"leafless" poems
Papers, Papers, Papers
Whiter than aching teeth,
Whiter than whites of tilted eyes,
Whiter than funeral wreaths.
My hands shake as I write this,
Filed away myths; Stolen lined sheets
My index finger chained by red tapes,
words mix and ground breaks,
I'm the one the world forsakes
Yellow maize, littered leaves,
all twisted into
black ink and clean sharp white paper blades.
-------"I am in a bit of daze," I tell myself, "look at those flaccid bits;
there lay the logs who use to be the jungle of my childhood dreams."
------"Don't be amazed," I replied, "these leafless branches and twigs are for
your Papier-Mâché degrees."
So I listen to my second self once,
the more logical cynical satirical one,
Treading on the plot of their paper works,
playing crosswords as anxiety uncork
my thoughts turn to the bankable orcs,
just as my career forks
Maybe I should be like my mother,
Marking numbers on a deck of cards-- waltzing with Chance.
Maybe I should be like my father,
Toiling for some rich men's grandson-- seething in Trance.
Maybe I should be like the Other,
Going along with the system-- thanking myself
beneath a cap, a diploma, a piece of paper.
I wore these books like bank notes tuxedoes,
I was promised the world by the credits I borrowed.
Must I go along with the mechanism of their game,
or should I rise up against all odds
Opposing, debating, rebelling against
this bundle, this trouble, funneling me into no-tomorrows
Or must I write it all down,
in my prayers against their lawyers, who need no reminds
Or must I shred, smear, and tear the papers with my own bare hands
But what will I ever be to them, friends?
A papercut, perhaps.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 9:33 PM UTC
Bees build around red liver,
Ants build around black bone.
It has begun: the tearing, the trampling on silks,
It has begun: the breaking of glass, wood, copper, nickel, silver, foam
Of gypsum, iron sheets, violin strings, trumpets, leaves, ***** crystals.
**** Phosphorescent fire from yellow walls
Engulfs animal and human hair.
Bees build around the honeycomb of lungs,
Ants build around white bone.
Torn is paper, rubber, linen, leather, flax,
Fiber, fabrics, cellulose, snakeskin, wire.
The roof and the wall collapse in flame and heat seizes the foundations.
Now there is only the earth, sandy, trodden down,
With one leafless tree.
Slowly, boring a tunnel, a guardian mole makes his way,
With a small red lamp fastened to his forehead.
He touches buried bodies, counts them, pushes on,
He distinguishes human ashes by their luminous vapor,
The ashes of each man by a different part of the spectrum.
Bees build around a red trace.
Ants build around the place left by my body.
I am afraid, so afraid of the guardian mole.
He has swollen eyelids, like a Patriarch
Who has sat much in the light of candles
Reading the great book of the species.
What will I tell him, I, a Jew of the New Testament,
Waiting two thousand years for the second coming of Jesus?
My broken body will deliver me to his sight
And he will count me among the helpers of death:
The uncircumcised.
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The woman in the window
Looks out beyond the glass
Beyond the reach of her whispers
Befogged upon windowpanes glance
Farther than the bounds
Her own breathe imbues
Out of reach her long fingered touch
Tracing her murmurs on looking glass dew
Grasping for the shadowed artifacts
Only time does nonchalantly drift past
Perched alone upon a cloud of silence
Her thoughts eddy in soundless swirl
Spinning like dizzying shadows
Swallowed by a thirst for light
The other side of window beckons
Only she knows she’s looking out through a sigh;
Seeing no one familiar looking back ―
For what hidden jewels within abide
She dreams of dancing leafless by daylight
Twirling beneath the whispering willows sway
Just a step away from being free
Just a step away from feeling alive
With first step beyond imprisoning hesitation
Crossing over the threshold of a dream
Through a liberating portal outside the glass
Just on the other side of the windowsill ...
Jesse e Stillwater
Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 3:34 PM UTC
My parrot is emerald green,
His tail feathers, marine.
He bears an orange half-moon
Over his ivory beak.
He must be believed to be seen,
This bird from a Rousseau wood.
When the urge is on him to speak,
He becomes too true to be good.
He uses his beak like a hook
To lift himself up with or break
Open a sunflower seed,
And his eye, in a bold white ring,
Has a lapidary look.
