"nestles" poems
One early morning along the quiet forest floor, a little mushroom popped it's head out of the ground. Looking in wonder, he pushed passed the dead leaves and dirt to reach for sunlight below the canopy.
"STOP!" said the forest. "You have been unruly. We have seen you try to grow with discord and disregard, denying the order. And what are you, alien? Identify as plant or animal!"
The little mushroom responded, "But I only did as you did; made a home. Like the rooted trees pillar in our leafy halls, as the moss nestles among the rocks, or how the birds nest in their hollows, why am I so different? I am both you and me."
The forest inhabitants pondered. In this time the mushroom grew and died. It took too long for the trees and the birds and the moss to agree by the time their fellow forest friend had passed.
The trees, too slow to interrupt, cried out to all, "What have we done?! we may not have thought him as beautiful as the rest of us, but the mushroom was a part of this forest!"
As a parting token, the little fungi grew a network of strands below the trees roots to support them all, feeding and protecting them even in death.
With it's dying breath, it dropped it's spores, to which would grow bountiful among the forest floor, among the trees and the rocks and moss. They had not known it, but the little mushroom was a part of a greater fungi, miles across. It had been there as long as the forest, keeping the trees company since time began, before humans, before us.
Only the trees had the knowledge to understand the little mushroom, but their voices were too quiet, too slow. So the trees let the mushrooms grow in their branches and on their logs to give them a home.
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 1:35 PM UTC
Living freely in this world
My vulnerability, feels so lost
As it seeks the skies to escape all
Perched high away and hiding
My heart forsaken
For my vulnerability
Has left
The little bird has flown
My retreating heart lives behind
Many layers of frozen ice
The warm waters of my heart
Have all frozen over
Come back, come back little bird
A teardrop falls
For I see the loss of potential
In this frozen pond
Where waters should be warm
My heart should sing
Great rich jungles, it should bring
My pride wounded by this world
I stare into my murky depths
My standing in this world falling
As my legs are taken
By the jaws of a giant beast
Far away a bird twitches
My stomach twists and turns
Absorbed I am into the belly
Of a great giant crocodile
I begin to feel my vulnerability
In these dangerous warm acidic waters
As I merge into a crocodile
And high above a bird leaves his perch
As the ice layers break
With the force of my tail
New eyes see the self importance in people
Of this earth, with all their arrogance
I will bring you back to earth
For I am the last living dinosaur
Born from a time when T.rex reigned
And even the birds had teeth
For I still live in waters
Where Piranha's seek to
Frenzy on living flesh
And I am to be scared of you
I warn all of those who wish to disturb
My open and most precious heart
That rests in silence over my pond
For your flesh will quiver
With the sound of my ancient growl
And your eyes will panic
With the sight of my jaw
A quiet bird flutters closer
Bring your bitterness and all your sourness
For I am hungry and love rotten meat
And your disregard feeds my fury
Circle my pond
Where my heart rests softly
With rich and green waters
Bursting and growing in love
For I am not scared to feel
And I will lounge and grab
As a tonne of me, slaps itself
Bang, hard on this earth
For I am here to feel it
And not escape it
But you will be blind
And lost in my depths
I will turn you over and
Your arrogance will feed me
As I grow stronger
You will be ripped limb from limb
A little bird comes closer
My heart free from noise
A silence nestles in me
And all innocence is seen
Beautiful souls float freely
Butterflies dance and play
And my beautiful vulnerability
returns in sweet song
And rests softly in my jaw
A strange paradox becomes so very clear
With a little bird we hold so dear
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 7:54 PM UTC
I am stuck in 50 shades of gray
Nothing ******
But depressing
Like a bird who nestles in a tree
A bear who hibernates
A lion trapped in a cage
I find comfort in the gray
This is now my home
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 8:07 PM UTC
complexity bias
how you love to criticize my poems
as too long and overly complex
poor me, I’m no genius, don’t prosper by exploiting
unrecognized simplicities, rather deconstruct the
intricate complexities that I flatter myself are the me-sinews
Writing is a **** temptation -
we focus on the 10% that is complex and ignore the easy 90%
