"latticework" poems
the dark approaches as if it is an ineluctable storm
created by thoughts falling like dominoes
or explodes into existence in a breath
detonated by a word innocently spoken
an eclipse constructed of your fears
like locusts eating all the light
with hooks and claws they grasp the air
pulling it up from your lungs
fighting blind against attacks from every side
weapons fall from your trembling grasp
I still see you dimly, enveloped in despair
you no longer see me at all
I have become a phantom, intangible
dispersed into powerless anguish by your terror
my voice is only a murmur to you
a far-off echo, indistinct
defenses and barriers you have labored on
transform into spun glass latticework
shattering through them without knowing
shards left embedded in your skin
stumbling blindly in the darkness
you are swallowed whole into the void
once more you are ripped away
imprisoned in the Stygian, pitiless hole
the emptiness turns its gaze to me
mocking laughter blisters my flesh
I can only wait and call to you
how long till you return
to me
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 10:36 PM UTC
black waves fall
in a fine
latticework;
eyes singing songs
of the
ocean
oh love, wouldn't
you want to know?
lips dancing on
soft rose
petals
whilst a slither
of a shy
glint
oh love, couldn't
you try to know?
a shy song floats
in the cold
air,
filling up the
thousands and
more
oh love, shouldn't
you already know?
the pacific hums
the sound of
rain
smothering me
with thoughts of
y o u
oh love, i know.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 4:07 AM UTC
Across the street,
Live the community of the old.
a network of inbreeding
left the branches of the family tree
entwined like a pipeline of too many years
that swim through the convoluted paths
forever,
sealing in the contents,
preserving the past.
Long bedraggled tresses
brush close to the latticework ground
Not a comb has come close
To break the wild knots that weave.
Nets buoy their authenticity
Forever wild,
Even though,
the world survives
on bowls brimmed with metal screws
The phantoms of depletion rise,
They are weightless, until
Pulverized
and they tumble,
Like hostages
They get caught between
The wisps of eternity.
Backlit sunset,
Illuminates the evergreen leaves,
The bulky necklace of frozen memories
Decorate my stiff neck
I am a victim of too many days spent
Watching screen protected versions of nature
that I forgot how thin skinned leaves really are
How the nervous system of enigmatic veins
hold DNA of their ancestors
Now, bathed in evening light
When heat from the stars erode from the sky
They are nothing but silhouettes of the past
Faceless, like torn out pages of a history book
shunned for its omniscient wisdom
so that the ashes can be planted
burying the past in the ground
standing still in the present
but reminding me,
the future is always as high as the sky.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 10:31 AM UTC
*ouvrez la cage
aux oiseaux*
1.
boughs
extending wide
so wide
leaves
hanging all around
expansive over
quiet latticework
dappled vitality
fusing into
spurts of fine conversion
intense
loving arborescence
2.
attending to dirges
ingesting tedia
accepting indifference
yet
in stark contrast
heaven holds out
a handful of dream-dust
if we but chance
to reach
into sacred reverie
dare to
escape
from land
3.
slide down
the arum's scape
..into you
S T, 24 June 2013
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 5:30 AM UTC
a latticework of axioms
avoid the death instinct
and remain immortal
finding light in the
darkest nightmare
extracting the anti-venom
from every pitch black crevice
rejecting the perspective of Power
ejecting oneself from the
true void that is
a purely aesthetic way of life
spontaneous and
spirit enhancing
enchanting, fast-flowing turbulence of
artistic formulations
transforming barely lucid
fantastical frameworks into
newly virtuous neologisms
flirting with the idea of
creating something out of nothing
without intentions to destroy it
last minute decisions
preserving precision
keeping things afloat
despite the dimly lit overflow
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 2:01 AM UTC
There once was a lady,
(and there actually still is),
who clandestinely preferred
the growth about her garden gate.
The talk in the village square
these days was all about
pruning the living daylights
out of it, until it was a sad
but smooth barren surface.
Apparently visitors had weighed in
and made this some kind of rule.
Nonetheless, she liked how
the twisting leaves and ivy
created a picturesque latticework,
a natural tapestry,
evoking mystery and anticipation
for what lay beneath.
Oh, she trimmed her foliage
here and there,
keeping the overgrowth
from running wild,
but all things considered
she was not about to change.
Her garden was beautiful
just the way it was.