What a most astonishing bird,
Whose voice when he chooses to sing
Must be believed to be heard.
That stuttered staccato scream
Must be believed not to seem
The shriek of a witch in the room.
But he murmurs some muffled words
(Like someone who talks through a dream)
When he sits in the window and sees
The to-and-fro wings of wild birds
In the leafless improbable trees.
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Nothing on me to light a fire
In this dark place
Only my instincts can save me
A shattered heart and torn soul
But I’m still holding on
There’s not much hope
But I hold faith
That one day I’ll make it free
From this place
I’ll do everything it takes
To get out of here alive
It’s not as easy as it sounds
The hardest things take time
And this is an endless war
Between a conscious mind
Of doubts and regrets
That fill an insomniacs head
All these monsters and me
Stuck here in purgatory
Hellhounds chase me down
For many monsters, I have slain
But there were only more that came
It’s just the monsters and me
Stuck here in purgatory
I’ve followed winding roads
Hid in dying woods
Snuck through the marsh
Covered my scents with mud
In this land, it’s always dark
Woods with leafless trees
It gets lonely here in purgatory
Can you hear the howls,
screams and cries
Deafening to the ears
It’ll make you tremble and shake
You can’t give into fear
Or you won’t make it alive out of here
I’ve been facing down monsters one at a time
Too many at once and they’ll eat you alive
It’s not easy to decide
Which one will be next
Just hope that you don’t mess up
And end up dead
I’m locked and loaded
With guns in hand
I’m prepared as I’ll ever be
I’m gonna make it out of here eventually
All these monsters and me
Stuck here in purgatory
Hellhounds chase me down
For many monsters, I have slain
But there were only more that came
It’s just the monsters and me
Stuck here in purgatory
I’ve followed winding roads
Hid in dying woods
Snuck through the marsh
Covered my scents with mud
In this land, it’s always dark
Woods with leafless trees
It gets lonely here in purgatory
The battles are far from over
Still on guard, ready to defend
Every corner I turn
It gives them a new chance
To catch me off guard
And rip me apart
I’ve got a lot of scars and marks
Barely scraped through
some of my past fights
At the last moments
I was able to turn the tides
How much longer
Can I keep myself alive
I guess the future holds the secrets
Just gotta keep moving
Until I find the exit light
And break free
of this apocalyptic dream
All these monsters and me
Stuck here in purgatory
Hellhounds chase me down
For many monsters, I have slain
But there were only more that came
It’s just the monsters and me
Stuck here in purgatory
I’ve followed winding roads
Hid in dying woods
Snuck through the marsh
Covered my scents with mud
In this land, it’s always dark
Woods with leafless trees
It gets lonely here in purgatory
I’m panting
Taking a deep breath
Bite wounds in my leg
Hellhounds found me out
All is lost now
Guns are out of reach
Might as well accept my fate
Just give in
Let the monsters win
Sometimes you can’t beat a sin
Unless you devote
your unconditional love to him
This was something I never did
So where I’m going is uncertain
Now it’s finally time to
Let the curtain close
Shut my eyes
This is it
I’m torn to bits
All these monsters and me
Stuck here in purgatory
Hellhounds chased me down
For many monsters, I have slain
But there were only more that came
It’s just the monsters and me
Stuck here in purgatory
I’ve followed winding roads
Hid in dying woods
Snuck through the marsh
Covered my scents with mud
In this land, it’s always dark
Woods with leafless trees
I died alone here in purgatory
(To be continued...)
©2018 Written By Benji James
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 9:32 AM UTC
Blanket of Snow On A Hill
In the state of NY upon a hill
A Blanket of Snow was so real
Right before my very eyes
A blanket of snow a surprise
On my way to another state
This photograph I had to take
Nothing moving not a sound
A blanket of snow on ground
On the ground the snow lies
Glittering before my eyes
Every branch on every tree
Snow covered I could see
The beauty of New York City
A Blanket of Snow so pretty
How I will forever behold
It's beauty from the road
The winter wind it doth blow
Through the trees and snow
Blowing through leafless trees
Calms ones spirit right at ease
Softly singing a calm melody
Beckons the call for all to see
The chill of the morning snow
Fills the air of Gods pure glow
All white down the mountain
A stream of frozen fountain
Snow on hill will fade away
To brighten Gods given day
Picture perfect it doth seem
Only something you'd dream
Words hardly cannot convey
Of the beauty I saw that day
WrittenBy: Barbie Kirk 03-01-15 7:25pm - See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11928026-Blanket-of-Snow-On-A-Hill-by-RainbowBlessings#sthash.phXAT515.dpuf
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 1:29 AM UTC
A green pond
In a leafless park
Held with an iron bond
His stagnant equilibrium.
