It was a dreamer's day that spun me visually undone
in cloudless skies of wild blue, beneath a basking sun
I drove the mountain road, where flowers bloom wildly to the sky
lupines, lilies, of twinkling starry hills
tallest summer grass, wildflower entwined
with deer to rob such beauty blind
with an other worldly view, I climbed and climbed
leaving all darkened, lowly thoughts
so blotted from my mind
The Mountain keeps all secrets. Crusted lichen on timeworn boulders. High altitude longing for alpine daisies. Carefree blossoms, long ago plucked, gone to seed, restless in the fertile ground. Wildflowers bloom shortly sweet, fleeting paintbrush to layered canvas. Fairy slippers lost on crumbling doorsteps. Glacier lilies pressed between avalanched pages. Forget-me-nots in forgotten blue hollows. The common harebell feels anything but common when seen through a lover's eyes. Forest tiger, your bulbs taste bitter. Purple lupines sage with fuzzy-leafed logic. Fireweed, erect, unadorned, eternally reaching. Lousewort, spreading phlox, leave this scarlet alone. Listen to Indian Henry, it's bad luck to trample what is sacred. The devil dreams behind steep and sheltered walls. Keep to the Wonderland, bypass this Trail of Shadows. Seek ancient hunting grounds, steadfast shelter in the wooded clearing. There is no pearly everlasting along these old trails. Paradise lost may never be regained.
He lived at the base of a bottle.
He broke it.
Baying like a wild wolf.
Wolves are nice.
There have been tales of lupines kind looking after human cubs.
Displaced and alone.
He wasn't one.
He was a werewolf.
Baying for blood or beer.
The latter more evocative of the demonic drinker.
Just me, thinker.
Then I recalled.
Hollering for loudly for yet another drink.
Made me think!
I long to lay in that garden once more
let the veins in my chest grow in the patterns of grass roots
I ache to flow my love for the farm from every part of my being
those are the lives that fostered my passion
In the Summer I came back to enjoy the fruits of my labor
of countless tomatoes I seeded in tiny trays in early spring
I need that place to nurture my growth as I discover more land
I am reaching for the sun and stars,
but I need water from that acre
the love of all the farmers
and the magic of mycelium
I was planted on the edge of the path
I have been run over by wheel barrows
and trampled on by tiny feet
Had snow and mud piled on me,
but I feel myself coming back this spring
I am stronger than any year before
and I have come to tell stories of resilience and hope,
through miraculous green leaves
and flowers of breathtaking color
like the roses in my cheeks from long days
ankle deep in compost,
but not a rose bush
not pointing hands of thorns
keeping away my gardeners
I left my heart in the lupines I planted last year
tulips, Iris and Hyacinth.
and along the border
of my pathway.
Pansy and Peony
lupines forget- me -nots
and Oh! Lilac
I must not forget Lilac.
It was her favorite.
Today all the windows
are open the breath
of her flowers
that she loved so
are with me.
As perhaps so is she.
As our favorite month
of the year
Cascades in its merriment
My mother used to keep Lupines
in the cracks of her favorite book.
They bloomed into oblivion, and they bloomed
into the book, because they didn’t know any better, which is how
it is with all flowers, and not just Lupines (I think), and which
is like how I don’t know any better
than to whisper gratitude to strangers
I’ve seen a million times over sitting on the curbs
of sidewalks that run along every surface of the earth. It is one of my only
redeeming qualities, and it makes up for all of the times when
I’ve been petulant, even though
Little Brother tells me that I’m too sorry too often. My mother says that I’m just
“being (too) polite” —
my mother has never known any better than to defend me
even when I should not be defended (which is always).
Instead of gullible, my mother calls me trusting, even though I didn’t trust
Billy The Neighbor on the other side of the street (in East of Eden)
when he told me he saw an alien, and the alien’s name
was Fred, and he was a nice enough alien, and he
was the size of a fingernail with pink and yellow skin. Aliens are what I cannot believe, because my mother said that before I was born,
I was an alien. I guess she just doesn’t know that the only alien is
Billy The Neighbor, and that when he said he saw an alien,
what he really meant was that he saw himself.
