"pruning" poems
I lay in the bathtub soaking
wet with water running
around my silhouette. Shaking
as the washcloth smeared regrets
over my skin. The bubbles
give my sins a scent.
As I vent I leave the shower
running so my sobs
are the only thing drowning.
The constant tapping on my face
keeps me awake as I sink into
the various stews my mind creates.
Weights are lifted with pruning. Peeling
of dead skin keeps me from
reeling into depression. There is a harmonic
progression between the faucet and my face,
the scrubbing and my disgrace, the steam and
my own embrace.
I need this state. The decompression
from being bottled up, like a coke, with a smile
is worthwhile. It teaches me
that the expression of weakness
is key in the building of a better Timothy.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 6:48 AM UTC
In 1963
Mahalia prodded
the good reverend...
“tell them
about the dream
Martin”
transfixed on
a yonder time
he recounted
prophecies of
a near future
from a mountaintop
he foretold a
history of a people
returned again to
gardens of paradise
thriving in friendly
democratic soils
overflowing with a
colorful biodiversity
governed and
nurtured with a
vibrant sunshine
of divine justice
welcoming all
weary sojourners...
from the
pinnacle of
a Birmingham
jail cell
Martin burst
the bars with
the clarion peel
of a golden trumpet
proclaiming the gospel
of liberation to
the wardens of
unholy gulags
“free yourselves”
the horn emblazoned
in streaking lightning
across the sky
cowed by
prophetic truths
of righteousness,
shamed by
lies the pride
of arrogance
bespeaks to
placate the
intransigence
of dominion,
we prayed the
the walls of racism,
bigotry, prejudice
would tumble down as
Martin lit the Battle
of Jericho
today our country’s
profit driven gulags
overflow with people
of color as justice
lingers on death row
begging for a plea bargain
of a life sentence in
solitary confinement...
from the
****** Sunday Bridge
in Selma, Martin
offered a prayer for
peace, rebuking
the dogs of war
admonishing
the tenders of
blood thirsty
machines to
beat the gears
of war into
pruning hooks
and plowshares
advocates of peace
hope to steer
the plow across
the battlefields of
acrimony to sow
rich seeds of
reconciliation, planting
new gardens where
the rich yields of peace
will be consumed
by all God's children
yet these gardens
remain unplanted,
untended and defiled
by the machinery
of war that churns
churns, churns...
Martin last
dream occurred
on a balcony
in Memphis
witnessing
to the divinity
of those considered
untouchable after
a hard days work
collecting a city’s
refuse
he insisted all labor
was worthy of dignity
and the economic
justice of a fair wage
Martin looked squarely
into the eye of the gun sights
of those who thought differently
he never blinked, he dreamed
Martin formed his last
testament to an angry nation
yearning for the reconciliation
of stability and peace,
unmoved that it’s violence,
exploitation and bigotry only
stoke bonfires of acrimony
and division, condemning
the reprobate principality
to the bleakness of a
smoldering discontent and
continued generations
of recurring nightmares…
Martin's dream continues
in awakened hearts
sojourning on
Music Selection:
Mahalia Jackson
Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho
MLK Day
2014
Oakland
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
The scent of the pollen allured her, hanging in the still air of the morning. She would stop in her travel and visit each flower that she found. The precious nectar oozed from deep within the petals and she would thirstily drink at each one. She would gently land in the scented shade of each blossom and coax the precious nourishment from it. She never gorged, but rather drank from each flower what it was willing to give. Some were full and over ripe and bursting with the honeyed juice. Others had a smaller treasure, but she would drink lovingly of their gift leaving them an offering of pollen as a thanks. Her small, delicate tongue would gently lick and probe the recesses of the flower hunting the sweetness inside. The pollen on her coat would touch with the very deepest innards of the bloom and enter its very core. Her gift, as she suckled each part, was imparted into the scented womb of the softly petaled blossom. Each flower awaited her coming and spread wide it’s scented opening for her to enter. Their swollen pistils would be gorged with the potential for life and their gently glistening stamens would tempt her to feed on their sticky juices. The soft buzzing of her wings caressed the delicate parts of the fragrant blooms with a gentle breeze as she drank her sustenance. She sheltered in the colored shade of petals, hung round her like colored sheets, as she took what each one had to offer. When she was done she would move on to the next, slowly and deliberately milking the juice of life from each one. Every flower needed her and each one did what it could to tempt her in. Some threw heavy fragrance into the air so she could catch their scent while others bared their large and swollen glands so she could see their abundance. She traveled from bloom to bloom, sometimes