"mesas" poems
today we visit graveyards
turning over the wormy soil
to uncover the exquisite corpse
though we were told to
let the dead bury the dead
on this day we unbury
the dearly departed
relishing transcendent
embraces and cool
cervezas with jolly
amigos and la
familia who have
gone on before
we wrap ourselves
in graveblankets
to complete warm
circles of love
embracing our
beloved companeros;
gleaning netherworld
heavenly rest wisdom,
sharing the laughter
of trite earthly concerns
we’ll roll speckled tortillas
on smooth tombstone mesas
to feast on Mariachi tacos
brimming with spicy queso,
chased with another cool sip
waltzing with the holy bones
to the candle lit reveries
of this evenings
flowing melodies
Mercedes Sosa & Joan Baez
Gracias a la Vida
Dia De Muertos
Diego Rivera
Oakland
11/1/13
jbm
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 2:22 AM UTC
A lost and thirsty wanderer
sought oasis on a parched and dusty plain
where spectral mesas
merged with pastel stratus clouds -
quivering in the summer sun.
A slender blue ellipse emerged
along the horizon's edge,
taunting the traveler’s arid throat.
Recalling child-day afternoons.
splashing in the pond behind the barn,
his legs urged toward aquatic deliverance.
But knowledge seized his boots.
Wary of loving a delusion,
he chose instead to seek a road or farm
or chance upon a horse-backed rancher
tracking down an errant calf.
Still he looked back to his phantom pond –
never to know if an oasis flowed
less than an hour’s walk away.
December, 2018
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 9:41 AM UTC
that summer, Born to Be Wild
and Mrs. Robinson were on AM,
A & W Drive Inns served frosted mugs
and Tet’s blood had not long dried black
on Saigon streets
my thumb took me from the green tipped tongue
of western Kentucky across the wide world
to a café in Santa Rosa, where I spent my last
eighty-five cents, on a tuna sandwich
and chips
a bus bench was waiting for me
when the cafe closed its doors
at 12:10, the old waitress giving me
a generous extra dime of time,
knowing I had to face the night
and the bench, or the New Mexico road
I chose the latter and headed south
under coal dark skies
only eighteen wheelers passed, their screaming lights
robbing me of what quiet vision night’s monotony had granted
they saw my thumb, but not one stopped; they did not know I had walked
a dozen dark dead miles, and had not closed my eyes in 60 hours
nor did they care, about me, or my shadow on Highway 54
I talked to pinyons, cedars that dotted the mesas
and moved about like mournful buffalo, stirred to life
by a sound or a scent, perhaps my own foul road bouquet,
though they were mute, even when I asked them
if I was seeing god in their measured marching
across my desert dream
long before
the dawn I begged to come
I saw him, dead center on my highway
so black he was blue, his eyes like two emeralds
hanging in some ethereal space, staring at me, the rest
of the absent world unaware he was there, growling
the rumble so low I tasted it, as he might taste me,
I felt our nostrils flair, as his would when
he devoured me, I saw the blood feast
through our eyes, the last morsel of me,
a pale art form on an asphalt palette
as he swallowed the last of his meal
the eighteen wheeler came, its high beams bouncing off him
only long enough for me to see his mouth was dry
and his belly empty, before he vanished
into the blue night
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 11:48 AM UTC
as dusk rolled into night,
we watched a gray storm pour off the mesas
you spoke of life, death and what lies in between
I smelled the rain and watched the lightning dance off
every rock, revealing some sacred secret alchemy in their stony souls
a molten mix from ancient seas which yet today
makes a bargain with light brighter than our simple, dying sun
when your words faded into a sleepy slur, I walked
through the torrents of rain, not shivering
from the dreary drenched burden of the flesh
nor from the earthly winds, but from the vision
of my paw prints disappearing
before they were even made
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 5:43 PM UTC
Old prophets ride on balloons
with their noses above their beards
Poking into and stirring around affairs
like my stunted grandfather
with his finger in a pine bush
stirring up the bird that nested there.
The moaning of the prophets became
The growling of a caged cheeseburger
Long snouted, glaring up at me
From its jail cell hole in the floor,
Which was the ventilation grate.
My grandfather hunted him
In full John Wayne regalia
Stalking among the mesas and plateau
Of 1970's afghan covered furniture sets
Which were the desert of his crust.