perhaps this once I will surrender my bare bones
put aside the rich, satisfying of cave diving, urban spelunking
word caressing tongue verbiage rich tapestry exploring -
give you the plane of plain where nestles my destiny: nesting near motionless where the couch is my kingdom and cold cereal is
easily digested and there are no consequences
I am a member of a discriminated-against minority
we have no charismatic leader, no marchers anywhere, and government programs say
hey you’re free white and twenty one plus, get the crap out of
our faces, you useless piece of rhymes with **** and includes dirt, though I shower twice a day to keep myself occupied
25 years old, a high school dropout, of course I’m white,
my occupation is playing video games and making sure
my supply of opioids is adequate in these great United States
where I was born
there are fewer jobs than none that my application survives
a first glance discardation, and now my disability preempts
any demand to pretend there is gainful employment in store in
my future
this reductio ad absurdum is a technique to expose the fallacy,
ah what’s that you say no interest in hanging about,
on your way out, of course, of course,
we are the wrong flavor of downtrodden
my life is simple - simplistic in its a chaotic entropic way,
order slowly declines into disorder
my rituals are a fight against slip sliding down, falling off the
the Herzog continuums
and the poems are desperate hand holds to prevent my
going, gone under
so forgive me if I tax you without possessing not the
requisite taxing authority
you hone in on the obvious disparities and my contradictions
resenting my sending you this bill of extravagant length
compose with me and a mean will be located and to sleep I go,
perhaps to undress my dreams and explicate the wealthy multiples of complexity in the simplicity of a junkies life
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 3:56 PM UTC
High in the sky
The castle stands strong
Each grain packed together with trust
That they may never separate from each other
The rooms fill with the laughter of a young lady
His hand graze each corner as he follows the familiar scent of his love
He wraps his arms around her waist and breaths in home
She nestles deeper into strong arms
Grey clouds in the sky
The castles stands strong
Sturdy walls stand on a solid promise
To never let go of one another
He paces from one room to another raging in silence
She sits on the edge of her bed with her head held low
He wants revenge for hurt
Sun in the sky
The castle stands strong
Clear windows look out into a bright future
Of a happy life together
Hand in hand they dance through their dreams of solitude
She looks deep in his eyes and sees his soul
He looks deep in her eyes and sees her heart
Stars in the sky
The castle stands strong
Gold ceilings as high as the queens expectations
No one could reach any higher
He hangs from the chandelier to her every word
She wants more than she deserves
The castle is not big enough for their love
Thunder and lightning rip through the sky
Tearing through the sturdy walls
A chilling wind cracking the once clear windows
Piece by piece each grain falls
It crumbles at their feet
Amongst their unforgivable brawls
The castle is only made of sand
It no longer stands tall
Aug 12, 2017
Aug 12, 2017 at 3:46 AM UTC
Emotion is not tangible--
But when The Poet speaks,
she stumbles upon sculptures of
the emotion that you seek.
Emotion is indescribable--
But in The Poet's lines,
it nestles up upon the words
and engulfs them in its tides.
Emotion is a fickle fiend:
unsure if friend or foe--
But when The Poet writes
it's as if they know.
Emotion and The Poet:
a conundrum to say the least.
Each tries to slay the other;
Each fuels the other's beast.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 1:24 AM UTC
Reaching out towards
delicately rouged areola
(dusty pink,
supple
like rose petals)
his fingertips blush madly
upon their first caress.
He nestles himself
against her blooming *****
against this garden of a women
where only lovely things--
Star Dust.
Laugher.
Poetry--
may grow.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 2:14 PM UTC
Who said
sound is a vibration
that travels at a bizarre speed?
I saw it softly floating
ensconced in bubbles
to a celestial gravity
that pulls them up
to the realm of idyllic bliss.
Bubbles exude the
brilliant hues of my yearnings,
wrap me inside
their merino fleece warmth,
hold me to their *****
with the tenderness
I ever cherish in my soul.
Sound nestles in its heart
a mesmeric glow of music
ordained to play
the salute note
to augur the birth of a
new hankering.
The woeful flute
of the gypsy maiden
soulfully sings
a melancholy melody
for her lost love
to get a phoenix’s wings
under the silver mist of the
new moon’s splendour.