©LazharBouazzi, 5 August, 2018
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 9:53 AM UTC
I
Go on, high ship, since now, upon the shore,
The snake has left its skin upon the floor.
Key West sank downward under massive clouds
And silvers and greens spread over the sea. The moon
Is at the mast-head and the past is dead.
Her mind will never speak to me again.
I am free. High above the mast the moon
Rides clear of her mind and the waves make a refrain
Of this: that the snake has shed its skin upon
The floor. Go on through the darkness. The waves. fly back
II
Her mind had bound me round. The palms were hot
As if I lived in ashen ground, as if
The leaves in which the wind kept up its sound
From my North of cold whistled in a sepulchral South,
Her South of pine and coral and coraline sea,
Her home, not mine, in the ever-freshened Keys,
Her days, her oceanic nights, calling
For music, for whisperings from the reefs.
How content I shall be in the North to which I sail
And to feel sure and to forget the bleaching sand ...
III
I hated the weathery yawl from which the pools
Disclosed the sea floor and the wilderness
Of waving weeds. I hated the vivid blooms
Curled over the shadowless hut, the rust and bones,
The trees likes bones and the leaves half sand, half sun.
To stand here on the deck in the dark and say
Farewell and to know that that land is forever gone
And that she will not follow in any word
Or look, nor ever again in thought, except
That I loved her once ... Farewell. Go on, high ship.
IV
My North is leafless and lies in a wintry slime
Both of men and clouds, a slime of men in crowds.
The men are moving as the water moves,
This darkened water cloven by sullen swells
Against your sides, then shoving and slithering,
The darkness shattered, turbulent with foam.
To be free again, to return to the violent mind
That is their mind, these men, and that will bind
Me round, carry me, misty deck, carry me
To the cold, go on, high ship, go on, plunge on.
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The shadows have their seasons, too.
The feathery web the budding maples
cast down upon the sullen lawn
bears but a faint relation to
high summer's umbrageous weight
and tunnellike continuum-
black leached from green, deep pools
wherein a globe of gnats revolves
as airy as an astrolabe.
The thinning shade of autumn is
an inherited Oriental,
red worn to pink, nap worn to thread.
Shadows on snow look blue. The skier,
exultant at the summit, sees his poles
elongate toward the valley: thus
each blade of grass projects another
opposite the sun, and in marshes
the mesh is infinite,
as the winged eclipse an eagle in flight
drags across the desert floor
is infinitesimal.
And shadows on water!-
the beech bough bent to the speckled lake
where silt motes flicker gold,
or the steel dock underslung
with a submarine that trembles,
its ladder stiffened by air.
And loveliest, because least looked-for,
gray on gray, the stripes
the pearl-white winter sun
hung low beneath the leafless wood
draws out from trunk to trunk across the road
like a stairway that does not rise.
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There is a sequence of small events, signs; that as they occur point us in the direction of the mid-winter festival. This morning: the first snow; iced rain, not the soft down-like floaty stuff, but hard crystal-shaped foot-crunching shards. Yesterday, it was on with the wooly hat, the padded waistcoat and a more than just sprightly walk in a park of leafless trees. Everywhere, a damp coldness.
Sitting companionably after the meal, a fire spitting in the hearth had brought a glow to her cheeks. She was replete with glowness, her speech dancing too and fro after the family phone calls of a Sunday night. Outside, the sound of wind against the house.