The bedentured coffee cup fell of the shelf
and broke and shattered, from that
The schnoz'd cheeseburger left,
Yes he retreated down the vent.
Which was the liberation of my dreams
Tobacco stuck to grandfather's boots
It was pungent and potent but
also diabetic and diabolic.
Some family thinks it killed him
Which was the excuse behind my punishment
The prophets balloon's
Their threads were cut
and they crashed into a pine bush
stirring up the bird that nested there.
Which was my grandfather's spirit.
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 8:15 PM UTC
Where to put the corruption -
fluid-filled half-lungs
choked on their coughs;
until fatigue made them
tentative motions
lived on knives' edges
slipped to flesh too often;
medications eased our pain,
tubes ******* up questions
we didn't want answered.
there were no more procedures -
clinical masks hiding fears
under dry medical terms
could finally be abandoned,
traded for tears shared with the window
Death waited to steal in the room
when our backs were turned;
we let lights burn in daylight
and night to scare away demons
even for a mind too tired to read.
every word yet put to page
had been made irrelevant -
she read mountains in distance,
climbed apple trees
at home again in Pennsylvania,
savoring redness of skinned knees;
sat on dusty mesas and prayed
for things no men had seen.
The child, still afraid of darkness,
begged "if only you would eat?"
but she smiled weakly,
as if embarrassed her secret
had been discovered
and asked me to flip the switch
so she might sleep;
son, always the obedient one,
turned off the light before he left.
Jul 11, 2010
Jul 11, 2010 at 7:50 PM UTC
The Walk
I got red clay and grass on my feet today in the land of the Navaho it seemed I channeled one of their
Braves it seemed my eyes grew stronger the buttes and mesas the southwest had on familiar adoring that
flows with a fluidity in the driest land yet still the streaming it breaks free and flows down to the
Valley then it arrests the high distant peaks like your eyes become the bow shooting at the target straight
And true with speed it passes stationary objects it brings them to intensified life they are passed in a whirl
No longer are they so fixed as they were nothing now they enliven my heart it beats faster with the joy they
Possess magic it lies in depths of tree and scrub it appears as a wild and crazed painter of the caliber of
Van Gogh started at a certain point definitely he favored red as his base color then with differing shades
Of green he cloaked this thermal world it would be uniquely different a somber invitation to a feast at first
Glance seemingly a hard pronounced edge but a people with dark red to brown skin walked into this
World they put the finish to perfect with indigo as their primary color of dress what living moods now
Stand out against the red terrain singularly or as a tribe they clashed with this scenic land earth and sky
Had a joining place among a people that were formable there power they were educated not by
Scholarly universities but by rock streams trees and from creatures that learned to survive in a hostile
Environment it’s interesting to note that one of our most robust presidents an easterner when his wife
And mother died within days of one another Teddy Roosevelt chose the west as the place to seek
Healing for his devastated life the rest of his life is a pretty good testament to this place and it’s curative
Powers not bad for a rocky dry land thought by most to be worthless just an observation of one whom
Walked in the paths of a rich diverse and proud people I think my Cherokee grandmother would be
Proud she always talked about where we would go she took a detour and went to heaven instead in the
Meantime I will do the earth side adventures for the both of us
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 7:40 PM UTC
12 days in the wilderness
what solitude hath brought…
a paltry sum of windy words
silly abstractions with the scent of turds
wandering the cedar dotted mesas,
once a vast and dreamy sea
inspired nothing in the verbosity of me
now home from the night walks
the ghostly winds that had so much to say
yet if I heard them, the words are hiding
in some wavy web of cells, firing blanks
when I aim at the blissfully blank page
who am I
to defile this space,
with puerile pecking
when the white wisdom of the ages
eyeless, stares at me
admonishing me
that words can
beguile the shrewdest master
by convincing him
they do not exist
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 1:15 PM UTC
Amo las cosas loca,
locamente.
Me gustan las tenazas,
las tijeras,
adoro
las tazas,
las argollas,
las soperas,
sin hablar, por supuesto,
del sombrero.
Amo
todas las cosas,
no sólo
las supremas,
sino
las
infinita-
mente
chicas,
el dedal,
las espuelas,
los platos,
los floreros.