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 12:52 PM UTC
Peanut Butter and Jam
I like peanut butter, I like toast with jam
don't care too much for brocolli on a stick
or a hunk of liver that's really thick
I really like swiss cheese on ham
dont like the spill of oil, don't like it one **** bit
like the smile of small young child with their mother
that is a smile that is like no other
hated wrestling getting my face in the arm pit
loved coping a buzz and hearing music from a live band
loved the feel of my loved ones soft lips on mine
its cool watching old movies about Franenstien
always liked everything I tasted with the Nestles brand
I hate wars and senseless killing it just makes no ******* sense
I don't like it when my jockey shorts ride up my crack
I get jealous of someones fame when I think they are a hack
I look at my final desitination with no false pretense
going to the moon would be such a spiritual thing
meeting my president would be such a special honor
it would be fun playing tennis with Jimmy Connor
how I would love to be on stage with friends and sing
wish I could have met Jesus Christ the man
his mistreatment on any level was way to cruel
if I drink to much I have a tendency to drool
hey remember the Nanny her name was Nan
the Little Rascals were such silly kids,
their Woman Haters Club was such a fake
now how long does it take to bake a cake
too sad when once famous people hit the skids
why does everything taste like chicken fried
will this world recover from the financial woes
will the hopes of all the poor ones in back rows
I thought of death and then I cried
now the words can flow freely for this is who I am
I will never be rich or famous my shoulder I will lend
I will always be here if you are in need of a friend
yes I really really love peanut butter and jam
Gomer Lepoet...
Jun 29, 2010
Jun 29, 2010 at 4:06 AM UTC
Twinkling stars fall from the night sky
and gently descend to the earth-
Like a dew drop kissing a blade of grass,
the glittery white star nestles herself amongst the others-
The stars sugar coat the vast green space
and eliminate color from below.
Jan 6, 2017
Jan 6, 2017 at 1:25 PM UTC
***The mistress of my hereafter stole me away,
As she so oft does,
To a few minutes of quiet conversation.
In her silenced voice I could read my own
Long since Christianed anguish,
So near it is - but so ****** far away.
If only in Faraway we had us a private cottage,
Maybe then we could retire to our dreams.
The dressing room there
Would always be yours.
For I make everything yours
And call it so beforehand.
Thus making you the mistress
Of my entire hereafter.
My alpha - my omega.
This “Hereafter” is but a melancholy term ‘lest
We find ourselves stole away whilst
Communicating through our spirits.
For in spirit we have already met and
Shall surely meet again.
Let the certainty of it
Brighten us with its forth coming.
Thou surely must be the author
Of the utmost of our faith.
Faith in that day of heaven’s thought where
In Faraway the cottage nestles between
Twin peaks in the sweetest valley
Ever laid at your feet while eyes
See every days' blue azure sky.
There we dine together by candlelight
In the middle of the day while we
Cater the meal toward happiness.
In Faraway, all around us lives
In a rapturous praise along with all that ever was.
And if you should ever find my wit oppressing to
Your kindness, then show your disdain and
I will surely take my leave.
As we look together through the candlelight
Let us see only the highest values in each other.
Let my eyes put your name on notice
That if I were so employed as to be a slave
In this land called Faraway, then my heart
Would be no less than the prophet accommodated
Somewhere within your walls.
There with a stool and a candlestick
I would sit patiently waiting for your unmaking.
There my soul could be at peace from this world.
I’d lean against your wall with the candle in my hand,
I’d look into your eyes as I blew out the light.
The cottage would then come to life
As would the hearth within us.
We’d breathe in each other fueling the fire.
For love is the fuel that burns here in Faraway,
Our sweet vapors rising high into the sky.
They are bless'ed fires that never end.
Come - blow out the candle once more and
Let's lose our disguises–
Later I'll relight the candle so we can
Blow it out and do it all over again.***
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 8:38 AM UTC
my psychiatrist tells me i have holes in me.
she says it as though it is something
i should already know.
and when she says it,
the shift inside me is something i wish i could compare
to the grinding of tectonic plates,
if only i were strong enough to bring about an earthquake.
but since i am a stranger even to aftershocks,
i keep quiet.
my earthquake is stillborn,
expressed instead as a nod,
as a chewing of the lip,
as a silent, compliant “mhm.”
and the urge that nestles itself at the pit of my stomach
is not an urge to disagree;
it is an urge to forget.
because my psychiatrist tells me i have holes in me.
she says it as though it is something i should already know,
and she says it in a way that is not meant to make me feel incomplete,
but it is a way that still does,
and if i can forget this,
even for a moment,
i can forget that i am not okay.
i do not like not being okay;
i do not like having problems,
and my psychiatrist,
she tells me i have holes in me and she says it
as though it is a problem.
