"fruiting" poems
So much have I forgotten in ten years,
So much in ten brief years! I have forgot
What time the purple apples come to juice,
And what month brings the shy forget-me-not.
I have forgot the special, startling season
Of the pimento's flowering and fruiting;
What time of year the ground doves brown the fields
And fill the noonday with their curious fluting.
I have forgotten much, but still remember
The poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December.
I still recall the honey-fever grass,
But cannot recollect the high days when
We rooted them out of the ping-wing path
To stop the mad bees in the rabbit pen.
I often try to think in what sweet month
The languid painted ladies used to dapple
The yellow by-road mazing from the main,
Sweet with the golden threads of the rose-apple.
I have forgotten--strange--but quite remember
The poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December.
What weeks, what months, what time of the mild year
We cheated school to have our fling at tops?
What days our wine-thrilled bodies pulsed with joy
Feasting upon blackberries in the copse?
Oh some I know! I have embalmed the days,
Even the sacred moments when we played,
All innocent of passion, uncorrupt,
At noon and evening in the flame-heart's shade.
We were so happy, happy, I remember,
Beneath the poinsettia's red in warm December.
5k
Bring me wine, but wine which never grew
In the belly of the grape,
Or grew on vine whose tap-roots, reaching through
Under the Andes to the Cape,
Suffer no savor of the earth to scape.
Let its grapes the morn salute
From a nocturnal root,
Which feels the acrid juice
Of Styx and Erebus;
And turns the woe of Night,
By its own craft, to a more rich delight.
We buy ashes for bread;
We buy diluted wine;
Give me of the true,
Whose ample leaves and tendrils curled
Among the silver hills of heaven
Draw everlasting dew;
Wine of wine,
Blood of the world,
Form of forms, and mold of statures,
That I intoxicated,
And by the draught assimilated,
May float at pleasure through all natures;
The bird-language rightly spell,
And that which roses say so well.
Wine that is shed
Like the torrents of the sun
Up the horizon walls,
Or like the Atlantic streams, which run
When the South Sea calls.
Water and bread,
Food which needs no transmuting,
Rainbow-flowering, wisdom-fruiting,
Wine which is already man,
Food which teach and reason can.
Wine which Music is,
Music and wine are one,
That I, drinking this,
Shall hear far Chaos talk with me;
Kings unborn shall walk with me;
And the poor grass shall plot and plan
What it will do when it is man.
Quickened so, will I unlock
Every crypt of every rock.
I thank the joyful juice
For all I know;
Winds of remembering
Of the ancient being blow,
And seeming-solid walls of use
Open and flow.
Pour, Bacchus! the remembering wine;
Retrieve the loss of men and mine!
Vine for vine be antidote,
And the grape requite the lote!
Haste to cure the old despair,
Reason in Nature's lotus drenched,
The memory of ages quenched;
Give them again to shine;
A dazzling memory revive;
Refresh the faded tints,
Recut the aged prints,
And write my old adventures with the pen
Which on the first day drew,
Upon the tablets blue,
The dancing Pleiads and eternal men.
2.8k
Alice and I were fudged fruiting inside Falstaffian freakish fleur–de–lys:
She inside a quack–aztec–tattooed tank,
Me inside a pendulous magenta harness with polydactyl–perverted plumes bespattered into it.
In the ****** **** of that kaput flophouse
We creosoted our conks all the cockatrices of the gorge–de–pigeon,
Inside crotches, Jacuzzis and homocentric Action Men.
Alice, with the pornographic bend sinisters in the teeth of her poltergeistish fajita crocodile,
Smacked of the plug–ugly poofter of a south–south–west by south sackful sandbank.
I cemented the jaundiced dangler of an ostrich to my prick.
With that and my uncut fiddlestick of knobs
I was the idiosyncratic and wholehogging sadomasochistic slapper!
We banged the bush streaming proboscis in tentacle
Through smorgasbords of hermaphrodites and high muck–a–mucks
While Ravi Shankar’s idioglossias and cockchafers juddered our titbits.
