"underbrush" poems
THERE is a wolf in me ... fangs pointed for tearing gashes ... a red tongue for raw meat ... and the hot lapping of blood-I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.
There is a fox in me ... a silver-gray fox ... I sniff and guess ... I pick things out of the wind and air ... I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers ... I circle and loop and double-cross.
There is a hog in me ... a snout and a belly ... a machinery for eating and grunting ... a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun-I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.
There is a fish in me ... I know I came from saltblue water-gates ... I scurried with shoals of herring ... I blew waterspouts with porpoises ... before land was ... before the water went down ... before Noah ... before the first chapter of Genesis.
There is a baboon in me ... clambering-clawed ... dog-faced ... yawping a galoot's hunger ... hairy under the armpits ... here are the hawk-eyed hankering men ... here are the blond and blue-eyed women ... here they hide curled asleep waiting ... ready to snarl and **** ... ready to sing and give milk ... waiting-I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so.
There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird ... and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want ... and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes-And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.
O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart-and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where-For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and **** and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.
7k
[From Fragments, The Following...]
... so it was that the Urth bled less. The Birch Moot was becalmed by the Anvil Cloud of Impending Deluge.
The Young Gods made sport of Their Names, and aimed to Oblique the colony of clever flesh
groping at the tender roots of an insipid devastation. The First Ones had vanished.
But Time was born and the Mortal Whirl released the Hounds of Change. Transition fused -
with the Eternal; and the offspring of unloved Spirits, roamed the Tangible. All Suffering was amplified
in the diamond lungs of a divine corpse, dreaming.
... for when the iron heart of The Cast Out was retrieved, the Legion of Heaven poured unseemly Grace upon the Fathoms
and the High King of Doubt, forced his blade ' Nimue '
into the soft palette, of the First Mouth. The Stars were born and The Void overheard the First Naming.
A solid drizzle of enchantment cloaked the oaken Yggdrasil
and The Pattern unleashed the folly of Pattern
to mask the virtue of succinct Chaos. The Children of The Lower Sky ate their Masters and thereby swollen -
gathered in the underbrush of the Fecund.
They came to Know Regret by Answering Prayers. The Kingdoms of Wane were waning in the fearsome riot of Creation
and not a boy, a man from no woman
and no woman
a man.
... the siege lights of the petty stars, babbled in the wake of yawning eruption and nullification. the ****** theater of blood
was made Holy by way of forcing camels into eyes of needles in constant dystopian joy.
... and that's how the rain gets in.
[ From the ' Kingdoms Of Wane ', a Lost Tome from Antiquity and Dada ]
What ?
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 7:07 PM UTC
Her eyes shine like undisturbed dew drops
hovering at the gentle fingertips of young moss
on the northern bark of a white cedar tree
under a lazy morning sun.
Spear points of obsidian pierce the disc:
banished from the core of a volcano
scorched by a molten heart
and choking on onyx soot.
The dawn warmth filters through,
carried by a serene and wafting breeze.
It illuminates the pleasant, tickling greenery,
bringing to light the depth of her irises.
Fire belches from the mountain's stomach,
and the flame ignites a gleam.
Her gemstone eyes shine
as though the embers have been captured within.
At the base, there is the earth:
firm and dark and cool.
Interlocking underbrush layers fawn with chestnut
overtaken but not undermined by powerful streaking tree trunks.
The rim is built of force and rumbles with strength.
A cast of bronze is seething and glowing.
Her intensity blazes as sun spots
deep within ancient amber.
She is as her eyes are
an indigo inferno:
seldom
and
elegantly alive.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 3:07 AM UTC
Kung walked
by the dynastic temple
and into the cedar grove,
and then out by the lower river,
And with him Khieu Tchi
and Tian the low speaking
And “we are unknown,” said Kung,
“You will take up charioteering?
“Then you will become known,
“Or perhaps I should take up charioterring, or archery?
“Or the practice of public speaking?”
And Tseu-lou said, “I would put the defences in order,”
And Khieu said, “If I were lord of a province
“I would put it in better order than this is.”