and so begins a slow disintegration:
i become but a bearer of problems,
a garden growing only weeds —
something in need of fixing.
i see myself a war-torn landscape,
dry and cracked and lacking life.
i see myself the kind of ground you step on and say,
“remember when things used to grow here?
remember when it used to be green?”
i am still trying to be green,
always trying to be green,
but my psychiatrist tells me
i have holes in me,
and suddenly green becomes a color i will never know how to paint.
outside my psychiatrist’s office,
on the wall of the waiting room,
there is a painting of flowers —
irises and a geranium —
and the leaves, i know, are supposed to be green,
but the paint is old and faded
and they don’t look it.
and for a moment,
i think
that maybe,
whether iris
or geranium
or boy riddled with holes,
maybe it is possible to bloom
even if you are not green.
(a.m.)
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 10:50 AM UTC
A valiant woodsman of God’s green earth,
An ever gentle soul,
Treads nobly through the forest’s edge,
To conquer hill and knoll.
Morning chill, punctuates warm breathe,
Condensing on cold steel,
A rising sun greets a friend of old,
With beckoning appeal.
The singing birds, call quick to arms,
Warning to those that hear,
The woodsman’s made his presence known,
To this they must adhere.
The ageless warrior nestles down,
A clearing by a brook,
From iron sights, he takes a bead,
A short but lasting look.
Ten points in all, the target grunts,
And directs a gazing eye,
A trigger’s squeezed a slight indent,
The woodsman breathes a sigh.
A crack of thunder, a flash of light,
The beast is crashing down,
The woodsman offers praise to God,
The forest makes no sound.
A resounding victory born this day,
Upon much hallowed earth,
And from majestic creature lost,
Does spawn a sacred birth.
The woodsman leaves, more quiet than came,
In humbleness and awe,
To tell a tale of conquest sought,
To share of what he saw.
Oct 22, 2010
Oct 22, 2010 at 11:20 PM UTC
*stepping back into the west
chills reverberate up and down my spine
chiseling open obsolescent padlocks
dangling with dust
on ancient treasure chests
pallid colors in the attic release
a blossoming familiarity
faint hints of retrospections float on faded paper
granting me access to roads
where no map is needed
as i peruse the streets
my heart flows coalescing with the vicinity
caressing each detail i transform to fluid
and fuse with the past
through fresh strokes of watercolored memories
recollections flash before my eyes
revealing antiquated stories
though thought forgotten
an etched history endeavors to define me
renewing itself as i turn each corner
i shudder at some remembrances while encompassing others
through synchronicity realization hits
that I am all of it
yet none of it
at the same time
familiar faces paint meaning onto me
no longer do they know me
yet they airbrush vestiges of yesteryear
and coat me with connotations
i allow them to think i am whatever they imagine
i morph into their canvas temporarily
then break free in multi-dimensionality
they don't hear me with a new listening
no longer invested in their projections
once sharp triggers now appear in soft focus
an auspicious mist lies around the edges
of my former life
it is as if i never left
yet traces of the east lie sandpapered in me
a maturation commingles with my former self
flushing out on my skin
tethering newfound emotions
a gentle gratitude for home territory
nestles softly
inward
i listen to the clicks
of my scuffed cowboy boots
on acquainted yet somehow distant sidewalks
the echoes layering multiple impressions
glimmering with the utter beauty of this terrain
as I wander through the majestic rocky mountains
drinking in the quaking aspen's crimson edges
interfacing the evergreens
hushed whispers of autumn loftily rest
juxtaposed neatly against futures waiting to unfurl in the wind
an amalgamation of intimate sights and scents
dance in open wounds
dazzling
homesickness cured
a wholeness returned
as winter's crystal dawn blooms
i realize the depth of my growth
for in leaving here and returning
i cherish the west
my home
©2016 janetaylor
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 3:50 AM UTC
you might have thought there was no wordthat would've rhymed with orangebut there's a mountain where i livecalled the mighty blorenge half a ***** of a cleavageblaenavon nestles deepa baize of fern and heatherwhere we go ******** sheep
Feb 27, 2010
Feb 27, 2010 at 12:23 PM UTC
For the girl who used the umbrella as a walking stick,
this is for you.
No limp and leg slide followed your wake
just the upright roar of footsteps on pale shale-
Cambridge cotton stones that reflect and reverberate
the sound from around into the ears of the passerby.