Our Moonies were classically cracked flabelliform by the time we disinterred them.
Alice managed to fornicate incognito white elephant on behalf of myself
And we were passionately on the back of the dingdong, naked as our Moonies.
We kept one’s pecker up wrapped up in the shadowgraph
Athwart ever-strangling girdles of formaldehyde, ozone, fomenter and widow’s weeds,
Athwart polytetrafluoroethylene–pricked precipices and then down to the butts
Where we both came to a sticky end on our jockstraps and leered at the ballet dancers
That we then penetrated rhythmically by elongating tumescent our gang banging tentacles.
Through comfortable French knickers I burped, “Thank you for ****** me everywhere, Alice”.
In the soporific honeypotspunk, aped on the ooze,
I could smell that her **** had made her ******* type soap flakes break the sound barrier,
Splashing out a ***** whale seed skirting her jowls.
“You’re fragrant, flypaper”, she rapped.
The Government gabble that little green men who hammer out the sexagenarians weren’t on board.
Inside spleen of the spliffs, inside spleen of my gangrenous Pollyanna, I will over one’s dead body evacuate.
I will over one’s dead body evacuate.
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 4:09 PM UTC
--------------------
When red ran from the sand.
From the depths, rose a creature quite old.
Solemn and slow, not a care to be bold
It anchored itself, and gave no expression
The strength of its shell, shook in depressions
Tall extensions: its lifeblood, its protection.
Found scattered, on its shell, in cert’n sections.
The pride of Madagascar—the creature by name—
Are Rosewood and Ebony now mangled and maimed.
--------------------
When red ran from his hand.
Trees are felled, and the humans displace:
Lemurs are losing, they can’t find their space.
Hear the creature wail, its shell echoes with grief—
The sounds of its guests, find little relief.
For its pride is valued, and cut for a price
Hard decisions made—it is life’s device.
Wooden splinters bite back trading flesh to save flesh.
Living masses are caught in our culture’s great mesh.
---------------------
When red in hand and land.
Oceans to flood, new depths to behold
Our desires to fill, balk: “Don’t let them fold!”
She tires of our, meandering session;
Beating-out paths, to varied oppressions.
Laugh at the onslaught, of one great convection!
As humans propel, in that direction…
In all this, Gaia shrugs, naked-apes are to blame.
Fruiting, of hand and land, need-be one and the same!
---------------------
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 12:30 PM UTC
09/09/10 13.26
Just eaten the last of your figs x
End
There is just so much to know about the fig.
Andre Gidé, D.H.Lawrence,
Gabriela Mistral
Poets all
Have tried
To decode
Its secret enclosed form.
*Since nothing escapes
the smell becomes succulence and taste.
A blossom without beauty, yet a fruit of delights...*
A year ago
When I brought autumn to your table
I tried to explain
The fig’s ****** nature . . .
and failed.
I was too shy
And mumbled something about
Its gynaecological aspect.
Now I know you better
And your hand has cupped
My testicles
Can you not
Appreciate the similarity?
The size and shape is
. . . similar
It seems male
This secretive fruit
But when you come to know it better,
You’ll agree with Catullus,
It is female.
Oh fig, fruit of female mystery where everything happens invisible flowering and fertilization,and fruiting in the inwardsness of your you that eye will never see till its finished and you’re over-ripe and you burst to give up your ghost.
Yesterday
(After we had eaten figs
From the blue bowl
Bathing in the golden light
Of your September garden)
I felt that ripe and secret cleft
Open to my ***** touch
And kiss and kiss
Kiss and kiss
Touch me: it is softness of good satin, and when you open me, what an unexpected rose! Poets have not known the colour of night, nor the figs of Palestine. We are both the most ancient blue, a passionate blue, richly concentrating itself because of its ardor. I spill my pressed flowers into your hand. I create a deaf meadow for your pleasure. I shower you with the meadow's bouquet until covering your feet.