Jan 31, 2020
Jan 31, 2020 at 8:50 AM UTC
we were playing catch and release at the lake
then going to the store to buy canned tuna
then learning how to tie knots:
latticework and basket weaving, promise keeping and lie making
securing one end of your thought
and anchored down by memory
and kept polished by time
but we keep playing catch and release
with our children
feeding them worms on hooks
and just as they reach the surface
"get back in the water"
we cry
get back in the water.
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 11:32 PM UTC
There are tantalizing visions of an era long forgotten
By the ones who remember the days
Of sweet music that drifted onto the verandahs
Into the imaginations and hearts of the ones who played
Echoing laughter resounds from ivy covered walls
Touched by the distant memories that pass
Through the cracks left unnoticed by the shimmers of light
As they fall on the sweet summer grass
A wild crimson rose still grows upon the dim edges
Of the latticework now peeling with age
A remnant of immense beauty so pristinely perfect
Still opening its blooms to the stage
Incessant tales of the wonderful feelings brought to light
As the lovely music lifts to the sky
Brings every heart to sing as if they know the tune
Which these memories have left you and I
Jun 11, 2010
Jun 11, 2010 at 6:58 PM UTC
An ash tree stands
at the place of creation
it is called Yggdrasil
A high tree
well-proportioned
the source of the dew
mother of winds
Green it is
standing over
the well of fate
Its roots draw
from the waters
that freshen that well
In old English there is a word
Treowth
it means both
tree
and truth
This tree is truth
its latticework of leaves
and branches
more intricate
than the Milky Way
It is a lung inverted
inhaling heaven's mists
exhaling the wind
It is our guardian tree
planted by a mighty race
that came before
A sentinel of hope
a goad to good works
and the last remaining sign
of a dawning
when the human mind
was first formed.
Rest now in its shade.
The final journey will soon begin.
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 4:43 PM UTC
Sickly sensuous, the tree's burning branches twisting towards the frosted eternal ceiling, sunken hollows and curved swings are fragilely bound by frayed roots which grow by day under cheerful sundials reflecting the sky's chiffon ripples.
Joining the trees bowing branches were spidery threads scalloped between the mosaic webbings of wooden latticework;
The odd turtle dove getting caught momentairily in the silver embroidery and cooing in alarm, before cooling under the star-shine.
Amorphous, brushed clouds rolled in rhetorical significance unknowing of what power the wind holds,
whilst black sac ravens drifted aimlessly down the purple road like the dry tumbleweed.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 11:39 AM UTC
I met you when you owned a universe.
You were a pitiless empress and I made pies for the sake of pie making.
After a season of orchard trysts
(a queen picking apples! The world would talk.)
you requested a pastry of my heart.
So I carved it out and baked it in and cut my hair for the latticework.
If you want to satisfy your gluttony, the directions are here.
The filling calls for apple cores.
Make sure you use the ones in the very back of the grove
on the ground where you nudged my knee with
yours as we gorged and gossiped.
Sprinkle a little dirt on it, sweetheart. Don’t be afraid to get adventurous
and use the outdated milk and don’t sift out those sugar ants from the bag.
Knead the crust with your elbows, don’t use the hands that would pet my hair
as I lay in your lap.
Crawl to the oven, cut out your heart with a paring knife
(no royalty to buy you a clean blade) and toss it in.
Bake it at the degree of your contempt for me now.
Don’t sear the top with your temper, darling.
Act meek enough and eat your ******* pie.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 9:56 PM UTC
Ode To Enchanted Light
Under the trees light
has dropped from the top of the sky,
light
like a green
latticework of branches,
shining
on every leaf,
drifting down like clean
white sand.
A cicada sends
its sawing song
high into the empty air.
The world is
a glass overflowing
with water.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 3:12 PM UTC
In My Yard,
They stand barren, starkly naked,
Silhouetted against the winter sky,
Their white spines moving,
In February gale winds,
Traces of icy snow,
Still clinging here and there.
I have watched them,
For going on seven years,
Planted with my own hands,
Where they proudly stand,
Looking so cold and alone.
Their intertwining branches,
Appearing to reach out,
To each other,
For mutual support.
A natural latticework of beauty.
I have measured my own seasons
By their natural progress of change,
Winter being the saddest one.
Yet an hour ago draped in snow
Still they looked so splendid.