Ay, alma mía,
hermoso
es el planeta,
lleno
de pipas
por la mano
conducidas
en el humo,
de llaves,
de saleros,
en fin,
todo
lo que se hizo
por la mano del hombre, toda cosa;
las curvas del zapato,
el tejido,
el nuevo nacimiento
del oro
sin la sangre,
los anteojos,
los clavos,
las escobas,
los relojes, las brújulas,
las monedas, la suave
suavidad de las sillas.
Ay cuántas
cosas
puras
ha construido
el hombre:
de lana,
de madera,
de cristal,
de cordeles,
mesas
maravillosas,
navíos, escaleras.
Amo
todas
las cosas,
un porque sean
ardientes
o fragantes,
sino porque
no sé,
porque
este océano es el tuyo,
es el mío:
los botones,
las ruedas,
los pequeños
tesoros
olvidados,
los abanicos en
cuyos plumajes
desvaneció el amor
sus azahares,
las copas, los cuchillos,
las tijeras,
todo tiene
en el mango, en el contorno,
la huella
de unos dedos,
de una remota mano
perdida
en lo más olvidado del olvido.
Yo voy por casas,
calles,
ascensores,
tocando cosas,
divisando objetos
que en secreto ambiciono:
uno porque repica,
otro porque
es tan suave
como la suavidad de una cadera,
otro por su color de agua profunda,
otro por su espesor de terciopelo.
Oh río
irrevocable
de las cosas,
no se dirá
que sólo
amé
los peces,
o las plantas de selva y de pradera,
que no sólo
amé
lo que salta, sube, sobrevive, suspira.
No es verdad:
muchas cosas
me lo dijeron todo.
No sólo me tocaron
o las tocó mi mano,
sino que acompañaron
de tal modo
mi existencia
que conmigo existieron
y fueron para mí tan existentes
que vivieron conmigo media vida
y morirán conmigo media muerte.
1.3k
I've had the same view
here in the city
for awhile now
the banks of the schuylkill
the art museum
rocky balboa himself
its been 6 months
the same window
the same view
so many lights
always on
occasional cars
I can hardly see
last nights snow
littering the ground
7 stories downward
one hell of a fall
the glass is too thick
don't worry
no cleanup today
only me
watching the snow melt
and the cars pass
and the life
of everything
drudging slowly onwards
as it has for six months now
here on the banks
of the schuylkill
the tempo is all off
a terrible pace
in a terrible place
Kerouac did a year
up in New York
6 months more
then maybe I'm out
of here
on the road
to mexico
cheap liquor
and cheaper love
the heart beats
quicker there
stooped up in
some backwards
bordello
paying dime a dollar
for another round
then off to san francisco
where the beat stomps
and stutters under that
spotlight
or maybe the blood red mesas
of el paso
where the young broads
dark as honey
can taste just as sweet
but only just a while
its that thrill
you long to have
one more time
breaking a sweat in
the backyards
sneaking love
under fences
and desert floors
just to be anywhere else
where the beat is quicker
than here
I'm growing deaf to it
here in the doldrums
here in the city
of brotherly love
on the banks of the schuylkill
watching the same view
from the same window
as rocky balboa stands tall
moving faster than me in
that forever celebration
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 1:40 AM UTC
Perched atop my soft granite cloud
I breathe in the apex of the land
the vast miniature world below
awaits the landing of my fingertips
My fingers
wander across the rusty red mesas
slide down between its soft ribbed slopes
caress its contours
feel the sun baked warmth
brushing against their pads
My lips
kiss the lily white clouds
press against the blue glass sky
burn in the flowering sun
nibble on dark rolling mountains
tongue tasting the icy frosted peaks
My toes
test the tiny tepid lakes
chance upon the gritty texture just below
prickle on the rugged treetops
tap the smooth rocky surface retreating from my perch
dancing in time to the pulse of the wind
Jul 18, 2010
Jul 18, 2010 at 2:48 PM UTC
Carmelita and Maria
burn with sorrow dressed as anger;
fire in their black-diamond eyes,
hot enough to scald tears
before they roll down
the brown lands of their faces.
Both quiver like chamisa in the dry wind
but the pride of long-suffering roots
will not concede to any withering wind.
Carmelita and Maria
are born of the same stubborn stone
as the ageless mesas around Coyote,
though pain carves arroyos in their souls.