enticed by the shaded shelter, and other times the sight of glistening pollen. But she fed on each one, large and small, and in each one she left her gift. The pollen that she carried would be imparted on each ***** stamen as she fed. The glistening end of the shaft was soft and sticky and waiting for the pollen that would carry on its life. While she fed each day, there was a gardener who tended to her plants. He took gentle care of them, weeding and pruning and tending to their needs. The flowers that she fed on were his future sustenance and he tended her as well. He would follow her sometimes through his garden and watch as she gently buzzed from plant to plant. She was used to his watchful eyes as he watched her drink from each bloom. He knew that his crop depended on her and he would peer into the bedding of petals as she caressed the sweetness from each one with her tongue. Her long tongue would probe deep into the recesses of the fragrant flower and find every drop of nectar. The gardener watched as she carried on the cycle of life for him and would wait for days to see the swollen fruits of her labor burgeoning from his plants. When she left each flower satisfied with their delicious treat, she would fly off to the next, not knowing that a seed would be swelling in the gorged pistil that she just left. And so it went as the bee buzzed her life away every day. The gardener would be there among his carefully tended crops, watching and waiting as she moved among the flowers. His gaze would follow her as she traveled through the foliage and landed amongst the blooms. Every day he would watch as she coaxed the sweet nectar from each one and left her gift in return.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 2:03 PM UTC
pruning fingers from a cold dead hand to gain twenty index
to power point a disjoint nexus, amongst ill guests
to better frame the nameless tool,
thumb-less apes could truck with -
in bands of frantic lack-wits
hording alabaster thumb-tacks
to pin jokes, they don't get.
a lapse in queens, the hard Chess...
an hour glass
with a grain of sand left -
wearing a jet pack, to delay the turn next
that checks your king.
or telekinesis, ghost-grips the silicon
in free fall... on pause to stave off
a game lost.
pruning fingers from another world of empty reach, i grasp -
at long last;
the short girl with the long red hair -
has two eyes, on task...scanning my true intent
with deep shy, heavy lids; a bright green
fixed on my nervous
laughter.
smitten; then, a Pabst
Blue Ribbon
kiss.
and sweet
disaster.
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 11:51 PM UTC
Water seeps into my skin so quickly
Pruning my little feet within minutes
**of soaking in the warm water. **
That's a lie actually- my feet are not little, they are quite adverage for my height but I've always viewed them as too big.
I bruise at the lightest of touch
And they stay for weeks
Everything I eat rips and claws through my body- just to come crashing out moments later
That sounds rather graffic doesn't it?
And they wonder why I don't eat.
The pain in unbelievable
So dramatic poems, aren't they? I suppose that's the point though? To e able to exaggerate thoughts without judgment.
My body breaking down
Screaming with every move
Maybe not screaming. That would be strange, wouldn't it? Tiny voice resounding from your pores.
**I'm still waiting- waiting for this medication to work. Or for them to say "Let's try this instead. "
I really appreciate all doctors, they are amazing. But sometimes I feel like a guinea pig. It's been sixteen years- dont they know what it is yet?
I'm tired, so so tired.
**A dead battery **
I really am. Getting sick like this completely drains me of every once of energy I have.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 1:33 AM UTC
*I'm unapologetically a bit too sensitive
highly attuned to inanimate feelings
the lone Cheerio circling the drain is given
a kindred companion for its journey
considerate thought is given to the preferences
of animal crackers...heads or legs bitten first
many items are thanked before discarded
others parted with reluctantly if ever
a twinge of conscience is felt while pruning
perfectly healthy leaves from house plants
objects are arranged in pairs and groups
in a compassionate effort for inclusion
The Velveteen Rabbit makes perfect sense to me*
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 12:00 AM UTC
*Windchimes
In my advancing years
Clarity eludes me now and then.
I sit quietly in the gazebo.
Your book and glasses
not yet removed from your seat.
Drifting into sleep
I awaken suddenly.
with confusion reigning again.
I quietly call your name
The need to see you is overwhelming.
I search the gardens for you
Panic setting in to my heart.
Then in the cool evening summer breeze.
The gentle chiming of the windchimes
Calm my panic as your soft words once did.
Then under the blooming arches
of the rose arbor I see you.
A basket of flowers hang from your arm.
The fading light from the evening sun.
Frames a halo about your long hair.
My eyes mist
So sweet so astoundingly beautiful
As calm as the mist on a summer's morn.