Settling herself against him, feet tucked under his reclining body, she tells him about her niece, a birthday girl just two last week. This little one was touchingly innocent of what happens on a birthday. She knew it was coming, next week, soon, then tomorrow. Imagine her the night before: just think you'll wake up and be two! And that's what this birthday business is? She wakes and there is something special in the air, her sister smile-full, bouncy with expectation. Her parents’ voices are louder than usual, there are bigger hugs and longer kisses. Birthday, birthday, birthday. Her grandparents arrive. More hugs. THEN her father appears with a cake! It's only just after breakfast, but the large people are having coffee and there's her juice cup and a cake! Birthday, birthday, birthday shouts her sister. For me, a cake for me? My cake? Daddy lights the candles! Oh, oh, oh. This is . . . and something wrapped in pretty paper is being handed to me. Her sister, being wonderfully sisterly shows her how to remove the wrapping. A book! Read it to me now, now, please. It's my birthday, now.
This is a sign he thinks later when in bed she folds herself to him, arranges his arms and hands to hold her into sleep, still glowing a little. This is surely a sign. A child's discovery of the birth day. The joy it brings, the way it lights up our lives. And never again will her father see quite that measure of surprise and delight in his daughter's face. Next year she'll be full of expectation, know all about birthdays . . and be three.
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 1:56 AM UTC
The full moon caught a glimpse
where the billowed clouds parted
Saucer size Dogwood blossoms
echoed an urging reflection
through wide open window ;
the diffused moonlight reached in
touching the open palms
enduring in an empty void
lay down beside
Softly burnished reflections
lighten blanched flesh petals
swaying in the wakened
spring cadence
Rhinestone memories
tethered from somewhere above ;
as if manipulating puppet strings
dangling down through
the seesaw cloud gap ―
scattering candlelit sequins
like unmapped constellations
brushed by the moonlight
in the dale of your leafless *******
The fragrant breeze
of your memory
gathers a sweetest taste,
teasing wishful thirsty lips
into a gentle smile ...
Tracing unbounded memories
with wandering fingertips
upon your intimate
canvas oasis in my mind
Fallen petals floating gently
across still waters
induced by whispered breeze ;
quiet reminders that ripple
the mesmerizing silence
with the lonely breath
an unheard evanescent sigh
The open window
let the moonlight in,
illuminating lingering
shadows of the past ...
you feel the waft
of spring breathe ...
but you just can't help
where the wind blows
Jesse e. Stillwater
Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 1:09 PM UTC
Creaming leaves, dripping
off her spiderweb branches
as we eat dinner under the mustard sun,
I feel her nervous as I eat slowly, she glances
at my spiderweb branches and grabs my web.
She spins her prey in my web and moves it slowly
down, among her roots, where I feel gnarled and leafless.
My autumn colors have vanished in her winter
frozen stems, frozen in time, I stare into her
mustard reflected eyes.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 5:08 PM UTC
Nothing on me to light a fire
In this dark place
Only my instincts can save me
A shattered heart and torn soul
But I’m still holding on
There’s not much hope
But I hold faith
That one day I’ll make it free
From this place
I’ll do everything it takes
To get out of here alive
It’s not as easy as it sounds
The hardest things take time
And this is an endless war
Between a conscious mind
Of doubts and regrets
That fill an insomniacs head
All these monsters and me
Stuck here in purgatory
Hellhounds chase me down
For many monsters, I have slain
But there were only more that came
It’s just the monsters and me
Stuck here in purgatory
I’ve followed winding roads
Hid in dying woods
Snuck through the marsh
Covered my scents with mud
In this land, it’s always dark
Woods with leafless trees
It gets lonely here in purgatory
Can you hear the howls,
screams and cries
Deafening to the ears
It’ll make you tremble and shake
You can’t give into fear
Or you won’t make it alive out of here
I’ve been facing down monsters one at a time
Too many at once and they’ll eat you alive
It’s not easy to decide
Which one will be next
Just hope that you don’t mess up
And end up dead
I’m locked and loaded
With guns in hand
I’m prepared as I’ll ever be
I’m gonna make it out of here eventually
All these monsters and me
Stuck here in purgatory
Hellhounds chase me down
For many monsters, I have slain
But there were only more that came
It’s just the monsters and me
Stuck here in purgatory
I’ve followed winding roads
Hid in dying woods
Snuck through the marsh
Covered my scents with mud
In this land, it’s always dark
Woods with leafless trees
It gets lonely here in purgatory
The battles are from over
Still on guard, ready to defend
Every corner I turn
It gives them a new chance
To catch me off guard
And rip me apart