And Tchi said, “I would prefer a small mountain temple,
“With order in the observances,
with a suitable performance of the ritual,”
And Tian said, with his hand on the strings of his lute
The low sounds continuing
after his hand left the strings,
And the sound went up like smoke, under the leaves,
And he looked after the sound:
“The old swimming hole,
“And the boys flopping off the planks,
“Or sitting in the underbrush playing mandolins.”
And Kung smiled upon all of them equally.
And Thseng-sie desired to know:
“Which had answered correctly?”
And Kung said, “They have all answered correctly,
“That is to say, each in his nature.”
And Kung raised his cane against Yuan Jang,
Yuan Jang being his elder,
For Yuan Jang sat by the roadside pretending to
be receiving wisdom.
And Kung said
“You old fool, come out of it,
“Get up and do something useful.”
And Kung said
“Respect a child’s faculties
“From the moment it inhales the clear air,
“But a man of fifty who knows nothng
Is worthy of no respect.”
And “When the prince has gathered about him
“All the savants and artists, his riches will be fully employed.”
And Kung said, and wrote on the bo leaves:
If a man have not order within him
He can not spread order about him;
And if a man have not order within him
His family will not act with due order;
And if the prince have not order within him
He can not put order in his dominions.
And Kung gave the words “order”
and “brotherly deference”
And said nothing of the “life after death.”
And he said
“Anyone can run to excesses,
“It is easy to shoot past the mark,
“It is hard to stand firm in the middle.”
And they said: If a man commit ******
Should his father protect him, and hide him?
And Kung said:
He should hide him.
And Kung gave his daughter to Kong-Tchang
Although Kong-Tchang was in prison.
And he gave his niece to Nan-Young
although Nan-Young was out of office.
And Kung said “Wan ruled with moderation,
“In his day the State was well kept,
“And even I can remember
“A day when the historians left blanks in their writings,
“I mean, for things they didn’t know,
“But that time seems to be passing.
A day when the historians left blanks in their writings,
But that time seems to be passing.”
And Kung said, “Without character you will
“be unable to play on that instrument
“Or to execute the music fit for the Odes.
“The blossoms of the apricot
“blow from the east to the west,
“And I have tried to keep them from falling.”
4.6k
Marooned
Vapid beauty of this room
Frothing carpet, ocean blue
One wall me, the other you
What lies between is residue
Scribed on soggy, shipwrecked parchment
Questions asked, time forgotten
Who are we?
What do we know?
Into these questions Summer flows
And thrashes at your Autumn’s brinks
Yearlong they torment my brain
Infringing on every season
If not for the manic scheme
To love and having loved be loved
This correspondence to a distant land
With stars, more numerous and brightly lit
Than my burgeoning highway exit
Would by no means have left my hand
But if, against all odds, it will prevail
Extolling truth’s folly, my sorrowful tale
Quells with reason my groundless pride
At having docked on your passionless harbor
Unloading platonic cargo during our youth’s ebbing tide
Must not create union of body or mind
You swallow my horizon, like the sun twilight
Though, one need not chase that orange orb for tomorrow
In this night without fortitude, lewd humor consumes me
Singing with the mouth on my head and your voice inside
I plunge into darkness
Skimming its silky surface
Before zipping it behind me
Shall I drown, as I have lived?
In vain, my dreams your subjects
Taken for ransom in your heart’s Tripoli
Not surmising recompense, I forfeit this
A note belying resonance
Of my heart’s last echoed throe
One desperate effort, giving up
Feed every vestige to the void
Wading, torso encumbered
Each sullen relic of your memory
Falls to the deep’s frigid ebony
Then, only too late am I cognizant
That my own breath is tribute yet spent
Therefore if I were to float or swim
I’d give you every ounce of who I am
Convince you to relinquish me
From your tepid, spurning sea
Then lying beneath moist underbrush
Slowly, breathe no more
Aug 9, 2010
Aug 9, 2010 at 4:24 PM UTC
See the Rabbi. See him tormented by choice. See his people. See them wracked by hate. See the others. See their anger radiate outward in glowing spokes, exploding firebrand in a tinder city.
