"grapevines" poems
Like a captive, I capture rapture wrapping around stakes that matter
Joan of Arc battered
Also tattered but, easily dismissive
Refracted from fractured prominent phrases people play with
Distinctly persuasive and evasive, dressed boyishly attractive, lax stature, dawning armor crafted by absence as if asked about it-
I’m drifted
Protection is principle prerequisite, when fire is lit
I sort of implore your aorta before it’s incinerated to ashes
Dethatched as a habit, with swords or hatchets crafted to singe heartstrings that attached it
While I slash slick Rick as a quick fix,
To fend for pretend pretenses or presumed tricks,
I can’t quit
Cause I hit lips against hash spliffs fashioned with dashes of passion all while rationing fireball cinnamon sips
Martyr to avoidance
I gaze at fabled dazed gossipers galvanizing grips on gritty grapevines while licking warning labels through smoke haze on blurred lines
Capably unstable
Other eyes attending scandal circles able to shout lies and rekindle handed arguments on tables with locked smiles stay boxed in
Avidly amiable
Searching for counterparts when combusted or branded
Toying with matches loses meaning when rules reseed
Those vagabonds claim love is some all end hard bent to mend what the same above can’t comprehend.
Breaking boredom, I pillage pillows with night terrors
And ardent arsonists yearn for flames that churn, turn, liquefy and learn learned thoughts and smoldered feelings
Completely complacent
Melting in one another they are completing each other like two candles tryst true at a wedding day
However later the blaze is severed, smoke sears, and charred black wick stands alone for them.
Aggressive and progressive.
As for me never pleading, fire forever fleets to streets between iron bars I built that cage in deep heat and seep dire dreams once desired
Suppose I’m a skeptic
Roasted or disconnected
Just jaded, just met you
Always over it too soon
Burnt but I’m amused.
I’m useful.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
I had a dream I smoked some ***** with a Rasta Man
while we jammed in the name of the lord to some tunes
the children of Africa roaming free like wild beast
once the cradle of civilization turned into tombs
by the ungrateful, heathen souls that ran amok
in the name of annihilation and war.
But we are fearful pious men, as we inhaled the herb
the grass is the shepherd that nourish us like Giraffes
the sky is the ceiling that we reach with our blessed hands
the rivers gives us skins like Crocs to be able to survive
harsh whether, the blood-stained desert left behind by men
witnessed by the pale eyes of the torture souls of this land.
And so we inhaled and puffed like chimneys in a North Pole night
we talked about the smiles of our seeds stretching far and wide
how beautiful is a voice when it’s brought to life by a loved one
how the scent of a pure woman can bring the dead back to life
deadlocked, we are dreadlocked like grapevines until Jah lets us
the mental slavery that keeps us chained to the ships of our ancestors.
We never once conversed about the frail indignity of the mortals
the uselessness of hate, the ways material possessions can’t help you
we reached Nirvana without taking our feet off the common ground
we shared a spirit, bonded between long hits made of peace and love
in the freedom of those free thinkers tinkering with words without rest
in the children of Jah, daydreaming at night in a warm bed made of bread.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 12:40 PM UTC
There we sit beneath the cherry blossom tree,
You were there, talking to me.
The silence, hearing the trees whispering.
We were spending all afternoon laughing.
I just wonder and I wanted to ask,
“Would I belong to you soon?”
“Would I ever have you?”
I wanted you to know and hear.
My heart brings off with no fear.
I wanted the way we used to be changed,
Not like how we are right now.
I wanted something more if you allow.
Talk to my eyes, do you want it too?
The voices, I heard them in my head.
Talking to myself, forgetting the road ahead.
Every way I take, it leads me back to you.
Your smiles and the way you move are my sunshine.
Being with you makes me feel better than fine.
I forgot how the rain used to cover me.
I was never meant to leave you recklessly.
Until one day, I heard through the grapevines.
I was looking and hoping for a sign.
Fright drove my heartbeat swifter than the time I trusted you.
Why was I not given a cue?
Was I asleep when you told me?
Was I wishing you dreamingly?
Was I looking forward to the future
Of you caring and embracing me back?
You loved someone you believed,
You said she is undeniably stunning...
But, you did not have a chance to know her.
I had the time of loving you, it felt great.
I wondered, “Why did you refuse?”
Still, it was just right to forget right away.
Someday, the colours would slowly fade
Into a beautiful shade of gray.
The wretchedness would be an enduring mark...
To rather let the mark be the end of the world...