I’ve got a lot of scars and marks
Barely scraped through
some of my past fights
At the last moments
I was able to turn the tides
How much longer
Can I keep myself alive
I guess the future holds the secrets
Just gotta keep moving
Until I find the exit light
And break free
of this apocalyptic dream
All these monsters and me
Stuck here in purgatory
Hellhounds chase me down
For many monsters, I have slain
But there were only more that came
It’s just the monsters and me
Stuck here in purgatory
I’ve followed winding roads
Hid in dying woods
Snuck through the marsh
Covered my scents with mud
In this land, it’s always dark
Woods with leafless trees
It gets lonely here in purgatory
I’m panting
Taking a deep breath
Bite wounds in my leg
Hellhounds found me out
All is lost now
Guns are out of reach
Might as well accept my fate
Just give in
Let the monsters win
Sometimes you can’t beat a sin
Unless you devote
your unconditional love to him
This was something I never did
So where I’m going is uncertain
Now it’s finally time to
Let the curtain close
Shut my eyes
This is it
I’m torn to bits
All these monsters and me
Stuck here in purgatory
Hellhounds chased me down
For many monsters, I have slain
But there were only more that came
It’s just the monsters and me
Stuck here in purgatory
I’ve followed winding roads
Hid in dying woods
Snuck through the marsh
Covered my scents with mud
In this land, it’s always dark
Woods with leafless trees
I died alone here in purgatory
(To be continued...)
©2019 Written By Benji James
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 7:30 AM UTC
The seasons send their ruin as they go,
For in the spring the narciss shows its head
Nor withers till the rose has flamed to red,
And in the autumn purple violets blow,
And the slim crocus stirs the winter snow;
Wherefore yon leafless trees will bloom again
And this grey land grow green with summer rain
And send up cowslips for some boy to mow.
But what of life whose bitter hungry sea
Flows at our heels, and gloom of sunless night
Covers the days which never more return?
Ambition, love and all the thoughts that burn
We lose too soon, and only find delight
In withered husks of some dead memory.
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Cold today
but at least
the sun's
in play
Out in it
Wind talking
through mouthfuls of white pine
sweeping, swishing whispers
just enough to let the chimes
sing as bells
without bashing-- themselves
to dissonant trinkets
Music-muttering, free
Leafless shadows of the early spring
cold creeping 'cross
the yards toward noon
where they disappear
into a wood-chipper
What the hell is with my neighbors?
Why do people hate their trees?
Maybe 'cause they are not theirs?
Grown beyond them and their confines?
My tiny yard so feral
They probably hate mine too
But I belong to them
and mine belong to me
They curve around, protective
my home of wind and bird and sky
swirling
cream 'n coffee
one into another
like
Music sometimes
falling through itself into...
Sure--
know how to **** a morning
I let them live
trees and neighbors
...as my mind smears into afternoon
Apr 7, 2018
Apr 7, 2018 at 2:42 PM UTC
Winter, winter how we feel your icy touch
The earth is now under your freezing clutch
All that falls in our ears is the howl of gales from far
The night sky is covered in grayness without a single star
In the dawn, nowhere can one spot the buzzing bees
Icicles hang from boughs of leafless trees
Birds sit with drooping wings in their woody nests
Within eye shot, no trace of any roaming beasts
Trees stand sleeping in the biting cold
And the sun has lost its bright sheen of gold
From nowhere comes the song of a single bird
On the slopes, one cannot sight the grazing herd
Roof tops are crusted with flakes of snow
Which the sun with sharp beams alone can thaw
Piles of snow lie heaped on the barren ground
And the entire Earth lies in a sea of ice drowned
Busy streets and pavements are now lying bare
People stay indoors and to be out, they hardly dare
The rodents have gone into hibernation in their ditch
And life altogether has gone out of pitch
In the smiting chill of a dreadful wintry night
When through every fiber n’ nerve is the cold bite
How we like to sit cocooned beside the hearth
Sipping a cup of steaming tea in rising mirth
In such quiet hours, one can peruse into the pages of tomes
That will transport one to enchanting magical zones
Or engage in a hearty chat with friends and family
Thus turning even the bleakest hours sweet and lively
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 5:59 AM UTC
I can't help but call out, look at the flame!
see it blush the highway bridges, see it burn my family name,
it churns like a half-sarcastic love song on repeat
it dances on the steel mill, makes the blackest smoke taste sweet
it stokes my little leafless heart, gnaws the edges of my sleeves.
because that hot bright tongue is mine, it's mine
a winking message, a cryptic sign,
the mad plumage fluttering above a gridlock hide
a hundred hands snatching up from the skyline
and even when it's lost in the daylight or the rain
I still find it, send it kisses, call it by the family name.