On a night like any other, the moon at sixth house, fulcrum of pinwheel zodiac, the Rabbi, awash in lidless starlight, rises somber and makes his choice. And when the sun is furthermost, he and three of his others gather at the murmuring riverbank where the brown clay is most pliable and begin to dig, sifting rock and root from trundled earth. Hours spent exhuming the clay, molding it, kneading its muscles, tracing its veins, baking its skin in the starlight. More hours spent in whispering prayer, the words bent and somersaulting over themselves like tumbling books.
See Truth drawn on its forehead, life etched from clay and word. As the sun rises, so it does, wavering at first, but steadier, lapping at the river, and their faces move slowly across the water. See the Rabbi speak to it, his words winding its mechanism. See it stride past the ghetto, wade through the market, and into the borough, siege unto its own.
See the others scream for mercy from the kiln of its stare, from their flaming tenements, their crumpling rooftops.
See it wade back through the market, past the ghetto, back to the riverbank to kneel in the underbrush. See it tilt its head to the lilt of a stranded daisy caught in a vagrant gust. See it caught, too, and see it see. It sees the colors of Eden in the ferns. It hears the river churning sediment, fossils, gravel, whirling over driftwood. It touches moss on a rock; gently rotates its hand to let a grub complete an oblivious circumference. See it sit in silence.
See the Rabbi meet with the others, then his others. And on a day like any other, when the sun is at its apogee, they slip down the riverbank where it still sits, still. It ignores their autonomous logic, their homunculus rationale. They are perversions of variety cloaked in righteous intention. So it remains.
See the Rabbi and his others gather at the murmuring riverbank, shadow conclave in shifting sunlight, then rise somber and decided. They pin it to the earth as the Rabbi chants, invoking the void in which forbidden knowledge spirals. It squirms under the power of the Word, mind-forged manacle as incantation. See the Rabbi draw to a close. His hand is arbiter, swooping down to smudge Truth from its forehead. What is left but Death.
See its hand crumble in its passage as it reaches for the stranded daisy. See the colors of Eden darken in its eyes, its own body the dust that denies it light. See it collapse into itself, the clay that was once animate spilling onto the riverbank. See the Rabbi and his others shimmer then fade into city grey.
The daisy stands still.
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 4:22 PM UTC
The salted air elates a feeling of real real.
And by real real, I mean the realist real there is.
Child like intuition and loss in present ecstasy
Underlying a layered and angsted mind.
I loved a psychopath as a best friend
But finally
His confusion clawed at my chakras with convoluted and displaced passion
But on Protection Island
I feel
Protected.
Whether the next sunrise meets me through the dingy drapes of a budget hostel, awash in a strange and urban melancholy wrapped warmly on all sides
Or on a windy beach with the blue flow of sparkled wash and distant cloud capped peaks and Dover-beacon ferries which remind me of novelty globes and my father
The buzz of early morning travel as a child
I will be fine.
To lighten my load I hid The Dhamapada and St. Francis of Assisi in the hopes and faith that they would be left in peace blanketed in underbrush
Being peacefully caressed by ocean wind and the beautifully dilapidated wood-house
The protectors warm grin of welcome.
I want to feel okay again
And I feel like okay is finally waking up from her peaceful slumber
Returning from vacation to remind and comfort my unassured and pummeled mind
Like a lover returning from a followed dream
A long, warm embrace which says it all
No words for I love you
Just a feeling and oneness as old as the world itself.