Or to look up to the shining sun and restart?
Someday, I would learn to love someone better.
Someday, I would be laughing at myself and say,
“What was the real reason why I loved you?”
Cause all I can think of was your foolishness.
I could have been dumb when I had you.
I used to laugh to our one-liners before.
We were just young naive kids.
(Now, I learned.....)
I was better off giggling with myself.
I was better off being with my friends.
I used to remember that tree,
It was where we used to sit.
Do you remember it too?
I know you had forgotten.
If you ever regret, do not return.
‘Cause you might be hanging your head the next time.
But you had been right, always right.
“Let go of the beautiful memory
When we used to sit beneath the cherry blossom tree.”
Feb 28, 2018
Feb 28, 2018 at 7:28 AM UTC
It’s dusk
Lustful grapevines curl around my ankles
And I’m thankful it’s wine season, the pickers should be around shortly to save me
And bathe me in last year’s crop to scare the grape vines into submission
It’s a decision they have to make
Do they care about a perfect stranger enough to waste
Roads of trucks of crates of bottles of red velvet
Or white sunshine
Or do they allow this ensnarement and turn a blind eye whilst I sink
While thinking; pondering the fertility of the soil under my feet
I’ll wait for the pickers, just to see how they view me
And in the meantime the vines are spinning yarns around me
Crawling up my skin, holding me tight while telling me bed time stories
Once upon a time there was a vineyard struck by a drought
Caused by unrelenting calm, and clear blue skies with no clouds
And they resisted, rationed their water between them,
And it seemed then that everything was fine
The crop was harvested and won best wine, but failed to mention how many vines
Died in the making of their own blood
Morbid and dry, a pinot noir fashioned out of pain and scars
And tears in flesh, not human flesh, but the flesh of the landscape
I didn't smile
But it did make me sleepy
I couldn't fight their grasp
Addicted to their emotions
I let them take me down into their fertile ocean
And when the pickers came to discern the source of the screaming
A new grape vine had sprouted and was teething
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 2:19 PM UTC
My heads pounding
My necks twisted amuck
think I'mma stop giving a ****
Light up a blunt and do what I want -
woah wait -
ain't that the **** that got me
here in the first place?
Worst case I nervously pace
the halls for a day - two or a weekend
Blasting the weeknd
Entire enviroment reeking
shrieking -
Nah -
I'm better than that.
Can't latch onto the past.
That's the trash that got
us there at the start - instead
I prepare it in art
And share from the heart, with you.
And you.
And you and you and you.
Because why not?
It helps forget about that pinebox looming-
Thinking outside the winebox lucid -
I mean Windex, clean em out
And a win decks, stacks paper chips
You can't say this isn't some matrix blips
I am not losing ****
I am manuevering this beautiful thing
up past this ******* Nuva Ring
Cause that's life - you can get beat
or keep it on a leash - jeez
that's sexist. I don't know
where this became an accepted
comparison, its embarrassing
comparing them - to K9's
But we hear it through the grapevine
Turns of phrase we make fine.
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 12:29 AM UTC
When you come to my thoughts
You are none other than the billowy embodiment of a reminiscent memory
and also a current everlasting longing
You are the memory of a being or idea
one can feel and remember vividly
but can not zero in on,
for you are the intangible
the winding wind
You are those spiraling twines that place intermittent along grapevines
You are the ancient scrolls from wise days before paperback
You are the spin in the reaching center of a handcrafted wreath
And within all these
individualities and collective,
Lies your scent comprised of multiple scents
You are the mighty togetherness
Your arrival to earth escaping from birth
gave these words to the minds of the kind
You are the winding wind who spins and twines, wreathes and scrolls who lands from time to time and when you do drop for a spell
This location of harboring landfall
is a day of new tradition,
the first step you take on new land on that new day
Becomes the origin of a new holiday
In my thoughts you are the mortar of the earth
Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 9:21 AM UTC
The sadness is beginning to set in
like the grapevines that grow up the side of an old brick house
gnarled and tangled in such a unfixable mess
just like the inner workings of the soul of mine
that once felt love and beauty and strength
growing in bouquets of flowers from my chest
unfortunately those flowers rotted and decayed
yet never really left, just like the proof that's shown
from the overcrowded webs of vines that still grow
up the side of that old brick house.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 11:22 PM UTC
So tired
Back to work and then there's this social event and that social event
and the last one is the best one and I'm still trying to get over not having
last years job that was taken from me and given to you and still
trying not to even think about this because this is a whole new year and
Driving past Napa Valley's Wineries
Hotels, Buses, wine
Everything wine and I don't know where I'm going
My GPS broke, and the directions are drive straight and you'll see it
Suburbia has turned into true wealth
I've gone back in time, wine Haciendas on hill tops
like feudal mansions, waiting for the peasants to do the actual
work of wine, the dirt and the sweat of wine as the owners
twiddle their thumbs and worry about the stock market and their wine
I arrive at my Castle. For a few moments I will be allowed to taste
the lifestyle of the wine and pretend that I too belong in this castle
watching grapes ripen and waiting for the teaming hordes to do my work
and the mechanical wine processors sit idly waiting for the grapes and I feel a tinge of
sadness and fear for the grapes to be processed like in a slaughter house
until I realize they are only fruit, and not mammals
And on the hot deck overlooking the beautiful, silent valley with grapes ripening before
our eyes the only chair left is next to you
I sit down and look to my right and I see the woman who I feared would take my job and now did
and I wonder how it is that this has happened that I've driven for miles in the hot sun
through miles of grapevines only to be made to sit next to you who jealously drooled over
my job and could never say anything good about my work and then you won.