You smile at me
The windchimes ****** softly in the air.
You tell me the sweet wudruff is taking over
The hollyhocks need trimming
And the roses need pruning
You tell me all of these things.
But all I see is your
sweet heart of purest gold.
The rose arbor framing the light of my life.
Glowing as the sun
at the Centre of my small universe.
I fall to my knees to pay homage.
As you fade into the evening shadows.
Just the lilt of the windchimes
Dance over the perfumed bounty
Of our flowering gardens*
Dec 23, 2015
Dec 23, 2015 at 1:01 PM UTC
*Windchimes
A story of advancing years
And loss
By
Jude kyrie
In my advancing years
Clarity eludes me now and then
I sit quietly in the gazebo.
Your book and glasses
not yet removed from your seat.
Drifting into sleep I awaken suddenly.
with confusion reigning again.
I quietly call your name
The need to see you is overwhelming.
I search the gardens for you
Panic setting in to my confused heart.
Then in the cool evening summer breeze.
The gentle chiming of the windchimes
Calm my panic as your soft gentle words once did.
Then under the fragrant blooming arches
of the rose arbor I see you.
A basket of cut flowers hang from your arm.
The fading light from the evening sun.
Frames a halo about your long hair.
My eyes mist
So sweet so astoundingly beautiful.
As calm as the mist on a summer's morn.
You smile at me
The windchimes chime softly in the still air.
You tell me
the sweet wudruff is taking over
The hollyhocks need trimming
And the roses need pruning
You tell me all of these things.
But all I see is your sweet heart of purest gold.
The rose arbor framing the light of my life.
Glowing as the sun
at the Centre of my small universe.
I fall to my knees to pay homage to you.
As you fade away into the evening shadows.
Just the lilt of the windchimes
Dance softlly over the perfumed bounty
of our flowering gardens*
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 9:20 AM UTC
I convinced a man he could prune his own ****
That if he spliced it just so,
two little pink shafts would sprout in it's place.
Wriggle themselves growing into two separate fully functional phallus.
And I watched him.
As he reluctantly reached for the shears.
And went through the five stages of grieving.
"There's no way this will work.
**** you for telling me this secret!
can't I just take a pill to grow a second **** without having to cut this one off?
I don't think I can live without it..."
but just think, I reminded him.
after you do this.
You're gonna have TWO *****
"I'M GONNA HAVE TWO *****
TWO *****
And with almost no other thought, reasoning or belief.
He closed the shears
He opened his eyes.
His flaccid privilege laying there.
"When does the growing start?"
He asked me, pained.
His big brown eyes swelling.
"It doesn't."
"WHAT?"
"I lied to you, it doesn't grow back."
"It doesn't grow back? Not even one?
"Not one, not two,
no **** for you. I lied."
"Lied?"
"Lied."
it was easy,
to convince him.
Just had to promise he'd have two times the power in the long run.
If he risked it all right now.
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 10:41 PM UTC
as you spoke those words
a red vineyard
began to bloom from my wrist
you swore you weren't an alcohol man
however you took the time
to ensure my red vineyard
grew strong.
pruning and thinning
my patience and trust
using palissage
to train me into believing
my feeble mind
would believe simple kind
words said from my angel dressed in navy
my viticulturist, my sweet
you have taken the time
to acquire a taste for me
but in that
you have ruined my taste
for everyone else
aspersion played a role
I thought you'd never allow
and in that
you have turned my saccharine wine
into bitter blood
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 3:11 AM UTC
The Cut-up cut out and cut down The Middle man then cut in while he and his date were dancing
He tried to strike up a conversation but struck out when she struck down upon him blows of reigning rejection
Now The Psychopath and The Sociopath are at odds
The Psychopath thinks The Sociopath is sloppy and his ideas have no longevity
The Sociopath thinks the Psychopath is just having growing pains and need to learn to live a little
The Psychopath was born into this, but the Sociopath was born onto it
The onset of calculated impulses
Contain yourself
Control yourself
Looking at it from an ethnocentric point of view
Entertain the idea that you may be the antisocial one
Humor me on this one
Would a smart person waste hard earned money on an "I'm with Stupid" t-shirt?
Postulate the theory that their are six degrees of separation
That you are a few hellos to someone who is a friend of a friend every way you turn
And that person may or may not rupture the cycled path you've been treading
Told to be prompt
To have good posture
To do regular pruning to our appearances and keep them up
But price and participation always vary
Is it a tad underwhelming or did I speak too soon?