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 12:55 AM UTC
i
a wee shaft of beam
across
a sea of chilly darkness:
dashing on, dashing long
a chain
of disturbing crispy waves.
a haunting pitch
of sirens, of winging gulls.
…then
a whistle in the dark
ii
i have bled.
and ever bleeding
is resurgence.
the stones are stained now
not all are stained yet.
but i can hold no more.
no more.
iii
to listen would have been enough
but spoke i
to deaf-mutes, clayey forms.
and every uttered little word
faded like receding undertone.
and then
conspiracy of silence,
misquotations,
sharing of once
too friendly shoulders.
a nod would have been enough,
or a pat,
or any like gesture;
they turned askance
and i fled… fled away.
iv
back to my chambered shell
back to my cradle
where there are many whispers.
and every fateful swing
of the pendulum
i reel and ride the wheel of fancy,
embrace false idols
like one fearful of his god
if only to escape the haunts
of conscience;
tremble at approaching footsteps,
shriek at every shadow.
v
i shall walk barefoot again
past leafless stumps
windborn, heated, and bowed,
‘cross an oasis grown desert dry,
past anthills now dunghills,
‘neath rapid flutter
of widespread murky wings,
past cliff edges
where resound pampered echoes,
while arched in deceitful hues
a rainbow.
…i scan the blue… i pause…
vi
i await a lily-white stork
or there shall be no curtain speech.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 8:02 PM UTC
On this sweet bank your head thrice sweet and dear
I lay, and spread your hair on either side,
And see the newborn wood flowers bashful-eyed
Look through the golden tresses here and there.
On these debatable borders of the year
Spring’s foot half falters; scarce she yet may know
The leafless blackthorn-blossom from the snow;
And through her bowers the wind’s way still is clear.
But April’s sun strikes down the glades to-day;
So shut your eyes upturned, and feel my kiss
Creep, as the Spring now thrills through every spray,
Up your warm throat to your warm lips: for this
Is even the hour of Love’s sworn suitservice,
With whom cold hearts are counted castaway.
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In my graduation t-shirt,
and it fits right,
she finger-and-thumbs
the switch on my desk lamp.
Lights on.
And I'm getting too thin.
It shouldn't fit right.
"No, no. I want it dark," I say.
"Tell me what's off limits."
Her eyes, big and wet with bongwater,
wash over me. I'm pebble. I'm allowed.
"Why?"
"I want to know what's off limits
so I know where to set my goals."
I believe in love, even at first sight.
Just not the eternal kind. And I love
her when she says things like that
because I created her. And when
you create, and the creation reaches
perfection, all you want to do--
destroy. Hammer to head. Crowbar
to Parkinson thighs. *What's off limits?
What's off limits? What's off limits?*
I can't stop.
Before I respond,
with adolescent delight
she tears me open by the pearl snap.
She lifts her arms up.
Surrender? No. She's a sycamore.
I'm the wind.
Body bare and body scattered,
congregate at the inosculation
of her trunks. She's a sycamore.
I'm the wind.
Wavering.
Leafless.
Pot-addled.
And the breeze doesn't do it.
And the seasons don't affect it.
Gale force insanity.
I climb her branches.
Beard wet with her.
She wipes her off.
I climb her branches.
I can't stop.
Grows into me.
Trunks entrap.
Elevated, she.
And I, well, I
stumble.
Hit the wall.
Concrete, everything.
I press her against it
so hard, she turns to waste
and passes through.
I press her against it
so hard, I can't stop.
Autumn acorn fingertips,
a river emptying to ocean,
and she asks,"Is this off limits?"
as she turns me sharply
and my back collides with the wall.
"Is this off limits?" she asks as she
pounds her head into mine.
"Is this off limits?" she asks as she
claws my face.
"Is this off limits?" she asks as she
licks to heal.
My will says yes.
My flesh says no.