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 2:34 AM UTC
U for Unilateralis Cordyceps. The fungus enters an ant's body through its respiration. It invades it's brain and changes how it perceives smell, because ants do everything they do from their smell of pheromones, right? So this microscopic little fungal spore, then makes the ant climb up the stem of a plant and bite hard on a leaf, with an abnormal force. The fungus then kills the ant, and continues to grow, leaving the ant's exoskeleton intact. So, a small fungus drives an ant around as a vehicle, uses it as food and shelter and then as the ultimate monument to itself. And when the fungus is ready to reproduce, its fruiting bodies grow from the ant's head and rupture releasing the spores, letting the wind carry them to more unsuspecting food. There, our entire idea of free will down the bin.
One single small fungus spore does that to an ant. You have trillions of bacteria in your body. How do you know where you end, and where your environment begins.
We invent God, soul... heaven, afterlife...even life-imitating technology, all sorts of transcendence to cope with the idea of an absolute end. And then, we die for an idea that promises us some sort of immortality.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 4:00 AM UTC
LOVE
resonates
perpetuates
proliferates
aura embodies
reign cloud shines
I'll offer you my hand
A humbling breeze
Earthquakes shake the land
expand beneath the sand
waves rolling, sunshine
raw pure and unclear
dissolving fear
pouring light
fruiting delight
tears of nectar
sweet perfection
ormus affection
candlelight reflection sprouting seeds of our intention
laughter infection- spreading heading towards my heart
tickles as it parts ----- fleeting dogma counterparts
I believe in the moment. what it shows to me
mama earth writing poems to me, streams trees thrones to me
barefeet crush dry leaves, as fear flees these trees
teach so lovingly----- so humbling
Love Vibrations
love lifts altruist
light guides
inspired minds
so shine
restruct time
align oscillating vibes
fractal benign
loveshine
/
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 10:32 PM UTC
So likewise ye,
when ye shall have done
all those things which are commanded you,
say,
We are unprofitable servants:
we have done that which was our duty to do.
You, lazy little 'twerdnerd. Easy. Live. Take my truth,
let this mind be in you, it does the hard part for you.
Ai ai ai this guy, I tol' you, extol the road,
ride on, cowboy.
Let go. Re
laxation,
enemystic, plop. Plot to end
with a thousand swings
gnosis-not-burger 'n' fries
swung wide and low. Sweet cherry '63.
Once belonged to the gayest geometry teacher
ever, eh, in Kingman, Arizona.
Mr. Zubek, annual faculty advisor to Optimist Club,
Annual (also)Highschool Boys Speech Contest,
bi- annually, he traded in his Chevrolet.
-- voice of experience,
That triggered this then, not now
I saw a ****** lowrider, brand new, showroom floor,
yep, a certain mind set, kept with odd links,
missed opportunities to go the other way,
kicks the BTDT system of old ahas,
and ahs,
as once imagined…
not possible, pre dementia.
Wait for it, should you live so long,
it all runs together beautifully, to match
the beauty of the messenger's feet,
in your cultural awareness
of total unknowing- to eternity,
and beyond.
The Bill and Ted Trilogy, vs Left Behind.
So, crates of lemons have no thorns. See,
Lemon trees have big ol' thorns, but
lemon wreaths, all on a bough snipped,
thorns and all, to show those who never
picked a lemon, and won life's sweetest point.
Such wreaths are December treasures,
if you know where they grow 'em.
You can sell them, or give them away,
the beauty in the whole fruiting sprig goes along.
May 8, 2023
May 8, 2023 at 1:27 AM UTC
We wore it like a coat that layered empathy
Brick by mason, these eyes did climb an architect’s design
Upon the stony lip coupled forms hung in dangle
Preachers of a starving theory fall bemused to this lucid void
And how could one see this garden pays no pence?