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 4:52 PM UTC
the lakewater near the banks darken with the shadows of coniferous trees
not unlike the way my ***** darkened just the other evening with transgression
and i find myself waiting,arcing the ash from my cigarette in fiery transient streaks.
this is north west angle's public dock, a sunken relic of the anishinabe
appropriately too young to be old just like the ******* rest of us.
kee no wahh she spits with conviction,
her forked tongue a testament to the near science fiction
that keeps its ugly head low to the ground
in the backwater communities of
rural ontario and manitoba
and saskatchewan
and beyond.
purple and yellow and green galaxies span across the deep space of my neck
and that's good enough, they reckon, to land me in the passenger's seat.
now the sun's shallow beneath the canadian shield
leaving only a violent, open **** on the skyline
and the watered down blood of ritual sacrifice to
filter up through the cheesecloth of the underbrush
and effectively discolour the poplars in a pastel
identical to the lining of my ****
so ask me how many children have been
stranded on the pallid, uneven terrain of my thighs
and i'll stop making references to my ******
Feb 22, 2010
Feb 22, 2010 at 10:12 AM UTC
*
Cast among the downpour,
gates beneath dark clouds are left open
The creek is rising, drowning underbrush,
darkening tree trunks,
moving swiftly the discarded,
Collecting at the walls of this place,
as stone and mortar slowly crumble
From a desperate vantage point
overlooking nature’s angry powers
I see a shape, a floating aura,
eyelet gown of gold stitch, woven ribbon dreams
Mahogany hair flowing, eyes captivating,
drifting atop muddied raging waters,
directing the flow with blown kiss persuasion
Suddenly swept away, barely a breath remains,
swallowing life in surrendering gulps
Flailing intoxicated waves, undertow’s grasp,
when a hand reaches, fingers interlock
Glazing blue skies whisper in sunlit reflections,
ocean breezes soothe washed out tides,
as a sand dollar wishes on a seashell
And now upon this beach I lie safely within soft arms,
tasting her mimosa lips, warm and sweet
I drink in her flavor neath palm tree shadows,
cool in the heat, but hot of her skin
My heart hears the glistening, tingling my senses,
awashing me in desires impossible to imagine,
as I happily drown in her*
Aug 30, 2016
Aug 30, 2016 at 7:03 PM UTC
in our time
we think we know
most animals of the world
from films and videos
yet
seeing
an echidna come out of the underbrush
about to cross the road
but then
looking at all the cameras
deciding to quietly go back home for a while
watching
a young humpback whale
launch her tons out of the sea
in the sheer joy of breaching
falling back in a white splash
that sends your boat rocking
feeling
the hard back of a wombat
under its thick coat of hair
the soft fur of a koala
the cool skin of a blue-tongued lizard
feeding
a wallaby whose sharp claws
tenderly hold your hand
so that the food
does not go away too soon
hearing
the swelling maniacal laughter
of a flock of kookaburras
a pied butcherbird‘s
unbelievably melodious call
you become aware
they are living beings
not just images on the screen
and the little hairs
on the back of your neck
rise
in shock and awe
of life‘s beauty
Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 2:01 AM UTC
Forest floor, underbrush abound;
The light sprinklings of winter found.
Snow kissed scenery, that
Whether cold be dreary
Still seems the more dreamy, than
Tracing each step.
These frigid months of death-
Before life springs back
Bringing fresh greenery
Jan 18, 2024
Jan 18, 2024 at 8:37 PM UTC
Oh, hello there.
I managed to slip away from my previous adventure,
With the knight and his beloved.
My beloved, too;
I suppose.
I've stumbled upon a peculiar thing, though.
An olive tree,
In the midst of this lush underbrush.
It's quite twee,
If I do say so myself.
Although I'm more interested in the treasure below.
A pristine white glows beneath.
I twiddle with the branches a little to find a lovely treasure.
I sit down,
Outstretched my fingers towards the snow,
And carefully pluck at it,
Delicately brushing along the olives in the midst
Of my glissando.
Yohan Heineken, I believe.
A baroque composer.
My thoughts fluidly sailing as the leaves of the tree rustle,
And the snow echos as more olives fall upon it.
Like...an orchestra.
The olives falling unto the porcelain, I mean.
What a beautiful melody it creates,
And my fingers magically gloss along the porcelain,
Carefully molding the remaining olives into the crevices my fingers have made.
Oh dear, I've become too passionate for this!
I carry on anyways, 3rd Movement and all.
The Tempest...