As even the desert Rio Chama overflows
when the thirsty earth
cannot drink the rainstorm fast enough
and brings flowers in sand,
Carmelita and Maria will not admit it,
not to one another or to themselves,
but both long for the desert inside them
to blossom after the winter,
to be the sun,
each to the flower that is the other.
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 2:59 PM UTC
New Mexico stretches her calves against too much sky.
Her mesas are polka dotted and she’s only wearing
Red and green in her hair.
She opens her palms,
Gives us graveyards
And we kiss the dust from her palms.
Jan 27, 2011
Jan 27, 2011 at 9:23 PM UTC
El peñón enarca
su espinazo de tigre
que espera dar un zarpazo
en el canal.
Agarradas a la única calle,
como a una amarra,
las casas hacen equilibrio
para no caerse al mar,
donde los malecones
arrullan entre sus brazos
a los buques de guerra,
que tienen epidermis y letargos de cocodrilo.
Las caras idénticas
a esas esculturas
que los presidiarios tallan
en un carozo de aceituna,
los indios venden
marfiles de tibias de mamut,
sedas auténticas de Munich,
juegos de te,
que las señoras ocultan bajo sus faldas,
con objeto de abanicar su azoramiento
al cruzar la frontera.
Hartos de tierra firme,
las marineros
se embarcan en los cafés,
hasta que el mareo los zambulle
bajo las mesas,
o tocan a rebato
con las campanas de sus pantalones
para que las niñeras
acudan a agravar
sus nostalgias, de países lejanos,
con que las pipas inciensan
las veredas de la ciudad.
907
Fue la pasada primavera,
hace ahora casi un año,
En un salón del viejo Temple, en Londres,
Con viejos muebles. Las ventanas daban,
Tras edificios viejos, a lo lejos,
Entre la hierba el gris relámpago del río.
Todo era gris y estaba fatigado
Igual que el iris de una perla enferma.
Eran señores viejos, viejas damas,
En los sombreros plumas polvorientas;
Un susurro de voces allá por los rincones,
Junto a mesas con tulipanes amarillos,
Retratos de familia y teteras vacías.
La sombra que caía
Con un olor a gato,
Despertaba ruidos en cocinas.
Un hombre silencioso estaba
Cerca de mí. Veía
La sombra de su largo perfil algunas veces
Asomarse abstraído al borde de la taza,
Con la misma fatiga
Del muerto que volviera
Desde la tumba a una fiesta mundana.
En los labios de alguno,
Allá por los rincones
Donde los viejos juntos susurraban,
Densa como una lágrima cayendo,
Brotó de pronto una palabra: España.
Un cansancio sin nombre
Rodaba en mi cabeza.
Encendieron las luces. Nos marchamos.
Tras largas escaleras casi a oscuras
Me hallé luego en la calle,
Y mi lado, al volverme,
Vi otra vez a aquel hombre silencioso,
Que habló indistinto algo
Con acento extranjero,
Un acento de niño en voz envejecida.
Andando me seguía
Como si fuera solo bajo un peso invisible,
Arrastrando la losa de su tumba;
Mas luego se detuvo.
«¿España?», dijo. «Un nombre.
España ha muerto.» Había
Una súbita esquina en la calleja.
Le vi borrarse entre la sombra húmeda.
947
Ancient secrets in dark, dry, caves
filled with airs of eldritch winds
suffocated of life and it's needs
solemn graveyard to the nonexistent
Biting brown of antiquated dunes
dead fire of fossil sand
burning with the lost rage of lost ages
exterior to great alchemic secrets
Heavens filled with brooding anxiety
pining and craving teem in the atmosphere
desires to combust and crystallize
eroded off by laws of impossible physics
Uncongealed remnants of shells and beasts
bacteria and algae now unearthed to light
testimonial to buried memories
mummified by cadavers of glaciers and mesas
But a glacier for whom?
Can resolution be concluded by the uinverse
that vast cosmic void hanging in oracle's riddles
staring back at the stargazers?
Ancient secrets, eldritch airs,
solemn graveyards, and requiem for what?
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 5:47 PM UTC
Red table mesas
Whitest clouds dot to dot sky
Healing waters run
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 9:42 AM UTC
Allí están,
allí estaban
las trashumantes nubes,
la fácil desnudez del arroyo,
la voz de la madera,
los trigales ardientes,
la amistad apacible de las piedras.
