertips planted trees on me.
You left a forrest
full of life.
But with no rain
there was no healthy leafs.
So the forrest crumbled.
And I cut the tress down
for I did not wish
to have a memory of you
on my body.
Yet, roots of the forrest
remained deep beneath my skin.
And I will now forever,
if I wish or not,
have memories of your fingerprints.
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 11:13 AM UTC
He is colder than the winter snow
But has the warm autumn smile
To glance at him is to be lost
In his mysterious dark eyes
He loves rain and finds solitude
Being alone in the forrest
Probably that's why he hates
How I make too much noise
His words makes so much scars
But his touch heals my darkest sides
Despite all that he does, all that he is,
If I have to describe him as a whole
—He is heartbreakingly beautiful
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 5:45 AM UTC
You were everything I needed at just the right time.
I was everything you wanted, at-- not the right time.
You told me there would be a time for us.
I asked you to mark it on my watch
but you said you couldn't do that.
You said you'd know, and that I didn't have to wait for you.
You said you'd be mine when the time's right,
when we're both okay and free of sadness.
Years later I'm sitting here staring at the blank pages of my notebook,
fiddling with the cap on my pen.
I stare into the forrest of blue lines on my paper,
trying to think of beautiful words to dedicate to this page.
Beautiful words.
Beautiful.
All that comes to mind is your name.
And I look at my watch.
I think it's broken.
*The truth is, you are the only one
who can break the chains this sadness has handcuffed to me.
If that's so,
I guess I won't ever be happy,
and I guess our time will never come.*
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC
The speckled puffer fish was a greedy scavenger
a greedy thing with no agenda but to grab the hook
I used to hate to touch them.Big black eyes staring
Huge gopher teeth bare and sharp.
I was Huck Fin Carribean
Bare foot and rural as heck
Dirt ring around my neck
The dusty roads
humid.
The sweltering heat and the river would meet us
in the mangrove Forrest as we walked the
Picado road to river's edge.
A cranky dory sat tied of
for our convenience with a paddle or two.
We pushed of and fought the tide
to get us safe to the other side.
Aunt Doris would stand with'
arm akimbo a cigarette burning
between index and middle
a tiny smile stayed put.
The Muttruce , as we named it
Flourished because no one would eat it
so the river teemed with catfish and puffy.
we did not eat catfish either some cultural bias. Lucky cat
but that bias died when the market for him found Belize.
Scary little blacked eyed buck toothed *******
Dont know if they are on someones menu now.
They seemed a bit scarce last time i fished.
high priced export on the orient express I guess.
Price of popularity is no privacy
eaten to extinction.
Head up , eyes open
mouth closed.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 10:57 PM UTC
~For Baby Beast
It started out,
With what it could have been,
What we could have done,
And what I could have said,
It may be too late now,
But better late than never.
I stand in the shower,
As if my mind was traveling through time,
Creating new puzzles and challenges,
That fulfill my nights.
What once was,
Will never once be again.
I stand and think,
As water drips down my neck,
I remember of those rides,
When it was raining outside,
And I looked through my window to the sound of Dejavu,
Just imagining what I could be.
Long cold thoughts,
For my body to feel relieved of the pain.
Long burning waterfalls,
For my body to never love again.
I once heard that we make our own luck,
At the time it sounded nice,
I tried saying it a couple of times,
But never came out the same,
Sometimes it was for help,
Sometimes it was for knowledge,
And sometimes it was the answer.
I walked in the shower,
Loud voices screaming to the sound of Lund,
I closed the doors and the storm started,
The ceiling was the cloud,
The shower was the rain,
My fears turned into acid,
As my tears turned into steam.
I remember feeling my stomach crumble,
My hands shaking,
Eyes sweating,
I hit the door the first time,
The second, she came into my mind,
It felt so real, so real that I could hear her laugh,
Begging me to hit her,
But crying for me to help her,
How could I hit such a beautiful being?
I want my voices to be heard,
Want my screams to be considered,
Want my sweat to be seen,
And want my poetry to be read.