And we talk and I'm very clever and you don't like that because I'm supposed to be stupid
and it's supposed to be obvious why you got the job not me and not some seniority thing
and you say nothing nice, and it's only me keeping up a charade of conversation that
could turn ugly at the drop of a pin but doesn't due to my skill
and you then leave made uncomfortable by the evidence of my continued existence
and lack of dumbness
And it's only later that I realize in my imagination I wanted to hurl you from the deck
and into the wine press
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 12:25 AM UTC
When she was seven, my grandmother suffered from fever and swollen glands. The doctors believed her tonsils were inflamed, that she needed surgery. Instead, she went to a curandera. The curandera divined that a jealous relative had cast a curse on her and, now, her language of kindness was bound to her throat, the unspoken swelling her glands.
As a child my grandmother spoke to santitos with a voice like a chestnut: ruddy and warm, seeds dropping from her mouth. The santitos would take her words into themselves, her voice growing within them like grapevines.
During the tonsillitis, when the words no longer fell like seeds from her lips, the santito's vineyards of accent and voice grew vapid, dry as a parched mouth. They went to her tongue and asked why silence imprisoned the words of the child, why lumps were present under her chin, why tears drew channels down her cheeks.
I asked my grandmother how her tongue replied. After touching my cheek, she told me she had a dream that night: She was within her lungs and she rose like breath through the moist of her throat. She remembered her tonsils swinging before her like fleshy apples, then a hand taking them into a fist, harvesting their sound. She told me her throat opened in two spots like insect eyes and the names of her children came flying through her wounds like peacocks.
Patting my thigh, she said, "That is why the name of your mother is Maria, because she is a prayer, a song of praise to the Holy Mother."
She told me this, then showed me two scars on her throat—tiny scars, like two eyelids stitched closed.
st - 20 mar 14
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 7:52 PM UTC
The grapevines have never been so silent,
but it is not the oil, or changing climate.
To hear its word, you must now be beside it.
Their messages once sung loud, merrily with joy,
but now go unheard by most girl and boy.
The words that find a way to meet our ears,
have never been so full of hopelessness and fears.
The grapevines eyes swell with tears.
It seems the grapevine would no longer like to share,
for the words they are sharing have lost the love and care.
The abundant grapevine forest,
now but a desert bare.
After all of the rumors have come to cease,
the grapevines sleep tonight in peace.
Together waiting for sun of tomorrows dawn,
they pray for new coming souls to bestow whispers upon.
Holding on to hope that new messages will spawn,
and lead to beautiful pictures being drawn.
Jun 28, 2010
Jun 28, 2010 at 6:37 PM UTC
Antonio your name,
Agriculturist, grape grower.
Gotten passionate for the land,
For the Douro, Mounts.
That love that is not locked in,
He sleeps in the hill, the mountain range.
He harvested sadness in the Colonial War.
He loved the Douro and Portugal.
He showed the land that joys would bring to it.
He loved their children and wife Maria.
He planted grapevines that looked at the covered with star sky,
He made his wine with immaculate love.
The grapes are a love for all the life,
He looked for Rio Douro e Tua,
In the memory of a people with glory,
With that tear that I feel now.
I comfort me in the duriense horizon,
Today, tomorrow and always.