Allí la sal,
los juncos que se bañan,
el melodioso sueño de los sauces,
el trino de los astros,
de los grillos,
la luna recostada sobre el césped,
el horizonte azul,
¡el horizonte!
con sus briosos tordillos por el aire.
¡Pero no!
Nos sedujo lo infecto,
la opinión clamorosa de las cloacas,
los vibrantes eructos de onda corta,
el pasional engrudo
las circuncisas lenguas de cemento,
los poetas de moco enternecido,
los vocablos,
las sombras sin remedio.
Y aquí estamos:
exangües,
más pálidos que nunca;
como tibios pescados corrompidos
por tanto mercader y ruido muerto:
como mustias acelgas digeridas
por la preocupación y la dispepsia;
como resumideros ululantes
que toman el tranvía
y bostezan
y sudan
sobre el carbón, la cal, las telarañas;
como erectos ombligos con pelusa
que se rascan las piernas y sonríen,
bajo los cielorrasos
y las mesas de luz
y los felpudos;
llenos de iniquidad y de lagañas,
llenos de hiel y tics a contrapelo,
de histrionismos madeja,
yarará,
mosca muerta;
con el cráneo repleto de aserrín escupido,
con las venas pobladas de alacranes filtrables,
con los ojos rodeados de pantanosas costas
y paisajes de arena,
nada más que de arena.
Escoria entumecida de enquistados complejos
y cascarrientos labios
que se olvida del **** en todas partes,
que confunde el amor con el masaje,
la poesía con la congoja acidulada,
los misales con los libros de caja.
Desolados engendros del azar y el hastío,
con la carne exprimida
por los bancos de estuco y tripas de oro,
por los dedos cubiertos de insaciables ventosas,
por caducos gargajos de cuello almidonado,
por cuantos mingitorios con trato de excelencia
explotan las tinieblas,
ordeñan las cascadas,
la edulcorada caña,
la sangre oleaginosa de los falsos caballos,
sin orejas,
sin cascos,
ni florecido esfínter de amapola,
que los llevan al hambre,
a empeñar la esperanza,
a vender los ovarios,
a cortar a pedazos sus adoradas madres,
a ingerir los infundios que pregonan las lámparas,
los hilos tartamudos,
los babosos escuerzos que tienen la palabra,
y hablan,
hablan,
hablan,
ante las barbas próceres,
o verdes redomones de bronce que no mean,
ante las multitudes
que desde un sexto piso
podrán semejarse a caviar envasado,
aunque de cerca apestan:
a sudor sometido,
a cama trasnochada,
a sacrificio inútil,
a rencor estancado,
a pis en cuarentena,
a rata muerta.
829
Corner curtains close to encircle
souls bearing poems
scratched on manila pads or
formed on computers
to await a reading
amid clangs of ceramic cups
stainless steel utensils
and cream pitchers.
Carlo’s throat cracks while
he recalls running his fingers
over dry scaly skin
tolerating the heat rising in his body
as he befriends
snakes coexisting in his camp
Mokasiya narrates adventures
along rock mesas
formed and shaded
red, orange and tan
and how grasses turn brittle and dry
nearly dissapearing
amid enormous grasshopper swarms .
.
A young woman sings and plays poetic
lyrics of struggles
lamenting that she should have
given in to the hot rage in her throat
to shoot and **** the *****
who corrupted her father’s marriage
Corner curtains open
as words and phrases
remain to die
among the chairs
mixing with the sawdust
on the hardwood flooring
unlikely to become
reborn, reread or recorded
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 12:38 PM UTC
sleep deprived five dozen hours
I am on a desert highway, without a nickel
my thumb begging for a ride which wouldn’t come
until dawn
but I don’t know all that dark is ahead;
I only know the night is moonless, the cedars
the pinyons on the far mesas are moving like mournful buffalo,
long gone except in my waking dream
on the road two eyes are all I see
green, sparkling as prisms of light in all that black,
electrified ***** of mushy matter, glowing in sockets
in a canine skull
I fear strange dogs
and other fanged beasts--I pray to a god
I do not know is there, imploring empty space
and dark matter for salvation
it comes when the lights of a diesel
birth, rear, and shrink the shadow of me
and allow my vexed eyes to see, an asphalt stream
with nary a scary creature but I
Nov 26, 2016
Nov 26, 2016 at 6:21 PM UTC
Sigo pela avenida,
os cafés recolhem
as mesas.