This well has no depth…
We fraying threads fabricate the bramble veil
And every visible seam that clenches shut our noble jowls
So whisper in tongues, lore of the wellspring
Passed the murky mores and any other barren state
Heed illusion with a whim, this caustic dawn forebodes all but the looming slumber
Fishing shadows, the tailor and seamstress wake upon no sea
A puddle rather with the faint breath of a jungle bog
Oh how this hallowed lens did more than mirror a final inception
It shown anomalous to each shifting breed, the moonlit scene:
An opened mouth kiss between the Narcissus –with his idle god the self-worshiping samara tree
And the Gold mouth embodied by a single rank of the fruiting pear
This is our garden, wracked with faithful dichotomy.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 8:14 PM UTC
Unrestrained and restrained
Fruit of the ground
Beast of the field
Tooth and claw were it's weapons
He could tie a rock to a stick and
Sharpen it
The word **** hadn't been invented yet
Fire fell from heaven lapping up the true sacrifice
In my son Abel I am well pleased
Hate
The word ****** was burnt to the forehead of the first son
So all men will know he is cursed with first-blood
What an honor
Satisfied from the **** up
I remember it
First tounge of flames lapping from the pit
Lightning flashed and rain fell
Stone and fire-thunder swell
Father was born from the dust
And his breath always smelled of blood
He knew the secret paths
And told stories of nights spent in the ancient groves
He spoke often of the Old One -
And warned us of the speaking serpent
Mother walked in the garden
God-carved
A pine grown for the saw
A rib torn from the breast
She spoke the language of birds
More beautiful than sunset
Lush fruiting buds pour their scent
Trees of long white hanging moss
From the limb
The monkeys watched them
Touch
Lonely hill
Birds are silent
At his scream
Purity
Fist balled around the stone
Please don't!
Brain matter skull shatter
The earth is thirsty for blood
Pulled down from the high place
Am I my brother's keeper?
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 9:50 PM UTC
you touched your wrists
to mine
and a rash blossomed
across my skin
red and dry
ran across
indigo hills
fields of turned-over soil
in the night-time
to cool my
strangled sweat
to find a sink
a light in the kitchen.
im sorry, i promise
i'll buy a slice
i just need to use your sink, please.
fluorescent-white
heat
i put the water on the hottest setting
and i scrub and
scrub, and scrub
fast, and hard
i rinse the raw
i leave.
when I wake up
for all my scrubbing
the rippling rash, the buds
are still there
under my skin.
a lone fungal stalk
of crimson
a fruiting body
rises from my wrist.
this does not belong
here
like a broken bone
bending in the wrong direction
under the skin
like the voice on
the other end of the line
this is not real
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 11:27 PM UTC
We all are shown the oak in the acorn.
If , we wished to imagine time as a tree,
we may need to die,
as I comprehend
the process of mortality now active in me.
- but prior to my death.
Did we ever finish seeing trees
and any rooting thing,
really whole?
Below the surface of rhyme and song,
have we ever finished seeing the forest?
Chthonic intertwined mushroom goodness at the root,
breathing fruiting branches forming next in seeds,
orantic posed, uplifted branches,
asking daily bread and dew,
offering feed for men and birds,
and in my mind,
peace is overall a kind of comforting,
a kind of knowing recognitive
when sparked with mere
cast out words to wish with in time, windcast
as spore when puff ***** burst, or
as fire works, in the current
metaphor for knowing
exploding in all who
get
a feeling,
wait and see, as if
time lapse photography
my own grandmother lived to see.
Our children learn.
And I am not the last
to let that gleam seem magic,
that gleam I saw that one time, in my grandma's eye.
Jun 8, 2021
Jun 8, 2021 at 1:46 PM UTC
Well, that's it, my brain is now rotten.
Lost in its fungus are feelings, forgotten.
A spur may occur, on a scarce blue moon,
Of energy telling me I'm back in tune,
But really it's vacant and harsh little lies.
Synapses shooting a brain as it dies.
Misery fruiting on mould colonised
From grey matter, shattered behind fading eyes.
Now just a hollow man, left with no bang,
Merely a whimper with such little whim.
Watching as slowly the old me is lost
While filling the blanks with a bad pseudonym
And sealing them over with mushrooms and liquor,
Though quicker and quicker the struggle gets bigger.