I cannot wait, nor hold it in,
the urge to scribble 11 numbers
onto parchment paper, old receipts or
or that wilted vapour notepad paper,
that nestles in the jeans.
If I had, then we’d be at a meal now- a dining experience
just for two.
22 numbers and one letter was written,
illegible and wrong.
I forgot which phone number worked
and forgot which one you could reach me on.
**A poem from the upcoming poetry pamphlet, published by http://www.coffeeshoppoems.com, entitled "Leather Clad Warriors", available soon for £3. That's only 300 pence.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 11:19 AM UTC
(From a Persian Carpet)
Ash and strewments, the first moth-wings, pale
Ardour of brief evenings, on the fecund wind;
Or all a wing, less than wind,
Breath of low herbs upfloats, petal or wing,
Haunting the musk precincts of burial.
For the season of newer riches moves triumphing,
Of the evanescence of deaths. These potpourris
Earth-tinctured, jet insect-bead, cinder of bloom—
How weigh while a great summer knows increase,
Ceaselessly risen, what there entombs?—
Of candour fallen from the slight stems of Mays,
Corrupt of the rim a blue shades, pensively:
So a fatigue of wishes will young eyes.
And brightened, unpurged eyes of revery, now
Not to glance to fabulous groves again!
For now deep presence is, and binds its close,
And closes down the wreathed alleys escape of sighs.
And now rich time is weaving, hidden tree,
The fable of orient threads from bough to bough.
Old rinded wood, whose lissomeness within
Has reached from nothing to its covering
These many corymbs’ flourish!—And the green
Shells which wait amber, breathing, wrought
Towards the still trance of summer’s centering,
Motives by ravished humble fingers set,
Each in a noon of its own infinite.
And here is leant the branch and its repose
of the deep leaf to the pilgrim plume. Repose,
Inflections brilliant and mute of the voyager, light!
And here the nests, and freshet throats resume
Notes over and over found, names
For the silvery ascensions of joy. Nothing is here
But moss and its bells now of the root’s night;
But the beetle’s bower, and arc from grass to grass
For the flight in gauze. Now its fresh lair,
Grass-deep, nestles the cool eft to stir
Vague newborn limbs, and the bud’s dark winding has
Access of day. Now on the subtle noon
Time’s image, at pause with being, labours free
Of all its charge, for each in coverts laid,
Of clement kind; and everlastingly,
In some elision of bright moments is known,
Changed wide as Eden, the branch whose silence sways
Dazzle of the murmurous leaves to continual tone;
Its separations, sighing to own again
Being of the ignorant wish; and sways to sight,
Waked from it nighted, the marvelous foundlings of light;
Risen and weaving from the ceaseless root
A divine ease whispers toward fruitfulness,
While all a summer’s conscience tempts the fruit.
2.6k
the train whistles lull me to a dusty sleep
an ancient sleep
primitive and timeless as the sage
it tastes like rain
and reads like a folk song
and when the engine songs are gone
the interstate strikes up it's serenade
flooding my heart valves with gasoline
and valvoline
and the smile of what i can only hope to imagine are young lovers
with a fiesty case of wanderlust
and a puppy in the back seat
with a wagging tail
"happy trails" i whisper
and the stars flicker
and i smile
the walls let their secrets slide while they sleep
all those restless memories they keep for themselves
floating around
and settling in the parlor dust
they trust me just enough
to let me cradle them in my chest
woven between my rebar ribs
and my flat-tire heart
thud thud thudding as it speeds off into the distance
the dogs rustle the sheets as they rise
just long enough to sigh
dance a sleepy circle and a half
and put themselves back to bed
i finally crawl out from inside my noisy head
as the boy nestles up to my neck
and traces my clavical with his humid breath
and ropes me in closer to his chest
with his big bear arms
his heart sings like a fire alarm
stirring the brave to save me from the shadows
and chase the ghosts from my gallows
and he even lets out puppy snores in his sleep
the tune that finally pirouettes me towards my dreams
where the birds sing like drunken sailors in the mango groves
and the rows and rows of lime trees
my heart and mind innertwined to paint me a scene i've never even seen
not with my own eyes
it's so nice to think it's within me
and not without me
yes
for every sound, a source
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 10:33 PM UTC
Thou tangle the mortality
And seek the mourning of its course,
With an outrageous cloak that falls adrift
To have its custom afloat.
