"redwoods" poems
learned to play guitar
and even learned a new song
played music for money
spent time with my family
busted a string playing guitar
lost a friend
fell in love
climbed a mountain
sat on a waterfall
saw a palm tree
walked along the beach in fog
breathed salty air
swam in the ocean
discovered a fruit
saw a gay pride parade
camped in the Redwoods
fireworks exploded right above my head
made love on a cold starry night
played in sand
hiked down highway 101
slept on a boat in the bay
skinny dipped in a lake
and had *** on a train
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 7:52 PM UTC
Today I thought of the trees.
The redwoods standing tall.
The smell of the rain on the leaves.
The beautifully eternal green fall.
Today I remembered the ocean.
The crisp, salty breeze.
The cold and rough emotions.
The endless broken seas.
Today I heard that song again.
The one that filled my soul.
The memories I can't contain.
The one that made me whole.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 7:35 PM UTC
Stomped earth with broad feet
Fastening fresh saplings into
Whole forests
Eight feet by eight feet, the grid
Through winter month's
To early spring
Line of tree planters, twenty
Sometimes less, sometimes more
On Shasta, on Lassen, on Trinity Alps
Douglas Firs and Ponderosa Pines
In Mendocino, in Eureka
Planting baby giants, Redwoods
Sequoias in Sequoia National and Klamath
Young men with hoe-dads
Knew some old ones too
Women as well, though few
If you could bear the snow, the rain
If you could bear back-breaking pain
The glory is yours
As was once mine
Reforestation
Go plant your line
To be eternally in
Mother Nature's good graces
And kinship known by campfire
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 9:56 PM UTC
Cool black night thru redwoods
cars parked outside in shade
behind the gate, stars dim above
the ravine, a fire burning by the side
porch and a few tired souls hunched over
in black leather jackets. In the huge
wooden house, a yellow chandelier
at 3 A.M. the blast of loudspeakers
hi-fi Rolling Stones Ray Charles Beatles
Jumping Joe Jackson and twenty youths
dancing to the vibration thru the floor,
a little **** in the bathroom, girls in scarlet
tights, one muscular smooth skinned man
sweating dancing for hours, beer cans
bent littering the yard, a hanged man
sculpture dangling from a high creek branch,
children sleeping softly in their bedroom bunks.
And 4 police cars parked outside the painted
gate, red lights revolving in the leaves.
December 1965
5.5k
Dawn
I awaken,
slowly, to a light cool falling drop of water on my cheek.
I arise from my soft, cool bed of leaves and pine needles.
Gazing through magnificent towering redwoods, I stand in awe.
The night storm has passed and the clouds part.
The last few falling raindrops race to the ground before the sun emerges.
Birds chirp in the distance to bring in the new day.
The air is fresh, crisp
Quiet.
I breath deeply.
Happiness.
Sun rays penetrate the forest
kiss my cheek.
Warm.
My castle of trees has many halls but no walls.
Towering columns
Gentle giants to watch over me.
I walk for miles, barefoot
On a soft carpet of pine, cool beneath my feet
I look up
gentle drops of water land on my outstretched hands
I reach a clearing
The sun is setting, falling asleep in his bed of clouds.
He bids farewell and goodnight, but to return soon.
I lay myself down on the ground beside the Oak.
The root is my pillow
Peace
My eyelids slowly, surely close as I rest.
The mockingbird quietly sings me to sleep.
Sweet, pleasant dreams, majestic forest.
Dusk
-John G. Thomas
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 2:45 AM UTC
Some days I wake up with my neck slick
beads of sweat soak the pillowcase,
my hair as though I've been bobbing for apples.
Perhaps I should be.
I'm starving, I think,
for the kind of knowledge which is dubbed
forbidden or shrouded,
hidden.
Written in redwoods,
eyes like nebulae
and sandstone futures.
If I could read the Andes like braille, what revelations would
erupt?
I'm yearning to greet the haunts and beetles once my clock
runs out.