Esplanadas frias,
já sem ninguém,
já sem sentido.
Chuis fazem cumprir a lei
com varinhas de condão.
Na janela,
um rosto
imagem distorcida
Uma carabina
um tiro
no frio da noite uma imagem gélida
Sigo em frente
pela estrada de asfalto
rumo à indiferença.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 6:07 PM UTC
El palomar de las cartas
abre su imposible vuelo
desde las trémulas mesas
donde se apoya el recuerdo,
la gravedad de la ausencia,
el corazón, el silencio.
Oigo un latido de cartas
navegando hacia su centro.
Donde voy, con las mujeres
y con los hombres me encuentro,
malheridos por la ausencia,
desgastados por el tiempo.
Cartas, relaciones, cartas:
tarjetas postales, sueños,
fragmentos de la ternura,
proyectados en el cielo,
lanzados de sangre a sangre
y de deseo a deseo.
Aunque bajo la tierra
mi amante cuerpo esté,
escríbeme a la tierra
que yo te escribiré.
En un rincón enmudecen
cartas viejas, sobres viejos,
con el color de la edad
sobre la escritura puesto.
Allí perecen las cartas
llenas de estremecimientos.
Allí agoniza la tinta
y desfallecen los pliegos,
y el papel se agujerea
como un breve cementerio
de las pasiones de antes,
de los amores de luego.
Aunque bajo la tierra
mi amante cuerpo esté,
escríbeme a la tierra,
que yo te escribiré.
Cuando te voy a escribir
se emocionan los tinteros:
los negros tinteros fríos
se ponen rojos y trémulos,
y un claro calor humano
sube desde el fondo *****
Cuando te voy a escribir,
te van a escribir mis huesos:
te escribo con la imborrable
tinta de mi sentimiento.
Allá va mi carta cálida,
paloma forjada al fuego,
con las dos alas plegadas
y la dirección en medio.
Ave que sólo persigue,
para nido y aire y cielo,
carne, manos, ojos tuyos,
y el espacio de tu aliento.
Y te quedarás desnuda
dentro de tus sentimientos,
sin ropa, para sentirla
del todo contra tu pecho.
Aunque bajo la tierra
mi amante cuerpo esté,
escríbeme a la tierra
que yo te escribiré.
Ayer se quedó una carta
abandonada y sin dueño,
volando sobre los ojos
de alguien que perdió su cuerpo.
Cartas que se quedan vivas
hablando para los muertos:
papel anhelante, humano,
sin ojos que puedan serlo.
Mientras los colmillos crecen,
cada vez más cerca siento
la leve voz de tu carta
igual que un clamor inmenso.
La recibiré dormido,
si no es posible despierto.
Y mis heridas serán
los derramados tinteros,
las bocas estremecidas
de rememorar tus besos,
y con su inaudita voz
han de repetir: te quiero.
697
My eyes open in the dim light
You are not there
Old engine oil in my ears
and red tape on the walls and the
Peephole
I am in every cheap hotel across the country
Anything could be outside of my door
I could be in a small town in Idaho
An inlet on the coastal northwestern shore
Minutes from the beach on the southeastern coast
The glorious place where the plains give way to mesas
I am all those places
the ones I've been and will go to someday
Scouting
Searching
Finding my way back to you
Before the diesel fills my mind
And my thoughts leave the rest of me behind
And so at the designated hour
My movement will be swift
My stillness will be complete
Non-doing
Ever prepared
May 31, 2019
May 31, 2019 at 5:35 PM UTC
Wistaria
A Poem by Corset
...and if you could see
how those blooms
hang their heads
after making the move
into empty open spaces
Their bright faces pungently
stretching 'or Mesas
yearning for one
not so tight in after life.
If we could touch the soil
to keep it moist
fears would feed like rain,
crying edible
and they would never die.
Limbs would not crumble
but climb ever high
their backs of bark
carved into
hearts and letters.
Resplendent and warm
the night would know
her poetry.
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 12:26 AM UTC