Victor Marques
love, douro, Father
Oct 18, 2010
Oct 18, 2010 at 7:38 AM UTC
Those dangling chains,
I wish for them.
Just like a baby wishes for his mother.
They, the chains, jump around;
Just like wild and free kangaroos.
The holes so close,
Remind me of fishnets;
The livelihood of those at sea.
The hanging chains, like grapevines
Much like people, hanging onto hopes.
Dangling in the storm to save their life.
The chains still dangle,
Carefree, without concern;
Lost in their own world;
Like few people,
Those who stand out.
Those dangling chains;
So **** beautiful;
Just stare at them,
Like you stare at the stars,
On a moonlit night.
They keep dangling,
Undeterred by the world.
Chains are free,
Chains are dominant,
Much like the unfettered few.
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 5:19 AM UTC
There we sit beneath the cherry blossom tree,
You were there, talking to me.
The silence, hearing the trees whispering.
We were spending all afternoon laughing.
I just wonder and I wanted to ask,
“Would I belong to you soon?”
“Would I ever have you?”
I wanted you to know and hear.
My heart brings off with no fear.
I wanted the way we used to be changed,
Not like how we are right now.
I wanted something more if you allow.
Talk to my eyes, do you want it too?
The voices, I heard them in my head.
Talking to myself, forgetting the road ahead.
Every way I take, it leads me back to you.
Your smiles and the way you move are my sunshine.
Being with you makes me feel better than fine.
I forgot how the rain used to cover me.
I was never meant to leave you recklessly.
Until one day, I heard through the grapevines.
I was looking and hoping for a sign.
Fright drove my heartbeat swifter than the time I trusted you.
Why was I not given a cue?
Was I asleep when you told me?
Was I wishing you dreamingly?
Was I looking forward to the future
Of you caring and embracing me back?
You loved someone you believed,
You said she is undeniably stunning...
But, you did not have a chance to know her.
I had the time of loving you, it felt great.
I wondered, “Why did you refuse?”
Still, it was just right to forget right away.
Someday, the colours would slowly fade
Into a beautiful shade of gray.
The wretchedness would be an enduring mark...
To rather let the mark be the end of the world...
Or to look up to the shining sun and restart?
Someday, I would learn to love someone better.
Someday, I would be laughing at myself and say,
“What was the real reason why I loved you?”
Cause all I can think of was your foolishness.
I could have been dumb when I had you.
I used to laugh to our one-liners before.
We were just young naive kids.
(Now, I learned.....)
I was better off giggling with myself.
I was better off being with my friends.
I used to remember that tree,
It was where we used to sit.
Do you remember it too?
I know you had forgotten.
If you ever regret, do not return.
‘Cause you might be hanging your head the next time.
But you had been right, always right.
“Let go of the beautiful memory
When we used to sit beneath the cherry blossom tree.”
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 10:26 AM UTC
Autumn drives her wind-horse to the gates of change.
She heaves fresh faced in shadows of a sheltering wall.
Eager to test the lie, so to speak, she sighs-
'Is it time yet, is it time?'
She observes a world half asleep, half dead.
'O dessicate Summer, O thirsty lady,
you have sapped all strength,
mopped the life-blood, leached all colour,
turned blushing petals to withered cusps,
you have turned this world to crumbling dust.'
Cat-like she steals, then with a gust....leaps!
whipping a dry pool of terrified leaves into a freshening frenzy.
'I'm here!' she cries 'It's my time.
Dance your full-blown pirouette!'
She turns to a world where neglected grapevines droop.
In the garden of ripening fruit, she plucks bruised from new;
mouldering black fruit that hangs in the crooked elbow of a thirsty tree.
Saddened, her tears fall on leaf-dead ground.
Slow tears, tears to tease dormant seeds from cracked hard-packed ground.
But listen to that sound.....
count the minims spilling on the quavering split terrain!
Net the hour, capture the perfume of moist grass where there is yet no greenness,
where the fat toad leans towards a blackening sky.
We are but children journeying from one season to the next
'Are we there yet? Are we nearly there?'
And when the storm comes we will know to light our way
into the garden of ripening fruit.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2011
Sep 21, 2011
Sep 21, 2011 at 12:09 PM UTC
_Good people have bad days
Bad days pick on all people. No discrimination.
Being mean will not reward you
with nice things.
Temptation
It's one hell of a drug.
You don't always have to use the rock
as a weapon just because it's in reach.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Think about it. Don't let them trigger you.
Cool it. Before you pull it. Don't lose it.