But I lie
awake
and am greeted by
no one.
I'm frozen, now,
with molasses
feet
like running from the Golem in a January dream.
My fingertips leave damp, checked cotton, reaching out with an earnest desperation, and
I'm left sticky, swatting at vapors.
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 4:48 PM UTC
I read last Saturday in the
redwoods outside of Santa Cruz
and I was about 3/4's finished
when I heard a long high scream
and a quite attractive
young girl came running toward me
long gown & divine eyes of fire
and she leaped up on the stage
and screamed: "I WANT YOU!
I WANT YOU! TAKE ME! TAKE
ME!"
I told her, "look, get the hell
away from me."
but she kept tearing at my
clothing and throwing herself
at me.
"where were you," I
asked her, "when I was living
on one candy bar a day and
sending short stories to the
Atlantic Monthly?"
she grabbed my ***** and almost
twisted them off. her kisses
tasted like shitsoup.
2 women jumped up on the stage
and
carried her off into the
woods.
I could still hear her screams
as I began the next poem.
mabye, I thought, I should have
taken her on stage in front
of all those eyes.
but one can never be sure
whether it's good poetry or
bad acid.
4.8k
Cannabis Cannabis
Are you my friend?
We've been asking this question
Since who knows when
From the bedroom
To the bathroom
To the den,
Sitting out on the porch
Or out on the back deck
Out by the cactus
Out in the pasture with the brook running through it
Or in
The redwoods ecstatic in the moving fog
With the walls closing in
To the poetry within,
Contentment, lethargic exhaustion, anxiety, with the music moving,
self consciousness exquisite,
ego disintegrating
Remembering, forgetting,
Remembering
Back again
Oh, cannabis cannabis
Are you my friend
We've had the dance
I can't deny
From stems and seeds
To Humboldt flower dispensary
Many stops in between
You've played with my mind
Sometimes I wonder who I would have been
Cannabis, oh cannabis
Are you my friend? (Old friend).
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 12:09 PM UTC
I think asking for a soulmate is too much
Perhaps I should seek instead a kindred spirit
I'll find one along my journey across the sea
A fellow traveler, wanderer, foreigner
Someone else who sees the beauty in the little things
Who finds their passions in what others deem to be lesser
They will be like a sunflower in a rose bush;
A willow tree in a forest of redwoods
My moth amongst butterflies
Feb 18, 2019
Feb 18, 2019 at 10:07 PM UTC
I became prey again to grief’s treacherous maze.
So I dashed barefoot
in the forest last night.
Though the Japanese redwoods welcomed my rage and wild.
I’m still lost beyond
the gates of gloom.
The beautiful melodies
seemed to whisper dreadful things.
Then it started fading,
the music’s gone.
Even the stars are nowhere in sight.
The silence is deafening,
I need the moon to keep my light.
May 17, 2022
May 17, 2022 at 7:55 AM UTC
there will never be a time
you are not
the Fat Sister
there will never be a time
you are not
less than
there will never be a time
you are not
disappointing your family
no matter how
your grades look
or
how much money you make
it will never be enough
you will never be enough
even if you are
taller than the redwoods
with
karli kloss's body and jennifer lopez's ***
you will never
be enough
even if you are
the president
of the ******* united states
you will never
be enough
you are always going to be
that Fat Sister
they love you almost as much
as the other two
but still less than,
less than and they make sure you know that
they make sure you know
as if maybe
if they love you less
it will be your motivation to lose weight
it will be your motivation to be what they want you to be,
what they have expected you to be since birth
but what grandma and mom and sister and auntie and everyone at the ******* dinner table don't know
is that with a little bit of perseverance and goodwill
anyone is beautiful
what everyone in front of the ******* tv don't know
is that you were never the Fat Sister
but you sure as hell had a fat heart
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 10:03 PM UTC
Absolute bliss.
The forest around me made me feel the most peaceful I had in years.