Billy The Neighbor has long skin, and short hair, and tall eyes
that I don’t like to watch. Once, he called me a ghost, and maybe he’s right
(I believe in ghosts, even though I don’t – can’t – believe in aliens, unless you are
Billy The Neighbor): my skin is always too pale,
and my arms are always too far away, and I can stick my hand
through my cold leg, which I guess is not very normal. Sometimes,
I wish I could be the largest sea turtle in the world instead of being a ghost,
because I like being in water, even though I don’t like to drink it
(I only like fat-free milk, and on every other Sunday, I like orange juice). Also, it might be nice to have salty tears – mine
are usually too fresh (which is odd, because my tears should be salty,
even if I am not a turtle), but here’s a story for you: my eyes have never
actually drooped, except for when Billy The Neighbor told me I
was dirty after I finished loving his brother. So,
maybe it doesn’t matter how fresh my tears are. Or maybe I would
cry more if my tears were saltier, and maybe my crying
would be more fragile than it is now. I saw Billy The Neighbor’s brother
cry, because he had loved his dog too much. Also, I
saw his collarbones, and I guess Billy The Neighbor called me dirty
soon after that. Billy The Neighbor’s brother once told me I
became too attached too easily, but there’s another word for it –
I just like people who are loyal, and who can be as loyal as I am. Also,
I like people who are like Billy The Neighbor’s brother, and who can
cry over everything, because when I was little I did cry, just not anymore.
When I was little, I fainted, because someone was talking about rape.
My mother called me sensitive, but everybody else called me
“mentally disturbed.” I started seeing a therapist after that. My therapist
told me to sing. She had a torn poster of Don McLean on her wall, and she
wanted to be his therapist. Or,
she wanted to sing dirges in the dark with him. I guess I was the next best thing,
but I didn’t know how to sing a dirge for her, and I
apologized to her for it – she didn’t know that I was actually
just too lonely to do so. Then I stopped crying, even though
my body still housed more tears.
Billy The Neighbor’s brother once cried over steeped tea,
and I wish I had, too, but I didn’t. Yesterday, Little Brother
cried tears of amethyst, and he stained the floor velvet. Nobody came
to clean the floor, or to lick the color away, so now the floors are velvet,
which is sad, but mother says it’s beautiful. Whenever she says “beautiful,” I want
to throw up, because that is the worst word. I’m sorry for that. I wish I could
call people beautiful, but I’m too kind to do so.
there is rain and there is lightning and there are trees
and in one corner of the field there are
in long skirts, white like your boy's face. they are picking
flowers just for you (for your hair): hydrangeas and lupines. in this dream you do not have a name, just a mouth, to swallow the rain, and the clouds that hang
overhead like dead kingfishers are heavy and black and swole
with more water. your clothes are not wet in this dream.
your skin is, your skin is pink and wet, looking the way it did
the day of your birth, but your clothes -- mother's old blue dress curled
carefully around your knees (the dress is too small -- mother
has always been so tiny, so much tinier than you are) -- are dry as your lips.
your stomach is churning, you are standing in this field you don't know,
and your stomach is churning as though you love a boy. you do
love a boy, but not like this. your boy is pale, your boy is quiet
as your childhood house, and so your love for him
is quiet as well, it never churns, but now your stomach is churning,
with rain, maybe, with this dream. you think about the boy,
but he is the wrong boy. you are ready to wake up.
The wolf bays, as sundown falls.
He's singing to the moon.
Hark his fearsome calls.
Big in stature, almost screaming, as his bitches swoon.
Running through the undergrowth,his pack aside.
That pack ventures forth.
Due north of course.
There's an elk in the open, grazing,
A little late I know.
Hears the baying wolf coming,
Off he goes.
Fellows from the pack of lupines,
Left eating worms,
Got no grub.
Ain't got no satisfaction.
Maybe tomorrow night.
