Quote

New Born Evergreen

Wandering questions before a wooded labyrinth

Whisper, asking for a grand theory

A cannon filled with run on unpunctuated sentences

And questions unanswerable.

Yet, those barely audible whispers!

For the life of me

I couldn’t tell you who said what

or what they said.

But that’s the sounds of trees for you. Supercilious, taller in unison without harmonies

Reeds and wind instruments. Cellos and flutes. The rarest contraltos

Singing together then humming as a bee swarm choir.

Conducting an opera of my delicate sensibilities,

Dramatic, cracked crystal by the secretive octave of deception.

We moles blindly sliding through a wooded curtain

Where roads we won’t see disappear into the air.

Led nowhere by maps on the night’s inky sky, the leggy lustrousness of unlit highways rose with those low tones –

Singing ash and elm boarded up covered bridges on the broken side dirt roads.

Cold ice baby blue bodies of water

Surrounded by brown paper mountains, all

Legendary but-meaningless without keys to open

Our car doors. Nature’s perceptive parents just know when to leave.

Seeing the horror films on the backdrops of snow caps

We’re screaming in terror at mouth of the forest.

Opening wide its fangs showing the sharp firs

Shredding my skin on my way down and a swipe of a long branch,

Bark brown burly beasts ate me whole, swallowing me back in the throat of the past.

Disgusted by my taste I’m spit out and disappointed

Tumbling in the blackness, the inconsequential creation of myself

Pieces of who I wanted me to see and warning what you may notice:

In mirrors I’d become larger than I appeared.

This moment – now – burnt by fire

Burnt up and afraid time knocks down our front door.

Standing there looking at us it sends up red flares

Hot and melting pin-sharp icicles from the eaves

Coldly stabbing as only water can – cold for an instant and gone,

Alive without reason. I rename myself something simple, biblical: Ruth or Rebecca.

Snake my name in the sands as long as the Mississippi or short as the Nile.

Name me Superior or after another lake

Yet besides water tricking the ground into moving away afraid lakes

Simply wait for the rain.

But in my digression

I must admit my remission…

…for then

Bullies can spit me out

Like grizzle from a

Buzzards beak for they’ve

A taste for carcasses

And a parents’ outdated tastes yet

Salivate for the stench of the dead.

II.

Is life that much better now? Naming myself with forgiveness and gratitude: Grace drowns in the rain. While wind shakes my bones in the winter storms’ leafless branches, I tremble from deep inside my trunk, inside of me.

You Just Got Sold

Sing to the tune of J Giles Band – Angel is a Centerfold (for all you 80s friends out there you know it) but it works as a nice stand alone poem too – I’m an anti Facebook person and now Instagram blew it too -selling out to Facebook! Enjoy!

Facebook Friends You Got Sold

Perhaps you’re wondering why you rarely see my updates anymore,

But here’s an update, a flash bulletin:  Facebook’s a pimp and you’re their whore.

Flaunting your data in dark corporate corners around the united interweb

Selling everything once held private to everyone who’s interested.

My updates old

My memories are just like Gold

Facebook friends – you just got sold!

Facebook friends – you just got sold!

Facebook tells you when I’m sleeping and somehow, when I’m not

If I’m too tired to pen an update, some think, “what a snot!”

Friends might sigh and ask themselves, “she’s always been so hautey!”  

When honestly, I seriously was just reading in the potty.

My updates old

My memories are just like Gold

Facebook friends – you just got sold!

Facebook friends – you just got sold

Neither could I care if your kid went poop or took a nap,

Furthermore, why should I care when you think you might have yourself a gap.

To use Facebook as a forum for announcing births or deaths and such

It’s something I cannot handle, using Facebook too, too much.

My updates old

My memories are just like Gold

Facebook friends – you just got sold!

Facebook friends – you just got sold

So if you want to reach me mail a letter, text or voice upon your phone

And if conventional’s inconvenient, do a fly by via drone.

I’m just  a shout, an SMS, an email from being in your life.

However, don’t expect Facebook to tell me about your lovely wife.

I’m sorry if I have offended anyone inadvertent if your needs,

But I’m not Facebook’s bitch to slap around for corporate greed.

When I got engaged I thought a moment to send something you would have “liked.”

Ill considered when you think about how my spam box would have spiked.

My updates old

My memories are just like Gold

Facebook friends – you just got sold!

Facebook friends – you just got sold

Ha ha ha ha ha ha hahaha haha ha hahaha!

Look at me

#keepitalive #poetry

I’m in the stacks high as a half floor of the classics held between the pages and wands and cups. Looking deeper your eyes burn holes with the investment of tonight or a lifetime.

Emma or Juliet or Madam Bovary protect the faces prettier than hers in the quadrant always mowed in rows – cut grass rusted between the notes.

Spiraling and bound there’s no word for the sound a girl makes when all the nexts and fortunes and eventides behold a barely audible thing. Listen to it boil from my throat.

Women fainting in the humid doorless rooms inadequately chaired. Sit there behind Heathcliff and expose those white thighs to Flaubert and smell those Madeline-scented clavicles, songs wafted up from hot pipes. B sharp A minor chord comes to warn us all to keep our distance.

That very day I left the mold blooms and heard the copilots speech, balloons began rising ever so slowly. I learnt that heat rises and a cold sinks like a feeling of mediocrity.

Not the virgin she’s reborn a little girl. Not a diving bell. Not an oven door to a living hell. Not the clamber of a piano on the short seashore with the conch shells and their perverse Fibonacci shapes sequencing his final thought.

She’s guarding my life with the covers of a book forgotten, in return naughty but respectfully right, on the shelf – so you reach her cheek in your dreams.

Fingers part my lines, as the stuff of your words open my mouth like a cannon. A Captain, a whale, and the man whose name you’d never know sat between us.

You still call him Ishmael. We all find out what his name means as one of the dead. That very second we pull ourselves out of this fictional life.

I died to finally read the last sentence, the words no one knows.

Flattening the curve of the earth, weakened at the knees, her neck craned around to notice he’d gone.

Pleased to return Dentistry in Suburban Phuket, forevermore out of print, it once ran cyan, magenta, yellow, and black.

Printed on my imagination the greatest achievement of self discovery.

I thought you’d finally agonize for me.