The tall Redwoods reached up to the sky for a kiss, the bright, green moss climbed up the huge roots.
Everything seemed to be paused.
Like the world had stopped, as if everything had froze and stood still in this moment of pure beauty.
The mist the only thing that seemed to be moving, like a heavy blanket hovering over the ground.
My breath came out in puffs of condensation, the product of the invigorating chill of the morning.
The sun just barely poked its arms through the gray and sent the dew glittering all over.
This was the most breathtaking thing I'd ever experienced.
To feel so small among so many great things harboring beauty.
I felt as if I could sit on this damp ground forever.
My mind went completely blank here, my thoughts soared up to the sky riding along with the trunks of the trees.
I'd never felt more free.
I layed my head down on the grass and let my body go limp.
I felt safe as if nothing could ever touch me.
Until something did, little raindrops fell upon my nose and slid down the side of my face.
I opened my mouth and let the rain touch my tongue, it tasted pure and good.
My hair grew damp along with my clothes, but I wasn't cold.
I was absolutely content.
I slowly sat up and listened to the rain pour over my little heaven.
It was the most precious melody.
The air around me was heavy, and everything seemed to be lit in shades of violet. I breathed it in, took it in.
I suddenly became afraid.
Aware that I would have to leave this place soon.
A tear slipped down my cheek.
I felt weak, and helpless.
I didn't want to return to the outside world.
For I felt those moments, in this small opening , in a vast and shrouded forest, have changed a part of me.
Or more-so, awakened a part.
A part I never knew existed.
For the first time in what felt like ages..
I felt alive.
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 12:40 AM UTC
The bank account overdrawn,
the west coast -- naked, easy --
passenger seat and head resting on cold glass,
seeing the pines turn to ash to evergreen to redwoods to sand.
I bit her ear and asked for her name,
in Before George's sanctuary,
blush, blushing -- finger to lips hushing,
drinking cognac and speaking in flaming coal
I saw the clouds behind the night sky,
I saw Jesus teach himself to fly,
and I hallelujah'd and amen'd and carried
her to the shore, Samantha, she said,
bulging mind,
anorexic action,
I bit her ear and asked her room number,
in the ocean's frontline,
hush, hushing -- backs of hands and blushing,
drinking cognac and speaking in simmering oil
I saw the night behind the clouded sky,
I saw a fly transfigure into Jesus,
and I hallelujah'd and amen'd and frayed
the remnants of grassroot and buttercup,
drunk high tide,
sober dry iced,
The bank account cleared its throat,
"Room 210 and I'd like a ***** and coke."
Feb 21, 2012
Feb 21, 2012 at 2:45 AM UTC
Aliens
They have no notion of past or present,
everything is about oceans.
When they ask for you
it is really a story about seeing the ocean.
VISITOR #1:
Listen. It is failure of bridges that builds angels.
GROCERY BAGGER/ COLLEGE STUDENT:
Is this the depression
we've all been experiencing?
VISITOR #4:
Please have a seat and forget the edge of that coast,
you were not intended for this distance.
GROCERY BAGGER/ COLLEGE STUDENT:
I believe we're all owed an explanation.
Where is this manifest?
I've never ridden a horse, I am being dreamed about.
VISITOR #1:
You would not believe
the stories redwoods have.
You each get one phone call.
GROCERY BAGGER/ COLLEGE STUDENT:
But the voicemail I've been trying to reach,
all morning,
is full.
"I dream of psychiatrists telling stories
about dreaming of women
they've seen in unedited videos on the internet.
Sometimes they save her from that burning nightclub."
VISITOR #2:
If you're going, leave your voice
somewhere in a room I know.
COLLEGE STUDENT:
We would have no need for phones if you didn't invent distance.
VISITOR #2:
There are trees that become stained with a purple blossom.
During summer the blossoms fall and shadow around the trunk
like a violet negative.
What a beautiful dimension that must be.