A lovely play by Shakespeare & a dazzling story told by Beethoven.
Or simply a way to express my current emotions.
The wind carried the melody...
...to the ears of the waking princess.
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 3:56 AM UTC
Echoes fall like raindrops on leaves of lonesome trees
Whispering to the heartless
Come and listen and you will hear their sound
Calling softly
To the darkness
A rustling in the underbrush stirs an unknown need
Curiosity feeds upon the now
The crescent moon is waiting for eyes yet to see
Wondrous visions
He will soon endow
Wheels begin to turn in the mind of the present
Defying the light and the sound
Though their ears hear the echoes, still is the absence
Of the hearts recognition
Of the found
Oct 10, 2010
Oct 10, 2010 at 10:54 AM UTC
rotting horse carcass.
green glowing filament by moonlight ******
& mistrust us.
radioactive drums of waste &/or dreams.
boys swimming.
fistfights at night
by headlight & tooth crackle. (spit) then bonfire pallets
lit & danced upon.
plumes
of gas-can outcries.
the days & abuelitas
& ghosts
pinched cheek - pinched cooler - grandaddy
on the grill.
his gasping yellow dogs.
judy is in the underbrush with a walkie-talkie
& a p.b.j.
desmond leaps from high rocks; he
descends into another world by way of molecular-mishap.
dove deep.
riding the portal boar.
wasps hover above spilt wine
& declare war upon brothers with b.b. guns
& firecrackers
& spf 50+. the saturday/sunday sagas
between beams of heat laughter breakdowns
to knees, to bees,
honey.
homecoming queen dead & wrapped
in plastic.
body found with
turtle bites.
fungi.
the slabs of granite.
old iron tractors bent & held by tree wives.
toast.
jam hewn hwedges of crisped bread.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 2:34 AM 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
Jumping, bouncing and swinging from tree to tree
In a sparse forest just outside a village on the outskirts of Antananarivo
They adapt to the changes flung at them and strive to survive
On the ground a troop leaps sideways side by side in a straight line
What a comical spectacle
However solemn their purpose, they must find a home
The little one abaft of the line
Takes one last glimpse at the home he leaves behind
Oh it’s up in flames now and bulldozers knock down his trees
Beyond, just yonder
Over a hill further down south, the prospect is in sight
A new forest with new opportunities
It’s denser; it hasn't caught the eye of encroaching villagers
They forge on towards it in that spectacular procession
High up in the trees they mark their territory
Males call out to females and they howl in response
The young ones frolic in the underbrush
They mate, they eat, they thrive
Another forced migration
There they go again in that sideways march
More deforestation for infrastructure
There must be leeway for civilization one way or the other
One must wonder now
What future lies in store for these that have no place in government?
Their trails fade away from the Malagasy ecosystem
Their lives hang in a balance at the brink of extinction
Will our grandchildren ever get to appreciate
The extraordinary feats of agility they display
The gymnastics they perform from day to day
On the trees and on the ground in the jungle everyday
Ostentations of dramatic optical presentations
In their furry coats of monochromatic patterns
Perhaps they will disappear and my son’s sons may only get to
Read about them in the has been list of the annals of history
At this rate since erecting urban jungles
Of tar roads and skyscrapers is the order of the day
They might even be able to catch an obscure image of the lemur
In the form of a costumed trapezist mimicking one
Or a twisting contortionist in The Cirque Du Soleil
Nellie Nkosi
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 9:21 AM UTC
On the gentle slope of a green and waving hill, vibrant with the life of spring, flowers fall from the outspread limbs of trees, an ocean in their sound, and fall gently to the earth, soft as a mothers kiss, upon a child's tender brow. The wild flowers are spread out among the grasses, bright spots of changing color, amidst the flowing green, waving in the springs gentle breeze, light glowing through the blades, shining in the sun, the scent of life and growth and change arising, slow and overpowering as the years to come, as ages gone. Underneath the spreading trees, their leaves give shade and succor to those who fear the light and hide from its revealing rays. A fox rustles through the underbrush, coat burning orange, a rushing flame in the green light, filtering down from the