If they stay silently out of sight.
create a foreground effect
below glistening concertina wire
as the morning sun shines down
the prison in April blooms forth
despite itself –
goslings, tan with black spots
forcing recognition of nature
in a place void of hope
springtime blessing the groundskeepers
and those fortunate enough to have been given yard time
blue skies only corrupted by chemical spray –
laughing inmates break my concentration as a pigeon lands on
a cool breeze creeps in diluting the stale air
education floor buzzes with activity
as forgotten men seek to become more
I sit encouraged by light bulbs –
crackling radio signals the line movement
round two of handshakes and polite jokes
another hour and twenty minutes of magic
I quietly sit back and smile at the scene laid before me
no student has more fire for education
than a man who thought himself less than nothing
there is rain and there is lightning and there are trees
and in one corner of the field there are two women
with wrinkled faces and long white skirts, making
their presences known the way you wish your grandmothers,
both dead, would. they are picking flowers just for you
(for your hair); hydrangeas and lupines.
in this dream you do not have a name – in this dream nobody has a name –
just a mouth, to swallow the rain, and the clouds that hang overhead
like dead kingfishers are heavy and black and swole with more water.
your clothes are not wet in this dream; your skin is – your skin is pink and wet,
looking the way it did the day of your birth, but your clothes –
old blue dress curled carefully around your knees – are dry
as your lips. you notice your stomach churning. you are standing
in this field and you notice your stomach churning as though
you love a boy. you do love a boy, but not like this: your boy is quiet
as your childhood house, and so your love for him
is quiet as well (it never churns). you dream about the boy,
but he is the wrong boy: a boy suddenly in the corner
of the field, a boy with a face too loud, like the flickering
of a dying light bulb in a darkening closet. this boy has replaced
the women with wrinkled faces and long white skirts;
they have disappeared the way grandmothers so often do.
now you are ready to wake up.
in bed next to you is a boy
and he is sleeping
with a body soft as the entrails of a mother.
I am the one who owns this game
This game of cat and mouse; the chase
Not him, not them, not those
Who think it is in their place
The ones who covet the loving gleam
In a woman’s drawn up eyes
But then tell her that she was no more
Than a whore, a slut; filthy pennies in disguise
They leave her rotten, confused, revised
Writing sickly poems of love and gore
Reflection in her puzzled heart
Rebuild the sloppy, slaughtered gears, restart and then restore
I have written those poems too,
When I bore marks of the lost and broken
whispered words, shaking from my lips,
of things yet unspoken
Now I need no more
For poetry unheeded brings more sorrow on which to thrive
And anyways poetry writes itself for me,
Cause I have eaten it, alive
I have learned the trades of love
And unlearned how to feel
I threw my heart away gladly
For the others I could steal
I am the one who pulls you in,
Not you, strong soldier, the statue,
clearly cut and manned
I am the one whose glistening strife
Slides, dripping, through your open hands
I have the voice, purring rolls of silk,
Emerald slants, gaudy blue feathered eyes
Lupines bloom upon my lips
And foxgloves on my thighs
I have the sterling studs of class
The cocky robin smile,
A drink like silver wine am I
From a savory crystal vile
I have the shift of gentleness,
A tender, blooming embrace
You hold nothing but trust in me
Adoration upon your disgusting face
But I know something you do not
That only I have the key
Patience until the shaking burst
A monster waiting to break free
She howls and rips your heartstrings raw
Ignores your pleading glance with glee
A smirk, a sneer, arched lips pause
Knowing your demise is our reward
We won’t stop until you cease to be
I have strength beneath my beloved monster’s wings
The power to bend with whip-like throw
Each man I take, battles for my neck
And I slaughter each, basking in the glow
We have done this for ages
Sold perfection, curving laces at every door
Like gypsies we steal what you cling to most
Our silver infused fingers beckoning for more
Love is no longer fun for us
We crave deception, challenged lies,
We’ll never give you what you want
Only slay your mind and watch as it dies
As the madness creeps on mottled claws
And you beg and plead curled up in pain
Letting us in through your wracking body rocks
A glimpse, peeled back to reveal the stain
So pound the floors as much as you want
Drag splinters from your drooling cavernous screams
Throw yourself away again and again
Cause I will never leave your mind,
Having sown myself into your dreams
I am what you think about
What you've sold every scrap of yourself for
But I am a fake, a mask, the satin covered machine
What you fear will reap your corrupted core.
You never knew that all I want
Is to take but never give
To seduce but never stay
The girl who steals your love to live
And buries it in your own decay
After every sumptuous feast,
We give a trill, a gauzy lilting stream
Notes lift our cool heads high
Poised waiting for the choking screams
And as we slide through fractured lives,
My monster and I
We ponder the day we'll wake in hell
Eagerly awaiting the reward for all our lies
For we're not scared of death or flames
Flickering bodies of damnation
Cause we know we’ll live forever
In those suffering from love starvation