They pull her skirt down to examine the body,
palms pour from a sidewalk in L.A.,
everything is cracked-
"My god she's beautiful, huh?"
I think I met them before,
a long time ago.
THE MEMORY OF A VISITOR APPEARING IN A DREAM:
What happens next? Come the exit of electricity from the body;
on a long enough time-line all weather radicalizes and the people
will grow into trees.
You can read about that hollowness and never be prepared for it.
It’s like standing on the edge of an overpass,
and being completely empty of the urge to jump.
This is what I remember:
instructed to reenact creation
she throws clothes
from an open window above the 60 freeway.
"You have to imagine there are people,
surrounding you and talking"
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 10:29 AM UTC
Midnight eyes, a sad seduction
to parlor jazz, ads burn through windows
rolled up tight on Lincoln Drive,
the skyline drips and sighs with pleasure.
You and I could sleep all night
on our Uber ride to the towers
(we never mind the drunken fight,
we never mind the complications).
Lightning loves the tallest trees, and
you and I? A redwood forest.
But what is love without the static?
(A dead-eyed kiss, a glance at strangers).
Pale, the art that imitates us.
Lungs collapse with rampant laughter.
(We pay no heed to warning signs,
we pay no mind to hidden danger).
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 2:44 PM UTC
The director yells ~ 《!!CUT!!》
The California Redwoods definitely yell 《¡¡DON'T¡¡》
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 10:40 AM UTC
Almost
by Michael R. Burch
We had—almost—an affair.
You almost ran your fingers through my hair.
I almost kissed the almonds of your toes.
We almost loved,
that’s always how love goes.
You almost contemplated using Nair
and adding henna highlights to your hair,
while I considered plucking you a Rose.
We almost loved,
that’s always how love goes.
I almost found the words to say, “I care.”
We almost kissed, and yet you didn’t dare.
I heard coarse stubble grate against your hose.
We almost loved,
that’s always how love goes.
You almost called me suave and debonair
(perhaps because my chest is pale and bare?).
I almost bought you edible underclothes.
We almost loved,
that’s always how love goes.
I almost asked you where you kept your lair
and if by chance I might ****** you there.
You almost tweezed the redwoods from my nose.
We almost loved,
that’s always how love goes.
We almost danced like Rogers and Astaire
on gliding feet; we almost waltzed on air ...
until I mashed your plain, unpolished toes.
We almost loved,
that’s always how love goes.
I almost was strange Sonny to your Cher.
We almost sat in love’s electric chair
to be enlightninged, till our hearts unfroze.
We almost loved,
that’s always how love goes.
Keywords/Tags: Almost, love, lost love, loss, lost, relationship, relationships, hesitation, procrastination, hesitancy, vacillation, near, near miss, nearly, close call, miss you, missing you, missing, loneliness, lonely
Jan 6, 2022
Jan 6, 2022 at 8:54 AM UTC
Approach the steps and the
bus driver says "Thanks You,"
ignoring the reality
he's driving a bunch of
broke-ass adults whose only wish
is to escape from the middle of nowhere.
Pass the cows, the one steer
in the dairy field stares at
me, looking down once we've left.
Eyes looked intelligent like he should've
been reading T.S. Eliot while sipping green tea.
The two-mile bay goes quickly, holding
its breath as we wave goodbye. It acts
like it never danced before.
Onto another town
the people can't wait to leave.
A crying child enters and the family moves
back, further back, to sit
behind me as I'm writing this poem.
I've never seen innocence so excited
to ride the Greyhound.
Innocence, why won't you shut up?
Failure, please stop glaring at her like that.
She's only a little girl. The smoke
stacks have no comment.
The truck driver keeps appearing
next to us trying to tell us we're all angels.
The trees around the lake agree.
The horses agree, if only
because we harness more horsepower.
The redwoods on each side of the highway
are blocking my view, but I don't
mind we're headed toward the future.
City lights are my future, fog
is my future. The 101 South is my future.