You're the one in control.
Remember the way you felt
When you were in tune?
Flow of music. Unstoppable mode.
I heard it all before,
going to the groove tangled in the grapevines
You have so much more to lose
If you go Columbine Colorblind!_
Jul 25, 2022
Jul 25, 2022 at 11:46 AM UTC
When I meet her gaze,
it rips the soul from my body
and ***** it through time and space
into her hollow and vacuous eyes.
Into the vacuum of her being.
I find myself in her mind
and step tentatively over the creases
and folds of her grey brain,
avoiding the beehives hanging like grapevines
from the ceiling of her skull.
But my eyes adjust to the light
and I see that my fears are misplaced,
it's not hives hanging inside her mind
but a series of dark rainclouds
behind black and blue skies.
It's too dim in here, thinks I,
where's all the sunshine?
If it's true, and her sun has died
I would douse myself and burn alive
just to provide her a little reading light,
just to dry out her rainy skies and
maybe brighten up her nine lives.
If it's true that her moon is hollow and dim
then I would be proud to fill it up again,
I would be happy to reinflate it's craters
with my final dying breath,
with all the essence of my being.
And I would hang it there in the night,
surrounded by the hole-punched skies.
So maybe when it reflects my self-immolation,
light would shine down through her beautiful eyes
and into that long-neglected mind.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 7:29 PM UTC
Ms Dolittle was giving her cuppa a sip
Her beady eyes drowned in deep brood
Last night she didn’t get enough sleep
The morning found her in a grumpy mood.
She had never seen them in all her years
Though read or heard about sightings
Dismissed them as mere conjectures
The believers’ flight on fantasy wings!
It might be the moonlight playing mischief with her
The moon can fool with such eerie nightly designs
Or maybe had a peg too many she couldn’t remember
She wasn’t unaccustomed to swigs of grapevines.
Whatever, she saw it clear not imagined in her head
The silhouette of her husband on the curtained window
Something she wouldn’t wish away as merely moon-made
He stood there upright waving to her in the moon’s glow.
Ms Dolittle brave as she is didn’t swoon or pass out
Just lay there motionless without rising to the summon
It was her husband about that she had no doubt
For in a troubled voice it said, ‘Come on’.
So there he was troubled for not having her company
And it was precisely what was worrying her
She had no idea with him how she could be
She wasn’t yet booked for traveling that far!
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 7:21 AM UTC
*
I love my dreams
for they show me the places
Mystical scenes
filled with beautiful faces
Sherbet and rainbows
like waves in the summer
Playing electric guitar
with a drummer
Floating on clouds
above rivers of jelly
Limburger cheese
that is never once smelly
Stairways to heaven
that I might be singing
Picnics on Thursdays
and plastic bells ringing
Grapevines and flowers
and candle light dining
Beneath a moon
that is forever shining
Holding her hand
through the park we are walking
Hearing her whisper
"I love you" while talking
Kissing her lips
in a soft tender fashion
Seeing her smile
and feeling the passion
Spending the rest
of my days with her sharing
No longer worried
if someone is caring
Happiness follows
wherever I’m going
And how the look
on my face it is showing
I love my dreams
but awake I am weeping
Because my dreams
only come while I’m sleeping*
Jun 11, 2016
Jun 11, 2016 at 8:08 PM UTC
We talk, but only in my dreams and when i awake in the morning i wonder if maybe you might of actually been there, but when i've blinked my way to the surface and realize that im laying there alone and have been since I first layed down alone, you were never really there and havn't been for what feels like centuries. Disappointment and a mixture of anger sink's and I rush out of this bed that once held you. When i've clawed my way out of the grave of nights filled with what now is a ghost, I look around the room and replays upon replays flow through and out into the open like a 1920's projecture. After being glued down to this floor by the sea of memories trying to take me down, I walk out the door and when I do, the oceans spray hits me like your hair did when we hit the bed and for a minute, I feel you, all over me, every inch, like grapevines on a forgotten building, take over what's left. But I rip through it all cause I don't like to be broken down. I head up the staires and fall because your voice keeps calling me, pulling me back, climbing up to my shoulders and pushing me down as if my legs are slowly disinigrating. As I lay there, in defeat, every inch of my body is tooken over by the feel of you, your voice, your touch, your smell, your taste, your ghost. And while I talk to you in my thoughts you louer me in, word by word, inch by inch. I'm sailing away, back into you, away from myself, in a sea of defeat. As I sail closer and closer to you, the wind picks up and steals everything. The voice, the touch, the smell, the taste, my sense of direction. It steals all from me and leaves me in the sea to fend for myself. As I float, the waves grow higher and higher and take me down under. As I get pushed down, farther and farther by the pressure of the unknown, I start to give up and realize there's really no need to fight because theres nothing I can do. Nothing I can say. Nothing. So, as this scene comes to an end and I hit the ocean floor, I then look up and see that everything's come to a rest and all is calm, I then look up and see the world. The world in which doesn't involve me. A world in which doesn't realize where i am nor does it care. A world in which was mine. A world in which is you.