They endure, rooted there,
Waiting for the warming,
Seasonal change,
The return of life renewing Spring,
Buds to blooms, to small green leaves
That dance and ripple in the wind,
As if showing off just for me.
A roost for passing song birds,
Shade from summer heat.
In Fall they display splashes of color
Branches and flowing leaves in motion,
A rustling vibrating, audible hum of green,
And later golden colors turning,
Tiny banners beating like sparkling jewels,
In the sun and blowing breezes.
Never tiring to look upon.
To all my human senses,
Always so very pleasing,
These my Quaking Aspen Trees.
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 5:01 AM UTC
Sun's rays
pierce
the bronchial
latticework
of the bare trees
in late Fall
leaving me with
windless and limp sails
whit howland © 2021
Aug 23, 2021
Aug 23, 2021 at 6:07 PM UTC
When your heart stops beating, or loses its ability to pump blood to itself
the doctors put in a stent. And so, as pieces of your own self-sustaining
***** go to die, they are replaced by more and more
latticework. These tiny structures allow you to breathe, yes
they allow you to keep yourself alive. But what do you do
when pieces of your own sacred heart no longer belong to yourself
and they no longer pump blood the way they were born for
and no one told you that survival would come at the price
of everything that made you who you are- that this pointless
synthetic division would leave you a cold restless machinery
because you were scared, a little bit, too scared to be honest with yourself
too scared to even know you were scared so you stopped your heart
from pumping itself and gave the job to something or someone else
you made your heart a building, a high tower from which you cannot escape
rather than the core of who you are, it becomes a prison put in place
cement and steel blocks to keep you safe from the dragon but
the true danger is what became of you, you who gave up everything
to keep yourself alive, you whose heart no longer pumps blood
like a living, breathing human who shouts and screams and loves
whose heart no longer means what Aristotle and Jesus Christ said it means,
you whose heart now does its job, and that job only. You're me.
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 10:13 AM UTC
Sapling, a fragile reaching,
towards the sun's insistent call.
Woods cradle the tender green,
leaves unfurling, a soft whisper
against the rough bark.
Greenery spills, a vibrant stain
on the earth's dark canvas.
Roots, tenacious fingers, grasping,
anchoring, a silent conversation
with the soil's hidden depths.
Branches, arms outstretched,
a latticework of shadows,
sheltering secrets whispered
on the wind's breath.
Timber, the heartwood's strength,
a testament to time endured,
seasons weathered, storms survived.
Forest, a living tapestry, woven
with rustling leaves and silent growth.
Leaves, a symphony of color,
shifting with the sun's slow dance.
Gold, crimson, a fiery farewell
before the quiet sleep of winter.
The cycle continues, a rhythm
unfolding, a timeless ballet
of life and death.
Sunlight, a golden cascade,
filtering through the canopy's embrace.
Each ray a promise, a whisper
of renewal, of warmth, of life.
Roots, a tangled embrace,
drawing strength from the earth's core.
Branches, reaching for the heavens,
a silent plea, a quiet prayer.
Twilight descends, a hush falls,
the tree stands sentinel, guardian
of whispered dreams, secrets held
in the rustling leaves.
Forest's heart beats softly,
a symphony of whispers, a chorus
of life, a testament to time.
Timber's strength, roots' embrace,
leaves' gentle sigh, a story told
in the language of the woods.
Feb 13, 2025
Feb 13, 2025 at 11:00 AM UTC
oh, what darling things live
in me continually announce her being:
the indent of my hands
the grit of my teeth
the ache of my bones when i move
far away from you
the intimate commune of my mouth
to the supple fruit of the world
and my mind wandering
what to make of nakedness when
you have displaced my weight
into something air's deft hands dare carry!
we are only afloat in each other's
fervid atmosphere.
there are spaces i yield when you ******
forward, killing the fires that live
in me,
the silences that confess the
mild affliction of the bed now void
and impression-laden,
how swiftly i was taken away and how
plodding my return has been,
not so much now myself denying
the imprint of such sharp moment
weaving your truancy
that whenever we make love,
there is something in me that dies
repeatedly, even now, alone
underneath a latticework of dark,
for love clung rather ponderously
stifling all words quivering
and panging and there is now
you, rolling together with the continuity
of these words, thralling me to
one more embrace.
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 1:08 PM UTC
deep in this
latticework of consciousness
learn what darkness is
Jun 5, 2019
Jun 5, 2019 at 8:58 AM UTC