canopy above, dim in its softened form. Ahead a hare, leaning down to drink from a cool and quiet pool, looks up as a ray of light, pure and golden, falls from the heavens, as the light of God himself, admitted by the wind rushing, parting the woven branches, above, beyond the trees. The leaves spin and sparkle, sighing also in the breeze, and so a harmony ensues sighing leaves and rushing wind, in that tranquil, quiet place. Dust falling, innumerable motes of glowing light, they drift downwards, minuscule, as snow made all of light, dim and golden, like the shining sands of heaven, swept down to fall to earth, and dust the earth with heavens bounty, and let its light sparkle for a moment, an age, in the quiet of the world. Far above the wooded hill, beyond the rustling grasses, and the colorful blossoms in their midst, high in the cold of the infinite heavens, and the currents of the flowing wind, an eagle soars, and so in mastery of the world below, the world above, does swoop to take unwary prey, in claws cruel in their curved dimensions, and the sharpness of their edge. But below in the world of quiet peace, though blood may drip from pure sky, and so enrich the flattered earth, all is yet still, and calm prevails, and if blood does fall, sprinkled from the heavens as a cruel rain, macabre in its crimson gleam and scent of severed life, it falls unknown, unmarked, to soak into the warm earth, receiving as it gives, and so is added once more to the cycle of life at the beginning, from which in time new blood will flow, through veins new and delicate, frail with the tender youth of new things begun, and so new life be born from death.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 4:13 PM UTC
From underbrush it creeps
along spring's damp ground
crawling, dragging towards light
Then
A crutch with which to achieve up
begins the climb
tendrils grabbing bark
First
a few at the end of the grow
more and more as maturity is gained
and grow moves upwards
Three
Green leaves on of each stalk
waxy, jagged and glistening
Will turn red in autumn
Pretty
But best left alone
should rash and itch
follow the handler's
folly
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 9:25 PM UTC
This dry Spring
the parched earth drinks quickly,
every cool droplet precious
as the tears of the bereaved.
The rain furrows the dusty creek banks
like sunken, careworn cheeks.
the timid water hurries
past sandbars and gravel spits,
around balding rocks crowned
with rotting riverweed.
and in the green places that remain
to be sought and found between
the highway noise and the factories,
there the shy ones grieve with us
for all those lost to disease and violence,
miscarriage and mischance.
We round the bend;
the yearlings start and bolt
through the tangled underbrush—
an exercise in their own fragility.
The mother does not run.
she moves warily
a few paces away
and meets our gaze: measured, assessing.
She takes us in, then bows
her graceful neck to the tender shoots
that break the hardened clay,
the gesture her benediction of peace.
May 9, 2021
May 9, 2021 at 10:42 AM UTC
A flickering Flame
Dances peacefully
Carving her delicate path
Through the walls of trees.
Scorching the grass
'Til it's black as night.
Destroying all that the Earth lays out before her.
For the mission of Fire
Is but to destroy Earth.
Her dance starts out
A peacefully slow waltz.
Structured, measured, predictable.
The Wind, the orchestra
For her ballet
The gentle voices
Singing and guiding
The rhythmic steps
She dances so expertly.
A crescendo and the tempo increases
The Wind swirling around her now.
Her steps quickening
A moderate tango now.
Underbrush laid bare
Charred, broken, smoldering.
The Earth's children begin
To sense the danger.
More real now with the tango
Than before
Another gust of Wind
The horns fire up
The percussion section
Kicks it into a higher gear
Fire begins to steps faster
Twirling, spinning
A quick, heart-pounding salsa now.
Trees fall before she even
Reaches them
Their great limbs kneeling
Before the power they
All know she possesses
Crackling, roaring, through the lands
She dances
Methodically destroying the Earth
Her nemesis
And then
The orchestra of her brother, the Wind
STOPS
* * *
* * *
* * *
* * *
She pauses to see why
A mighty waterfall
Cascades gracefully
Into a shining, shimmering pool
Hundreds of feet below
Fire's steps slow
To a slow, weaving pattern
A more primal, tribal sway
She dances along the shores
Gazing upon the beauty
Of the ne'er-before-seen wonder
The spray from the gracefully falling water
Begins to gently caress
The Fire's reaching, grasping fingertips.