Was it lost in translation?
It's called acorn theory
Not what you came with
Not where you came to
Or even where you come from
But what you came as
And will continue on to be
The hustle and bustle
Packing heat
Flexing muscle
In the big bad city
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 9:49 PM UTC
I knew when I picked that tulip from the neighbour’s yard
that I wasn’t just killing a flower but something inside of me.
I didn’t know what it was, then.
(innocence.
that’s what it was.)
I didn’t know why I told them that I found the flower that way,
broken and left to rot and “all I did was save the poor thing!”
it seemed natural to weave this story rather than confess.
I felt bad about taking that flower. for stealing someone’s
pretty pink petals
that they’d undoubtedly cared for,
pruning and watering,
that’s why they looked so good.
that’s why I picked the best of the bunch.
they knew I did it.
I insisted otherwise, and received a slap on the wrist
no more severe than when I’d pushed my little sister
or spilled glitter on the new carpet.
but this wrist-slap stuck with me.
I’d discovered more than the sweet smell
of pollen or nectar or chlorophyll seeping
out the snapped portion of the stem.
when I told this lie I’d felt a joy in me that as a four-year-old
I couldn’t explain
but it made me warm.
I inhaled the shame and drowned in guilt and I thought
of how I could do this again and not get caught.
I was addicted.
and I knew it, then.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 10:18 PM UTC
I a m d e e p l y
p e r t u r b e d .
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 11:08 PM UTC
I dislike Spring pruning
All those dead branches that must be stripped
To bear good fruit, so necessary
I’m no Master Gardener
I’ve made mistakes before, confused
Choosing which ones to cut away
Which ones I should let stay
Make no mistake
With proper pruning the Springtime sun
Magnificently promises
Seemingly spent branches
Flowing silently, secretly with new sap
New buds, fresh leaves and blossoms
And delectable new fruit
Fruit so succulent
Better because of the pruning
May I cut away the dead branches of my life
And may I not mind the pruning
Waiting for the Master Gardener’s promise
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 6:39 PM UTC
Staring into stars, the lonely people drink their tears
And genuflect to empty car parks and swallow their fears
Like Ernest Hemingway, they grit their teeth and laugh
********* a pocket bullet, contemplating aftermath
And the shadows bend and grow…
And the embers shine below.
Geared for success, the lonely boy begins to starve
His chest heaving from stress, his wish for waterfall in cars
Freeways self-entitled, forcing ants into the gutter
While a lonely father cries and the boy freezes and sputters
And the doorway opens up
As the mouth is finally shut.
“I’m not mad, son, you’ve only disappointed me”
Father, point the way for me, where is my life leading?!
Should I sacrifice my happiness for a chance at succeeding?
Should these calloused hands be empty, do I need a beating?
You need to straighten up your tie and keep your noses clean.
My mother’s eyes in moonlight silently judging me
Inhumanity, why don’t you rule these streets?
I bite my bottom lip and gaze down at my feet
Lumped chunk of nicotine
Pushing itself out of me.
I want to stop blending rainwater with my leaking eye-sockets,
Crying for another with which to share my gold locket,
Tossing and turning, wondering where I will be next
And for God’s sake, can I do it, am I trying my very best!?
Why can’t I get up on time like every normal human being?
Why do I always get sick, why do my guts hate me?
Why are all my joints always crackling and aching?
I never want to live, don’t ever try to save me!
“I’m not mad, son, you’ve only disappointed me”
Father, point the way for me, where is my life leading?!
Should I sacrifice my happiness for a chance at succeeding?
Should these calloused hands be empty, do I need a beating?
Staring into stars, the lonely people sit and smile
Counting all the faces staring back, retracing miles
Celestial serenity, striving for an energy
Never needing inquiry, embracing the no thing!
Should these calloused hands be empty?
Do I need a beating?
Will these pruning hands deceive me?
This Universe is in me.
Jun 3, 2011
Jun 3, 2011 at 3:58 PM UTC
If ever you find yourself doubting your existence,
remember that there's a reason you are alive.
Lavenders are not always in bloom,
but when they are
they become beautifully alive.
And everyone is in awe of its splendor.
Not even a king's robe can compare.
Sometimes pruning is necessary for growth.
Sometimes healing comes through rain.
Sometimes a year of drought makes you realize
how much you wanted to be alive,
and you start praying for rain.
You're almost there.
Like a lavender,
exude a strong scent
reminding everyone your time to bloom has come.