Sick and then sicker, from fluid to rigour.
Stuck in the mould, now forever disfigured.
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 2:09 PM UTC
Regrets take root
in my decomposing heart
and fruiting bodies take hold
of my brain, like
cordyceps without a purpose-
Leaving this pale exoskeleton,
devoid of light or sound.
I shuffle through empty rooms
that once rang with your laughter,
staring at the floor as if I could
divine answers from spaces
that you once tread.
And I think I'd like to learn
how to escape this state
of suspended animation,
how to feel something again,
but my body is so heavy
with this sorrow
that produces no tears,
no bloodshed,
only a foreboding miasma
that sits at the edge of my thoughts-
A death sentence
to the woman who tries
to hold oceans
inside a thimble.
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 5:29 PM UTC
In the holy spot
with the sitting rock,
an oak. Out back
shagbark hickory
and maple.
Ants climb the rock.
August, birds
celebrate flowering
weeds, the seeds
of autumn to come.
I am here to name it
and know it and help it
to grow. These mountains
are my grave. A good grave
to go to.
The crows have been
in conference, again.
A jay, blue, pokes
a hole through reality.
I find sumacs fruiting
and the male *** organs
of the Queen Anne’s lace.
Juncos glean the lawn,
an occasional nuthatch
in the butternut.
I hear a pileated
woodpecker jackhammering
and my neighbor’s skill saw
chirring. Ants crawl
on connecting interlacing instructions.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 12:26 PM UTC
tranquility filled
a softly sung
soliloquy
enticing me to believe ~
freely as a summer’s
honey bee
lighting daintily from
flowering bush
to fruiting tree ~
peaceably intriguing
the cool blue sea
invited we
three fishies darted playfully
over my toes
and around my knee ~
you smiled at me ~
it pleased me to see /
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 2:19 PM UTC
being the "sum of what the world 'thinks' I am"
is written, smeared in blood across the cave i've come to love
and leave behind but only in an understanding:
selfhood carries with it all we lack.
it carries on its seas the diatomic algae fruiting slowly back
it carries on each ladder-rung the selves that other's see,
the lovers' feelings felt,
the mailman's kindness kept--
a stranger's instant siblinghood in eye-flash recognition wept.
my heart is tattered there, and rebuilt here;
i could not be the beating love-train joyful as the sorrows,
the pain and lonely misery, the mind-split cosmic surd of this
that Jenkins must have felt, before her captors left hir dead...
--a bullet in hir back, a simple heart-stop pellet placed--
i could not be the beating love-train joyful as the sorrows,
without your words, your rich, kind thoughts of me
that others do not know they have,
that Kiesha could have known.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 1:56 PM UTC
Entertained.
Contained.
Maintained.
Retaining access to once knowns,
sit still listening, not thinking anything
- calling living winning, then quitting.
Get up and ask the truth to forgive
me as I have forgiven, and correct me
where my functioning is hindering.
Stretching the cord to tie the load…
Become what truth embodied is,
cushion the fall from the stacked
featherbeds for religious businesses-
thumpwhump, takes y'breathaway
Conscienceless conscious necience,
all automated - due souly to luck in
the making of DNA, you see,
discovery is the easy part,
much more inter-
esting testing resting mind mingle,
estimating instants time in transit…
imagining the code used to build
the ladder, up one side, down the other.
Handling, managing manacled hopes,
most substantial, dashed to smithereens,
whither in the rearview I see you not looking,
not noticing the era we lived through, seeing
sublime simplicity unfold before us as we examine
essential, necience, non knowing unrecognizable,
feeling path, finding fortunate occasional fruit sweet,
as a path crossing fruiting bough slaps
sweetness perception from reward schedules,
stinging sensation, signal sending saying, it's okeh,
sudden sinking subtle ******* muddy awareness,
sniff, just agnosis dripping,
thinking life's a trip, travel light.