The woman two rows in
front of me sounds like a man.
(S)he is my future.
**** Rio Dell, there's nothing
to do there. Garberville isn't much better.
The green algae pond says hello.
"Will you save Richardson Grove?"
it asks. I didn't answer.
The winding roads are making
me insane. If I didn't
answer, would you notice?
Ferlinghetti must be driving because
he can't keep on track. Oh
where will you take us tonight?
I wake up to the mist on the
water holding my attention.
The Alcatraz of my mind saves
me from myself.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 11:48 AM UTC
A chair in the corner sits huddled with the shadows,
while a second chair lowers itself by the door.
A window between the chairs hangs silently on wall,
as the curtains whisper with the wind outside.
Towards the left of the window is a shrunken bed,
with bedposts like redwoods and the body of a willow.
On the bed is a bundle of fabrics and tweed,
twisting and spinning amongst eachother.
Joining the first chair is a spindly wooden table,
with wobbly fingers and with only three legs.
The top of the table is clustered with trinkets,
pinecones from Alaska and feathers from Pompeii.
Littering the floor are denims and glass,
clothing and pieces of vases strewn under the door.
Thrown under the second chair is a pair of old shoes,
weathered and worn and left to die.
On the walls with the window is doodles and sheets,
drawings of childhood tapped in the space.
Paintings on the plaster are dusted with flakes,
burdens of memories of past and future.
In the center of the room stands a coat stand of mahogany,
standing tall and strong in the ruins of its lost kingdom.
Unaware of what goes on outside of his window,
all he knows is the dust and objects trapped with him in the room.
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 4:08 PM UTC
Sitting all day with Dakota, my
sick old dog, cancer, comforted
by touch, my toe rubs her flanks
outside on her little rug
under redwoods, on the deck
her favorite spot.
Fuzzy ears gather sounds,
rhythm, the day goes round.
Dawn is birdsong, dove and thrush
deer tread softly in the underbrush.
Comes the chatter of people
shouts, children at play
whine of machinery
remarkable the variety of motors
on a Saturday.
Light fades,
the return of birdsong
tap-tap, a neighbor’s wood shop
laughter echoes in the forest
scent of barbecue
summer pleasures.
Now midnight
all is hush
endless stars
Dakota remains at my feet, rubbed
by my toes as I chase away flies.
Patience, little fly.
Feel the breath from her nose?
Still alive while it blows.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 6:41 PM UTC
without the humans
pedaling along like
ants following paths
the redwoods still stand
still and mighty and feeling
the faintest breeze and dampest
touch of the birds nestled between
branches
never moving unprovoked or uncaused
they wait for nothing because there is
nothing to a redwood but the earth and the sun and
the rain and the ants still pedaling between grooves in her
hardened flesh, no wringer so efficient and wise *******
fallen water and moist air through the tips of toes and out into
the world above the wood ceiling so green and full and bourgeoning
life into the lungs of the moving types unable to stand still and breathe
and watch their god turn miracles by unspoken stories of growth and sheltering
persistence and resolve to manufacture life and color from dirt and water and air so
quietly respired
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 1:17 AM UTC
i have wandered these forests,
ancient redwoods enshrouding the foothills
rolling back from the great Pacific to the Sierras
this ancient range of the coast redwood
tallest trees on Earth. i walk a path well trodden
above Mill Creek water flowing to the estuary
turning around to head back to the trail-head marker
ferns and rocks protrude from the walls
sediment of time, written in the canyon walls
i ramble into a growth of California rhododendron
in full bloom, their flowers bursts of red and yellow
against the dark green leaves
here, i pause, enchanted by the consuming
majesty of this ancient place abounding in life
entirely indifferent to my passing, enduring
and, once again, i am able to return to nothingness,
suffering comes from the desire to exist, and, i remember
that there is a path that leads to the end of suffering
Feb 16, 2012
Feb 16, 2012 at 10:37 AM UTC