The decorations, thereof flatters this turmoil
That has its doubts and moments,
A longevity beheld upon the chores of the subject,
Never cognizes its everlasting trials,
For those of which handles the elation
Of successive falsification.
I know not of the clumsiness of hymns,
That sighs the mourning of a course,
The chaotic iteration of single pauses
And the faltering of a mere slope.
I know not of the turmoil
That bedecks the frostbitten clavicles,
Onto which no sigh wavers
A petition of no faze and any dome.
I know not of the cloak
That nestles around a haze;
Bringing confusion that betrays every vivid sense.
Let it be the matter, ‘tis a matter of time(!)
Would it morph itself around the mourning mould,
When it dries away with the mud?
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 6:17 PM UTC
I would like to think of myself as an intellectual, but really I’m just a regurgitation of the adolescent caste system with academic anxiety and a learned fear. Well, I suppose that is a bit harsh. I used to be social ***** now I am a lowly intrapersonal custodian (let us never mind my inter-personal mess-managing, please?), though I am far from clean. __________ I have found myself flitting back to this page from time to time and mentally inserting here a terse, self-degrading statement that could re-catalyze my pitiful little verse, but never actually writing it. I hold it heavy in my head where it shall remain, apparently. Apparently I don’t feel the need to read my flaws, transgressions, and fallibilities back to me. Perhaps I haven’t yet articulated them, and they’re just skulking around—hunched apparitions haunting my subconscious. (Death smells like dog treats: perplexing, but you want to touch your tongue to it so long as no one will know). I must slay them all, eventually, or else perish. But! It is not the transgression itself that I fear—my behaviors are observable, even tangible, I can stare at them for hours. It is the dark implication of the transgression—the churning matter only detectable for its outline of illumination—that gives me trepidation. How will I move-on? How will I grow-here? Like an impossible little spur that nestles between resistant skin and unknowing fabric? Can I penetrate the protection? My security is maniacal; it is evidence of crazed disillusion. I am the raven clawing through infinite veneers; I am tangled…
Out ****** spot! Out, I say!
I must regress to becoming the white blanket.
I must know nothing but God.
A simple cloth.
A towelette.
Rags!
Rags!
Rags!
…
….
…God?
…Hello?
…Is it too late to become
…plain?
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC
I told myself a day from tomorrow,
that I'd stop this pity and get along with sorrow.
It sickens me and leaves me here,
UN-guarded and filled with a craving like none before..
the needle it sinks in my skin as I slowly am embodied into clay,
morphing into the different sounds and feelings that illuminated the bare room.
Staring into my own face,
looking at the face of death with no regret.
I walk on day by day revealing this unnatural smile of mine for all to glance upon.
Put out of sight,
out of mind,
I can't find myself.
In the sympathy of thought that nestles the moon,
I am hiding here because of what I will be soon.
The next drug addict or ******
H E L P ?
G O D ?
A N Y O N E?
No one is there.
Thy creator left me in a dark place,
where my mind could never set free,
could never escape.
This is my destiny,
my fate.
Hurry! Don't anticipate before your timing is too late.
Somebody call the mortician,
somebody get him here fast,
because soon enough nothing will last.
Just the foggy memories of my decimated path,
It lay tangled at your feet,
I'm your aftermath.
The anarchist ******
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 2:17 PM UTC
The monsters don't hide in the closet, or under the bed, or in your head all full of juice. They roost. It's not their fault, following through with some innate longing they're called to.
It's a simple, impish existence, these monsters, who might prefer to be doctors or lawyers or sound designers for Alice Cooper or Rob Zombie or Blondie; alas they burrow and nest inside my ***** laundry.
A wise person might have said, "Take care, kiddo, and guard your head against the evil that so easily nestles there." I reflect on this through the cloudy density of my beer an wonder, could he have been right? Might I fallen intrigued, ensnared, by the casual taunt of an apple's dare?
We climb the beanstalk for the giant only; the goose is second hand. The giant's defeat is the glory. It doesn't matter what the stakes contain, live or die, princess or mother or cow or land, as long as a marching band greets us at the end of the ride.
The monsters don't hide in the closet, or under the bed or in you head full of juice. They roost, and they can't help us themselves in a world full of books gathering dust on shelves overlooked where their hardcovers guard against stray shells unloosed.
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 12:58 AM UTC
The acorn worries little about the oak it will become
The tulip bulb nestles in the dark prepared to see the sun
For in the nature of these things is destiny's own seed
The force that spins the planet and hollows the river reed.