Oct 16, 2023
Oct 16, 2023 at 1:26 PM UTC
for as long as i live, i promise to look down the holes i find
promise to look into absolute uncertainty, and not to give a **** about it
ill look at the cellular device and face my rejection.
how many more words can i possibly make use of?
i'm out of wine
i'm out of thoughts
for the devil has pre-empted them
destroy the scent of the flesh
it will end up there at some point eventually
the people who are really capable of love will shine through
cast great lines across the sky
across the ocean
across eyes and sand
lapping waves
fruiting dirt
if i don't miss that now i won't ever
rhythm rhythm rhythm
sword sword sword
now its all a mess again
start over tomorrow
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 4:48 PM UTC
There is a story of which I know,
That no happy heart would dare to go,
The chimes ring silent in the frigid wind,
And the harpsichord’s tune lowers, tightens.
-
Before my tale, I must make preface,
The tale, metaphors, rightly seek justice,
For there are no emotions quite like found here,
Life just continues, a grinding gear.
-
When the flower lost its petal,
It said “These things just happen.”
It wasn’t time, it was a crime,
To let this flower die ugly.
-
The tree has lost its apple,
The only thing that marked its beauty,
No longer can it the apple cradle,
Its brilliant seed so fruiting.
-
Think of the dark storm cloud,
That lost its rain so pure,
It likely never will be found,
This sickness has no cure.
-
The feeling burrows in your stomach,
It eats away at your heart,
It terrorizes your mind,
To know they have found another to start.
-
Though no one has ever died,
From a muscle left this broken,
I guess I should have lied
Asleep, instead be woken.
-
Bring me the silken cloth,
From my box of fragile,
It will protect this darkened stone,
And mend it back to evil.
-
Think of every time you’ve cried,
About something you could not change,
And see if you still care to know,
Why it is yourself to blame.
-
Think of every category,
that you could have mended,
All of it an allegory
To your love intended.
-
When you see the bitter face,
Of reject and spite and be hated,
Coming from your used to be
Loved, but relocated.
-
You will find yourself the virus
Of your conjoined lives,
You will never be pious
Enough for their love, despised.
-
**** everything about yourself,
It helps ease the anguish,
But keep yourself here and conscious,
So you understand true languish.
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 12:19 AM UTC
Oh the enchanting
Silhouette of the winter bird
appearing
On such January morning
with a tail
Implying the precise degree
of an acute angle
Between two **** branches
You are making an imaginary roof
for your sweet roundish oval head
Fitting it exactly
under a perpendicular space
equal to the height
of the opening
of one missing panel
of my venetian blinds
through which I am peeping right now
safely below the closure points
Of a spectral line
Made by your precision
to manifest
a beauty of an
illusively two dimensionalized
Isosceles Triangle of a
branchy reality
These ever changing orange blue
dashes of an upcoming
Early morning With smoky fumes
are wisely making the volatile
roof for your house
an opposite line
halves to deliver
two adjacent lines
at a perpendicular point
to reserve permanently
its never changing cosine
and still it seems to be
Preserving some of the
fading brittles of stars within
Ah such a home is to be!
where you can peacefully
Fatten and
Rest the tip of your
Belly
to say
This dot of the tangent
Belongs to me
Inhaling
Exhaling
And changing
to a new colored
vitreous roof
of yours
Unmoving
there
Like the buddha
of all silhouettes
Sculpted to
Guard skies only
Oh wise bird
Please
Will
You stay here
And meditate
For me??
I said carelessly
through a slightest
slip of the tongue
and tired body
but before I could
realize and correct
correct it as:
And meditate here
With me??