Jul 19, 2017
Jul 19, 2017 at 12:06 AM UTC
I've read that people re-write their memory repeatedly,
until we've floated down so far from the moment
we can only think of our pruning hands.
Tiny hills of flesh soaked through from a river of touching
and going.
I am still here.
I kept you whole by building theme parks over
bad decisions.
A carousel of nights where we'd slip away
to try each other on.
Some sudden frisson
roller coaster rolling me closer to
knuckled blood, white bone, holding your hand
during the free fall we were too embarrassed to be afraid of,
but rode it three times just to be sure we had a grip.
I cannot hold it all so I thought to carry just the goodness.
Me a hungry thief with my arms full in an orchard of peaches,
that you gave
like someone who had never been kissed.
Your eyes were so bright and new I swear sailors must have seen you coming
over the horizon at dawn on the last day at sea.
Their skin wet with the voyage as they slide down
to find earth underfoot and look back over an ocean
only to whisper under a hushed northwesterly,
"Finally."
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 5:56 AM UTC
One more before I go.
Into the wilderness of parts and dreams. A happy send off in the cool morning.
I will be back in a new form perhaps, a more rounded crown of a tree, after years of pruning.
A "wild and precious life" with untold horrors, spoken dreams, and wandering caravans of thought.
In yellow abodes loving kindness which is yours. Maybe it will seep in like a root gives to it's leaves. Traveling through twisted currents. It's fragile rose petals. Short lived. But remembered.
Sep 12, 2023
Sep 12, 2023 at 11:49 AM UTC
Peace is a weapon
against the smallness of self
that excuses war.
Peace is the sharp blade
pruning the olive branches,
never drawing blood
Peace is soothing balm
for quarrel and division
instilled by zealots;
Peace is the watch-word
that makes soldiers deserters
of lower causes.
Peace desires itself,
making no root in travail
for other peoples;
Peace says, "Don't enlist
to be a pawn in the games
of elite slavers."
Peace has no Colonels,
Lieutenants, or Generals:
merely the faithful.
Peace is the Only.
No other weapon shall do
against each other.
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 1:10 PM UTC
why and how should you know?
behind beneath in between the teeth
my fingerprint whorls and whirls
under other's names and
my secret identities
a word a phrase a hatchet a blade a
pruning knife,
a confession of confusion,
relieved by my cutting saves.
my stamp secreted my ***** implanted
my style unseen yet bidden,
my name hidden, my children born
but still is my heart,
like the parent that
has given up the child.
but you love my
screamed and un screamed, and my undoing of
the doing you not see me named
nature in paces and means
admit pleasure at my scrivinings
there but for the grace of whom
but to me
for am I but the
editor
o'er my bones that
*nobody knows
nobody sees,
nobody knows,
but me^
you tread,
crunching my invisibility
to smoke and smithereens,
the pimple on the poem
lifeless turned luscious,
yet, gnome gone the next day
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 11:25 PM UTC
Clickety click, Clickety clack,
The train it rolls along the track.
The kids all get restless the parents all natter,
But at least they aren’t crying, so that doesn’t matter.
Clickety clack, Clickety click,
A child hollers out “mum I feel sick!”
“What did I tell you about eating those sweets?”
“Don’t make a mess all over these seats!”
Clickety click, Clickety clack,
The guard sitting bored, in his cab at the back.
We thunder through towns and all of its people,
Passing by churches, and that old pointed steeple.
Clickety clack, Clickety click,
A drinks cart on the train? Ah just the trick,
A nice cup of coffee and a cold can of beer,
“How much? You’re kidding!” I won’t get much change here!
Clickety click, Clickety clunk,
Oops, sounds like that rail's missing a chunk.
We cross over bridges, spanning their rivers,
I must close that window, it’s giving me shivers.
Clickety click, Clickety clack,
I’m getting hungry; I could use a good snack.
Back comes the hostess with her goods laden trolley,
No chance I’m parting with even more lolly.
Clickety clack, Clickety click,
So many destinations, which one should I pick?
Should I stay local, or should I go far?
It’s certainly more peaceful than driving a car.
Clickety click, Clickety clack,
It feels like we’re speeding along a fair whack.
The seconds to minutes, the minutes to hours,
From towns and their houses, to fields and their flowers.
Clickety clack, Clickety click,
Wherever I’m going, I’m getting there quick.
Bright eyed young faces, an adventure, exciting,
The doddery old folk, complain when alighting
Clickety click, Clickety clack,
We pass many crossings and a ***** old shack.