I can't stop.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 10:16 PM UTC
early morning
enough to catch the sunrise color
on a snag of wool
in a leafless tree
in the wind
seed to the chickens
hay the goats and the sheep
their turds on the frozen ground
like coffee beans
in the early morning
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 10:18 AM UTC
And the trees about me,
Let them be dry and leafless; let the rocks
Groan with continual surges; and behind me
Make all a desolation. Look, look, wenches!
Paint me a cavernous waste shore
Cast in the unstilled Cyclades,
Paint me the bold anfractuous rocks
Faced by the snarled and yelping seas.
Display me ****** above
Reviewing the insurgent gales
Which tangle Ariadne’s hair
And swell with haste the perjured sails.
Morning stirs the feet and hands
(Nausicaa and Polypheme).
Gesture of orang-outang
Rises from the sheets in steam.
This withered root of knots of hair
Slitted below and gashed with eyes,
This oval O cropped out with teeth:
The sickle motion from the thighs
Jackknifes upward at the knees
Then straightens out from heel to hip
Pushing the framework of the bed
And clawing at the pillow slip.
Sweeney addressed full length to shave
Broadbottomed, pink from nape to base,
Knows the female temperament
And wipes the suds around his face.
(The lengthened shadow of a man
Is history, said Emerson
Who had not seen the silhouette
Of Sweeney straddled in the sun.)
Tests the razor on his leg
Waiting until the shriek subsides.
The epileptic on the bed
Curves backward, clutching at her sides.
The ladies of the corridor
Find themselves involved, disgraced,
Call witness to their principles
And deprecate the lack of taste
Observing that hysteria
Might easily be misunderstood;
Mrs. Turner intimates
It does the house no sort of good.
But Doris, towelled from the bath,
Enters padding on broad feet,
Bringing sal volatile
And a glass of brandy neat.
3.3k
A canopy of gray covers all that lies below,
The trees are leafless and barren,
I can hear the bitter cold raindrops
As they crash into the leaves,
That lie dead upon the muddy ground,
I see colors of only dark gray and brown and black,
As I look into the woods beyond my window,
It is a peaceful scene,
Yet,mysterious and ancient ,
For some unknown reason,
I am taken back to another time,
A much harder time in mankinds life,
But a much simpler time for his soul,
A time when it was more quiet,
Man was more thoughtful ,
The world more serene,
Man more connected to nature,
Nature in all her forms,
Reveals to us such beauty,
Such overpowering serenity ,
If we will acknowledge it,
This scene that at this moment my eyes behold,
May be cold and gray and portray despair,
But it is as beautiful as a sunny mountain meadow in the spring,
For just as the meadow is,
This scene is a picture painted,
By the master of all nature,
GOD.
In the beginning God...........
Genesis1:1
RLB
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 11:46 AM UTC
Autumn, like an Indian classical dancer, dressed up
Arrives with soft rhymes and quickening steps
She comes aglow, aglow with a rare beauty
Dancing to the bracelet's tinkling song
Her floating robe falls in deep folds around her feet
As she mesmerizes all with moves full of grace
Viewing the flaming colours in assorted display
We are apt to wonder if Nature carefully saved up
All that is best for the closing grand finale
Autumn tints look enchanting all through the land
With pervading green, offset by crimson, citrus yellow
Flaming red, lustrous gold and a faded russet
The air stays crisp and sweet in the ripening fields
While stray clouds ramble in flawless turquoise sky
When autumn is thus all agog like a frenzied dervish
It gives us morbid pictures of death and decay
The trees wrestle to free themselves of their worn cloaks
Causing a cascade of withering autumn leaves
Now they fall scattered in endless stream and lie in piles
Like charred carcasses after a fierce forest fire
The rustle of dry leaves blown by the wind
Falls in our ears with the gabble of migrating birds
Pale sunshine sifts through leafless trees of maple and oak
All those leaves once stayed regal in stations high
But now tossed out like worthless chaff
They come nose diving and fall several meters below
Spreading a hazel curtain over the moist earthen crust
When trampled mercilessly by careless feet
They silently mourn their thankless fate
Graying that comes at the end of each autumnal fall
Reminds us of the pall of gloom that awaits
It is disturbing like the parting song of birds
As they fly southward before the fall of winter
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 9:09 AM UTC