Sometimes I swallow my own nothing,
Feel the emptiness bouncing,
Feel the guard calling,
I created my own little world,
For those who fear,
To escape and explore,
The beauty of my mind,
I see, a clearer world,
With no belongings and no money,
Simply a pen and paper,
A world with no rulers,
A world in which you feel,
The same old sad stories,
But with a happy ending,
With the dead walking freely,
And their causes flying swiftly,
With a pretty bird by my side,
And a bright blue sky that cries.
As I walk through the main forrest, I see a very tall hill,
And so I walk and climb,
For him to be satisfied.
As I approach the top,
I hear a familiar voice,
That sounds like the one,
But screams like the two.
My mind is now back to the lab,
Where thoughts come and go,
Water keeps dripping,
And tears keep sounding fake,
This so called shower,
The one in which I sigh,
For my life to become so high,
That no shall be capable to buy.
I now stand, one thousand feet in the air,
Yet still hear Broken being sung,
I once again, open my eyes,
And check the time for answers,
Dry myself and walk,
As now I face a detective,
“Why the long showers, my dear?”
Well, that’s where my mind finds peace.
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 8:55 PM UTC
Rain in Michigan is unlike any other
Yesterday, I had a conversation; Michigan was the best state out of all.
rain here falls lightly on the fresh green grass.
Soft sounds of the rain fall deliberately plopping against a clear glass window; waking up is glorious.
Michigan's lakes and rivers litter the state.
Rushing fresh cool Forrest blue water through thick Woods or beside back dirt roads.
Michigan smells clean and pure.
Drifting pungently consuming passengers to roll car windows all the way down and take a heavy breath, in.
Michigan rain lights even dreary days
As a partner or an old friend saying hello Pouring memories refreshing the earth.
Michigan was brought up in a conversation I had while going to a wedding,
Michigan was brought up when wecomed home after being absent for a year.
Michigan has brought me up
As I have watched it grow
Rainy or clear.
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 11:47 PM UTC
Your hands were your first language
and all formalities and expectations aside
I want you to whisper into my skin
spell words into my flesh
just like I spelled my name over and over
inside my chest when I first learned
how to make letters out of my fingers
at summer camp in 5th grade
last night you reminded me of that week
more than I'll ever tell you
you are running through thick forrest
you are sunlight through the trees
you are blue skies
and you are also thunderstorms
I have seen both in your eyes
don't ever be afraid to rain
I wanted to tell you
Both storms were on a Wednesday night
the water never touched me either time
yet seemed to soak my soul
arms around my knees
whispered words
I think you were too upset to notice
that you reverted back to the voice that projects from your fingers
sometimes I forget English is your second language
you speak it so eloquently
hands
around your face
as if speaking in perfect verse
fluttering
"what are you saying"
fluttering
"you're so pretty"
"you're so pretty"
"you're so pretty"
you whispered
"pretty"
"pretty"
"pretty"
I repeated
using nothing
but my hands
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 7:38 PM UTC
The madness of money,
exploiting the human mind.
Never enough money,
never enough time.
The disasters of our time,
the result of natures resistance.
Rebelling against mankind,
Mother Nature can be persistent.
And while we watch the tide,
slowly go and rise,
we must remember, it won't be long,
till we are all gone.
Tornados and hurricanes,
wind whipping cyclones.
Heat waves and solar storms,
disrupting cell phones.
Landslides and flooding,
from torrential downpours.
Forrest fires and blackouts,
from ruthless lightening storms.
Some may say the sky is broken,
some may say the sky is crying.
This is natures rebellion,
Mother Nature is dying.
But our motive right now is money,
and nothing will stop our addiction.
We will pollute this world till the skies are black,
and when we do, there's no turning back.
Let the gaping hole in the ozone layer,
grow until it's big enough,
to burn our Earth down to the core,
till we are ashes, nothing more.
Mother Nature has sent her warnings,
Mother Nature, wish us goodbye.
Mother Nature will slowly die,
and nothing she does can change our minds...
We will destroy ourselves for money,
we will commit,
without knowing,
our own suicide.
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 11:41 PM UTC