How many golf courses and quaint country pubs?
And weekend gardeners out pruning their shrubs.
Clickety clack, Clickety click,
These seats so uncomfy, now my neck's got a crick!
Now finally I've reached my long journey’s end,
And I'm glad that I've shared it with you my dear friend.
© Cinco Espiritus Creation
2012
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 7:00 PM UTC
*****************
It is not only on her birthday, and the day she left
i remember her everyday...without fail
her thoughts visit me when i rise in the morning
she hints to me what she'd do if she were in my shoes
at night, i whisper, "talk to me...in my sleep..."
in my dreams, our eyes seldom meet...she's younger now, lovelier
always busy pruning her bougainvillas and dama de noche,
the usual scene....maybe, she's telling me this is how it's going to be
that everything would be okay, even when i, too, am gone.
it's like, she's just outside, tending her garden
it's like she's absent, just traveling, for a while.
in the minds of my children and grandchildren
my siblings and their families
her memories play on and on, like a record spinning on a turntable
she's a serenade...a classical piano piece that won't fade
my late mother...she's a song that will not die.
Sally
Copyright May 7, 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 9:23 AM UTC
Staring into stars, the lonely people drink their tears
And genuflect to empty car parks and swallow their fears
Like Ernest Hemingway, they grit their teeth and laugh
********* a pocket bullet, contemplating aftermath
And the shadows bend and grow…
And the embers shine below.
Geared for success, the lonely boy begins to starve
His chest heaving from stress, his wish for waterfall in cars
Freeways self-entitled, forcing ants into the gutter
While a lonely father cries and the boy freezes and sputters
And the doorway opens up
As the mouth is finally shut.
“I’m not mad, son, you’ve only disappointed me”
Father, point the way for me, where is my life leading?!
Should I sacrifice my happiness for a chance at succeeding?
Should these calloused hands be empty, do I need a beating?
You need to straighten up your tie and keep your noses clean.
My mother’s eyes in moonlight silently judging me
Inhumanity, why don’t you rule these streets?
I bite my bottom lip and gaze down at my feet
Lumped chunk of nicotine
Pushing itself out of me.
I want to stop blending rainwater with my leaking eye-sockets,
Crying for another with which to share my gold locket,
Tossing and turning, wondering where I will be next
And for God’s sake, can I do it, am I trying my very best!?
Why can’t I get up on time like every normal human being?
Why do I always get sick, why do my guts hate me?
Why are all my joints always crackling and aching?
I never want to live, don’t ever try to save me!
“I’m not mad, son, you’ve only disappointed me”
Father, point the way for me, where is my life leading?!
Should I sacrifice my happiness for a chance at succeeding?
Should these calloused hands be empty, do I need a beating?
Staring into stars, the lonely people sit and smile
Counting all the faces staring back, retracing miles
Celestial serenity, striving for an energy
Never needing inquiry, embracing the no thing!
Should these calloused hands be empty?
Do I need a beating?
Will these pruning hands deceive me?
This Universe is in me.
Jun 3, 2011
Jun 3, 2011 at 4:01 PM UTC
*Like a pin on a spike
the dim light creaks dull bright
and fungus glums in the 'tween
as it might... and a yearling takes a day
to bring about the long, wrong night
as amber drools
from the lungs
of a stunted
kite,
the
wind is an idiot
pruning the sun
from a
suspect
sky.
how we talk in the interim
is nuts, but the lust
excels.
it grooms the pollution, and yes
it threatens the fresh blood
of our last regrets.
but... yes
fathom the windmills
of our mangoes
as a fruit -
Less.
some other joy that -
has a boy gone
more less
than
kept.
and
crease the wrinkle
in your starlight
to moon
if not to
breath*
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 2:51 AM UTC
outside
through the window
circling in blue
five vultures.
I sit here
and look at them
and think:
I am not dead yet.
something is dead or dying out there
but it is not me.
that’s not entirely true.
we are all dying in different stages
on varying timelines.
I might drop dead
on my way to the fridge
to get another beer.
heart attack
a stroke
a lurking aneurysm
a car accident
homicide or
suicide
anything might get me at any second.
sudden death
falling into the final dream
and then
nothing
that
is all one can hope for.
it sure beats
dying slowly
from
lung cancer
heart disease
diabetes
AIDS
or falling off a ladder
while pruning an apple tree
breaking your neck
and slowly
suffocating
to death
while
vultures gather
eager
and hungry
in the
last blue
of late
afternoon.
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 6:23 PM UTC