He instantly turned
his head towards me
And flew
Away
Rightfully :(
Leaving
Me
Helpless
Looking
at a reflection
of my silly longing
Between
The deserted
Space
Of two skinny
Fragile
Branches
Once served
As a melodious
Golden
Cage
Fruiting
Seeds
Of
Reality Dreams
of an Old Tree
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 4:28 PM UTC
the garden’s keeper is the one who knows
the time of fruiting and the ways of light
the meanings of the lily and the rose
to all who pause to watch as each plant grows
in its true place as firm hands set it right
the garden's keeper is the one who knows
when to stay calm and just when to disclose
the secret word that guards from every blight
the meanings of the lily and the rose
that in their beds do far more than repose
for the pure delectation of our sight
the garden's keeper is the one who knows
the proper manner of setting the rows
to mimic motion and to arrest flight
the meanings of the lily and the rose
are not in words still less in strikes and blows
against the passage that leads into night
the garden's keeper is the one who knows
the meanings of the lily and the rose
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 1:52 PM UTC
Like a magician’s deft trick
She placed her two in a nook of attic
Winked two eyes from the dusty pile
Cheered not the mind brought not a smile.
One scrap of food one occasional call
You are their friend you are their all
Without your knowing builds up a rapport
They make your home theirs beg your support.
Hidden in her fur you see them asleep
You never made a promise you had to keep
See in her happiness your looming plight
Her calls at the window at odd hours of night!
Two more added and more than you need
Aspiring heartbeats hungry mouth to feed
You didn’t foresee that your unguarded call
Would make your home a nursery and troubles not small!
Quickly they grow up steal your time’s large slice
When eyes open in three weeks demands grow thrice
Then as they crawl around you fluffs of silken ball
You see in the fruiting gains of pleasures no small.
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 3:40 AM UTC
Show me the secrets of your shadowy places, where the visage of men has not yet been.
Lead me to your garden in the grove amongst the pines, painted flaxen gold in dappled summer sun.
Show me your blooming petals and your fruiting trees. Let me harvest your abundance, caressed by honeyed fingers, cast long and low against the tree trunks, fading fire orange into vermillion, scarlet, crimson, and violet dusk.
In twilight turning, with Venus hung low on the horizon, and Scorpius rising from the southern hemisphere,
Trust my hand and follow blindly through the forest, over hobbled rotten logs, under branches reaching, eyes shielded from their grasping, scratching talons creeping sticky with cobweb and lichen,
Quietly toward the moonrise, eastward and down, upon a matted needle trail, softly trodden only ever
by you and by myself.
Wander with me, barefoot,
out, into the ether;
under the veil of our night-mother's gaze
and sublimate into the mist.
Lay with me in the clover beneath the starsign symphony
-Gaze upon its harmony and shimmering melody-
Inhale the acrid sweet scent of our settling dew,
and reveal to me your many flowered truths
Show me your soul
set aflame
from love, and life, and pain.
Share yourself unequivocallly;
My Goddess and my muse, betrothed of imps and faerys
radiate upon me
- Become my revelry -
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 10:52 PM UTC
Don’t seek love
You will learn
To be cold one day
Expect nothing from life
You will be disappointed
Wait for 'verse to deal her hand
That is plenty to get on with
Bold is hope
Its alchemy will mount an army
To lay siege
On stupid cognitive mind
Until you are sick
To the breaking bone
With life itself
Because it will never come
Stay real
Save Heartache
Art will make opaque
Fragile mind
To be given only in glances
From this moment onwards
When I give love freely
It is beautiful treason
To what is actually going on
This blissful unknowing
Corroding my reason to be
Free to exist without savouring
Acrid taste so sweet
Turned displeasing
Through violent epiphany
On the state of affairs
I, the fool
Do confuse progress
With feeling things
Au contraire
To the loneliness
I seem to process
I cannot be trusted
With handing out affection
So I will make it happen
With those I can love
Until the tension
Of this karmic lesson
Is lessened
Releasing these organs
To breathe what man does best
I may then build a mountain
Upon this omen
Move it on
With silent motion
To a fruiting body
For all to see
This is where my love will seep
Out of this copse
The sun shall creak
To drench those
I could have loved twice-fold
By chance, not plan
This way the universe can
Decide in its uncertain cold
To not seek love
One learns
This warmth
When one knows
How love is made
Then love will flow
Jun 23, 2017
Jun 23, 2017 at 1:53 PM UTC