(c)SeanaseaWallen 2010
Jun 9, 2011
Jun 9, 2011 at 7:19 AM UTC
I look at you and I see trees dancing in tangible rhythm with the wind like your hair blowing in directions compasses never seem to have captured and your face is clear now. I see those eyes. Irises so black i fall inside just to test the height because i've always liked doing dangerous things and that dangerous desire has led me to loving you. carving your name in skies that you will never see as you have always been blind to anything Intimate that came from me. you once told me you never liked Affection and that it only brings up bad memories and i sit there itching to scratch the back of your head to erase anything painful from your past. I see secrets hidden in between your long eyelashes that never once saved me from staying trapped inside your gaze and i am shivering at how cold it is in here. Then i see those lips. Lips that my mother warned me not to kiss but Temptation always gets the better of me. Now i feel the attachment forcing itself inside my mouth and punching the back of my throat and I am choking at how fast i fell for you. I wonder how to get over the feelings that have soared over my whole nervous system. i am convulsing with each passing thought of you and i am tripping over my own stupid feelings that seem to be towering over skyscrapers. I was never afraid of heights but darling,am i scared of you. I am scared of how fast i will fall and how deep and how you will not be there to cushion my fall. I wonder how do i get over someone who has wrapped me all over his little finger like grapevines only you squeeze out my blood to drink over dinner as you watch me burst into flames from the way my heart ignites every time your skin touches mine. but darling, i would rather die with your arms wrapped around my neck while i whisper my prayers one last time that my ashes leave a mark on your fingers and that i will always be the dirt underneath your fingernails and i think, i think, i will die happily. if that happened, baby, i will not regret a thing.
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 11:28 PM UTC
you stood not too tall,
and not too short but enough in
underlying sun-kisses of
the mulberry feathers of your hair,
falling grapevines upon the bottled rain
but you,
you wore it like pixie dusts from the stars
above your candy apple parasol,
and you spoke words,
you puff a smoke,
and it kills me so
and you exhale words,
words that make the rain,
the rain to be a beautiful, brilliant mess
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 8:00 AM UTC
if you walk on the front lawn
past the library where –
free of charge –
you can take some
if you leave some
if you approach the front
windows she will likely try
to claw the screen
attesting to her
ownership
if you walk up the driveway
and duck under the
grapevines or
poison-ivy – some say –
will tickle your legs
if you look upward
you can barely see the sky
between the
older-than-the-4th-of-July
burr oaks
if you walk past the
once-was back door –
into the backyard –
a forest of weed-trees
shades leftover plants
if you stroll further
the spring bulb-mothers’
dead stalks
cover the leaf-mulched
soil
if you climb up two rotting
steps to the bird feeders
squirrel-ridden –
and treated with suet –
is the cardinal family’s
year-round home
if you like critters and
engage them in dialogue –
natural ambiance –
you will have an annual
prayer rug for a yard
if you let the white pickets
go gray beside the curb –
looking wrinkled –
the shimmer-light of the
street lamp will guard the
paw prints of winter bunnies
© Lewis Bosworth, 2016
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 7:40 PM UTC
Sometimes, I forget to let go.
I forget that im alive.
I forget that breathing is important.
I forget everything.
But most importantly, i forget to let go.
Tangling itself like grapevines at the bind of these two hearts brings me home, wrapping along the brick. Overwhelming comfort creeps through the air vents and im there. Im home.
Jun 9, 2011
Jun 9, 2011 at 7:18 AM UTC
some people don't see it
the beauty that lies underneath
it's rough and beaten exterior
the art that grows like grapevines
behind walls of over-compensation
and masculinity and in some cases
but certainly not all, misled homophobia
i enjoy football because
it was one of very few shared interests
between me and my father
so reluctantly i'll admit that the fourth wall
could be built from deep seated daddy issues
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 12:19 PM UTC