We are nature too, we come from dust, we come from stars
Like the oak is in the acorn Providence is ours
The swan is not yet graceful whilst traveling on land
Ah, but when she finds the water, she floats on nature planned
Watch the fuzzy caterpillar, keep him captive in your hand
But when destiny is done with him, he will flutter high above the land
What makes us think we are different or any less bestowed
With gifts that come embedded, that nurtured, will unfold?
Does the moon know it's own phases? Is the sun warmed by it's own light?
Is the hawk aware of it's gracefulness as it glides in perfect flight?
Does the apple tree yearn to apple, does the grass pray to grow?
Do the dolphins leap self-consciously, are they putting on a show?
Or is it only humankind, so aware of it's every move,
Too self-conscious to relax, and enter Nature's groove?
How do we quiet the persistent mind that insists that a plan we make
That maps out neatly, step by step, the course our lives will take?
How do we nurture what is in our nature and trust a greater force
To lead us simply by the heart and take a wiser course?
We will not find in books nor in tests exactly what to do
For what is in our hearts to try, is up to me and you.
We trust the force that is in the seed, that directs the night and day
But when it comes to our own lives, we had rather steer the way.
While we plan our lives and set our goals, can we reserve a place for grace?
And trust that in the greater scheme, we, too, have been set a place?
To all the powers that we hone, let us add an element of trust
That each of us are acorns, too, that there is an oak in all of us.
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 1:44 PM UTC
you killed all the
nice queer people and all
that’s left is me
with my shaking hands
and cracking voice
and fear giving way to anger
and a tiredness that nestles
ever deeper into my bones
and monday the 20th is
the 18th transgender day of remembrance
where the community mourns all
of its trans and nonbinary and genderfluid
and gender nonconforming siblings
because they were killed for
daring to be themselves
in a world that would rather
bury their dead sons and daughters
than have a child who changed their
name and gender marker
to the right ones
because being trans and queer
in a trump america
is an act of deviance and rebellion
where i could get beaten up for
using the mens room
and it would be my fault
because i am other
i am a freak
they do not understand me
and therefore that makes
me the enemy
but you have sat next to me
on the bus
in the movie theater
in the bathroom stall next to mine
while my anxiety mounted as
i waited for the bathroom to clear
out so i could leave safely
and i know when you look at me
you do not know what box
to force me into
and i want to know
you owe us all the answer
of how many more of our
siblings have to die before
you realize that we are people too
i am as human as you are
my correct hormones are just store-bought
and i had to claw my way into
the words of brother
and son
and nephew
and grandson
and boy boy boy
and male male male
but you have killed all the
nice queer people and all
you have left is me
and i am making my anger
into a louder voice
that will never be silenced
because you can cut out
my tongue and you can
take away my basic human rights
and you can even **** me
but the truth is that you will
always be more afraid of me
than i am of you
because while you ****
what you do not understand
i embrace it
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 8:20 PM UTC
1
Late afternoon
leaving the city
the bus route intersects
the terraced houses,
row upon row:
right to the valley floor,
left to wooded heights.
In a bay-windowed room
a child sits at a table
beachcombing the net.
Tea is past
and there is gentle talk of
volcanoes , the Verungas,
and gorillas in the midst.
Outside, and a floor below,
a garden nestles into the dusk,
a blackbird settles itself with song.
Later, at the same table.
there is a silent grace.
A shy five year old
in scary pyjamas
comes to say goodnight.
For supper: a goat’s cheese flan,
a simple salad,
pink wine,
strong coffee.
On the mantelpiece:
the familiar jumble of cards and photos,
a collage of family faces distant shores.
On the walls:
grandmother’s woven rug,
her grand-daughter’s textiled strata,
an embroidered geology.
2
The next day,
so bright and clear,
the garden bench is warm by ten.
We sit surrounded
by the evidence
of this growing season:
emergent plants, the possibility of fruit,
even declarations of vegetables.
As ideas flow
across cake and coffee
so the shadows move,
shaping depths, enriching tones
on greys, within greens.
In the midday sun,
the garden becomes
a wild tracery of lines
as perspectives
distort, corrupt, thicken . . .
and space opens everywhere:
foliage as yet transparent
no shelter to stalk and stem.
Their very arteries revealed,
plants bask in the fragile heat
of ‘just’ Spring.
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 4:58 AM UTC