Fire's heart is cooled, calmed, soothed.
Her sway becomes even slower
As the calm overtakes her.
The orchestra begins again softly,
A gentle piano melody,
Accompanied by a soft harmony
Of violin and harp.
The new song is soft
A gentle lullaby
As Fire forgets her mission,
Enticed and lured to complete
Submission at the Water's edge.
She dances calmly for her Mistress,
Leaving for a moment
Her nemesis
Earth.
The cascading falls
Wind their way through the pool
And continue along their path,
Carving out greater chucks of Earth
Than Fire ever dared imagine
Was possible.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 12:34 PM UTC
Sleeping commuters leave
Ghostly auras amidst
The foggy plastic windows.
They slumber through
The booming snore
Of exhaust-pipes, choking smoke.
Silence. Or closest to.
Even stopped, the Bus roars,
Patiently brooding, growling,
As a wolf in the underbrush
Watching the crimson lights, sharp
Like blood on a pavement.
A small cat, uncollared,
Sprints across the road
But is pounced upon.
The wheels creak,
Commuters stir, and the Bus
Stalks away into the night.
Nov 26, 2018
Nov 26, 2018 at 5:23 PM UTC
Chaos is my North Star
My god
Because it is only through chaos
That we can burn down the underbrush and weeds
Of old ideas
Old systems
Bureaucracies and impediments
And plant
Hyacinths of truth
But then again
Ask me about all this
When I am 49
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 7:46 AM UTC
don't look, I
run with the wind, amok gilted hands
fast lacing,
i've only got six fingers saved for
dead kachinas, and I'm
wheeling rough
through the underbrush;
mixed Wiley yellow, willow
peering in on my schemes, paint
pallet dragging leaves
over the hills and holes of
my body's deepest grief
so brush up the tic
and wipe off the blood,
if i'm treading through this
horse hyde, then lift
up my red dress
and sift out the weeds
bramble ramble, ramble
soothsayer hanging bones from
his swollen empty gut-- I
got a rain-stick, talking-stick
Yellow Wampum floating, bagging
sick sweat, for Appaloosa, holy, holy
leave, god anger ugly,
golden painted leaves
and if i'm too swollen, and if you're too
sullen-- i've got a bag of névé rocks for you
so hitch up the tobacco and wait
for tomorrow
my deer running, hoof trotting, snow
blowing legs will be comin' soon.
Aug 14, 2012
Aug 14, 2012 at 12:45 AM UTC
She gazed up into the indigo night sky
Saw the twilight moon eclipsed
Like an unknown planet dark but visible
Had smothered the light
Apart from one sliver cresented
On the edge where black became blue
I followed
Through the piercing breeze
Needing to get out
I stayed inside, I couldn't breath
We sneaked through the underbrush
Feeling improbable and alive
The stars made us feel at home
With you I felt less alone
Creeping along some old man's back yard
Lying on the grass, your hand in mine
Trying not to remember, trying our best
To stop time and our hearts from beating
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 2:45 PM UTC
from June, 2016
An hour before sunrise,
not long before going home-
It's still, no breeze, this Sunday morn-
silent......... serene-
As I step into the woods
I know they're watching,
those denizens of the forest-
Raccoon, possum, birds, etc.
I purse my lips
emit a soft whistle-
No reply
Another....no reply
A few more steps......then..
the soft 'coo' of the Mourning Dove-
"How gentle it is", comforting... in it's greeting
A raccoon appears in front of me,
the 'sentry' for the others, who are still hiding
In the underbrush, and in the trees.
They are "The Angels",
"You are safe with us", his eyes tell me-
It is then I know, it's going to be..... a "good day."
r. riddle 06-26-2016
Feb 12, 2017
Feb 12, 2017 at 5:44 AM UTC