I half-awoke, standing in a forest
bark peeling in long curling strips
from the shivering trees, mist
hanging like moss in the higher branches
leaves layered thick under the soles
of my feet, and I just listened
to the dripping of water
falling like bullets from the sky.
Archive for June, 1992
In Sherwood Forest, Santa Cruz Island
Posted: June 24, 1992 in PoetryTags: Forest, Leaves, Sky, Trees, Water
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I Take Time to Tell You
Posted: June 24, 1992 in PoetryTags: Cloud, Crickets, Moon, Porch, Road, Smoke, Time, Trees
I saw the moon come
From behind a cloudbank.
It took time to see this;
I take time to tell you.
My pipe glows cherry-red
Deep inside; smoke drifts apart.
I watch it fall away,
Clasping this time to me.
Faces twist in the veils of smoke
From the cauldron of my pipe
Melting to the orchestration
Of so many crickets singing
Farther and farther away.
I tell you of a porch somewhere
And a row of old trees
Stretching up down the road.
I’m no poet; I’m not quite sure
Of what to say.
Untitled Poem #131
Posted: June 22, 1992 in PoetryTags: Forest, Moon, Night, Ocean, Salt, Sea, Tree, Untitled, Wind
I slunk from the sea
late last night
to stand in a moon-dappled room
under a broad-leafed tree
to write these words from the ocean,
dripping and streamered
with ribbons of seaweed,
leaving the smell of wet salt and wind
behind for the forest
whose paper this is.
Laura Swings Her Skirts
Posted: June 22, 1992 in PoetryTags: Boy, Butterfly, Dream, Eye, Flowers, Girl, Laura, Memories, Tears, Time, Tree
I will sing you a song softly
of a little girl I remember dreaming,
who would wink into the faces of
the flowers to see them smile,
perfume tickling her nose all the while
as she would wander secret places.
this little girl I did love
as I seemed to quietly spy
from the trees into which I’d climbed
as a boy, eyes opened wide.
dreaming her leaving colored footprints
skipping in the parted grass,
laughing like the flight of a butterfly.
and I’ve been dreaming ever since that time,
drugged with memories more precious
and sparkling than her diamond tears
of happiness when she chanced to find
the too-shy boy in the tree tops.
it’s a wonder that all of the leaves
don’t get up and trundle around
with all of the creatures that live
just barely above the ground.
the rocks and sticks on the earth,
the streams and fields that I
have crouched in, turning stones
or wistfully hurried by
hold the secret lives of things
to small to see with ease;
they’re working behind the bark
and playing under the leaves.
Creature from the Black Lagoon
Posted: June 15, 1992 in PoetryTags: Geoff, Glasses, Memories, Mermaid, Ocean, Stearns
Geoff Stearns rose dripping
from the ocean strung with
seaweed and shaggy hair
but without his glasses
which the mermaids claimed
for the memories.
stepping from mushroom top to mushroom top
I find that I am smaller than I had thought.
looking around for anyone looking at me,
I grimace and kick myself in the ass (grimace
meaning turning purple and fat and shapeless
and hanging out with Mayor McCheesy).
I then continue on my way,
sighing across the tops of the funky fungi forest.
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