"tendriled" poems
I give you back the things you gave me
Take all of them; they were no gifts.
You called them Truth, but no truth claims them
Like weeds, they drain -- like wood, they drift
I give you back the words you sang me
Of tendriled judgment and tangled praise
Up the heart's walls, growing skywards
Like vines, they creep -- like stalks, they sway
I give you back the self you sold me
Shaped by deception and no sacrifice
You called it the core, but the roots were too shallow
Too dry was the soil -- too high was the price
I give you back all of your garden
The seeds that sprout and buds that grow
I have seen the true sun, and how brightly it's shining
Like Heaven, I rise -- like God, I now know
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 10:02 AM UTC
On brown earth and fields of clovers,
a glade has grown to be.
Its cool breeze and green leaves
offer peace and solace to me.
Spears of sun pierce through the shade
and paint the thirsty wood.
Its tendriled veins writhe and stretch,
beneath a canopied hood.
Atop the ferns a parascope rises
swaying back and forth.
It moves to the left, it moves to the right,
and then I hear a snort.
My dog eared friend brings to me,
a long and pointed gift.
But such a prize is recognized
to leave just as quick.
The air is filled with warbeled songs
from treetops far and near.
But an incessant buzz cuts like unkindness
and comes to fill my ear.
I see it plain above my zenith,
a machine of flying plastic.
Its rotors spin in four successions,
it floats and moves - stochastic.
This hovering sentinel watches all
with a tiny gazing eye.
But who's to gain, learn, intrigue,
by spying from the other side?
From up so far a world so small:
he sees himself a king.
Out of dangers, out of touch,
to him no harm can bring.
And though he thinks that he remains
concealed, secure, untracked.
He does not know, below the grove,
I am staring back.
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 5:59 PM UTC
I have found myself
A wild vine
Growing away from the center of You
Tendriled pathways
Coil around themselves
Clinging to rough stones
Searching for nourishment from barren ground
That cannot feed me
Leaves crushed and trampled by treading cares
Of this world
Parched and soiled, by sin
Choking out Your son light
I am unrecognizable as Your child
A wild **** to be ripped from the field
Yet you find me
wash me clean
with gentle spring rains of love
Your word cuts away
Bruised and broken foliage
Your breath stirs me
To put forth fresh leaves
The promise of fruit restored
I can feel your life
Welling up
As you turn me again
Toward your Son
TL Boehm
021208
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 12:56 PM UTC
Tendriled nightmares coil
Writhing blind knots
Restrict my inner vision
Peripheral blurred neuroses lurk
Morbid melodramas spin symbolisms
Of a tragic ending
Beyond the memory of moonlight
plaintive note of hope recedes
In the saturnine breeze
I am Lost to lower oscillation
Vestigial presence of the divine
Inert
My racing pulse thrums a dirge
for the waning day
You are the fulcrum
*Levo mihi per vestri lux
The arbitration of angels
My inner spirit luminesces
Hope regains her tenuous place
I turn my tearstreaked face
To the memory of light
**Amo Deus perficio lux
EGO mos orior iterum
TL Boehm
052608
*Lift me with your light
**Like God's perfect light, I will rise again
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 1:24 PM UTC
As I sit . . .
green leaves hang . . . motionless . . .
~our earth spins on it's axis over a thousand miles per hour~
As I watch . . .
adagio grasses bow in repose . . .
~our earth orbits the sun over sixty-six thousand miles per hour~
As I rest . . .
vinca vines trail unruffled . . .
~our solar system whirls around the milky-way over five-hundred thousand miles per hour~
As I wonder . . .
flowers pose placid and serene
~our milky-way hurls headlong over a million miles per hour~
In my garden . . .
stillness reigns resolute . . . amidst this unimaginable tempestuous maelstrom
I am called to witness this defiance;
this static anarchy against the universe's irresistible momentum
I am surrounded by leafy verdure in stock-still solidarity;
blossoms colored with un-budged boldness
and tendriled vines in composed contempt
I am called to witness this unperturbed mutiny against torrid irascible forces
As I sit . . . musing on this peaceful anarchy
I think on He . . . that humble anarchist
waging peace against war
love against hate
grace against revenge
His submissive cheek immovable against brutish forces
I sit . . .
peacefully content in my garden of Eden
unmoved . . .
by the celerity of this careening world
geo.vuy 2015
Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 6:48 PM UTC
Her narrow path kept winding as she hummed along in tune
To a song no one else heard, except her lover on the moon.
She skipped and ran and often fell,
But never wondered why
Some creatures fly to heaven and some simply die.
She listened to the others but they never heard her speak.
She was brave in her convictions but they thought of her as weak.
She tried to wear a normal hat but found it way too tight,
So she spread her tangled tendriled hair and found herself in flight.
It's a very lovely planet and she left it much too soon.
And though no one seemed to notice...
There was crying on the moon.
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 3:54 PM UTC
Can you feel it nearing?
The cold spell has been cast.
The energy of life and death
spread its wings.
A silken gossamer web woven.
And dances around, the music
of the wind.
And glancing down, the tranquilty
of the stars.
It waits.
Winter bares its teeth to all.
white and slimy and ready to bite.
Winter coils its frosty tail,
as it coils and sways and lashes about.
Flowers are blanketed and
houses are quilted.
And as the warmth fleets,
it retreats to the fruits.
It is through them
that we stay warm and
aflame.
Bite the peach.
It's sweet and ****
And tendriled flame
will flutter and
coat.
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 5:27 PM UTC