Posts Tagged ‘Forest’

And I

Posted: February 4, 2002 in Poetry
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A forest
Of opportunities
And I
Cannot restrain
From celebrating Venus
In every female form;
Although
In my heinous thoughts
The gloaming that you see
Is the embers
Of another
Life.

I
I can imagine a perfect spot
to have a picnic with you today;
the sky is a wee bit grey
at the edges —
I caught as many clouds as I could
with my butterfly net
(I came in wet
early this morning from the rain-dew
on the unmown grass stems).

II
I’ve found a circle of trees
by the brook in the forest
where it takes a toddler’s tumble
over a jumble of rocks;
the moss grows shaggy like old men’s beards
wisping from the branches;
faerie streamers from last night’s revelry —
perhaps Pan was here just a little while ago
rearranging or arranging this spot and my walk.

III
It’s only raining a little bit now
not like how it was this morning —
you were sleeping, darling —
I was watching the whole time;
the same clouds that dampened my socks
were protectively wrapped across your eyes;
It was no surprise that I found it so easy
to slip outside to explore, to find
a real secret garden for your majesty.

[for Dawn]

Spooge

Posted: August 31, 1993 in Poetry
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A VOLCANO EJACULATING BLACK-HOT SULFURIC INK-JISM INTO SQUIGGLY PATTERNS TO FREEZE INTO SINGULAR HIEROGLYPHICS MY PEN LOADED WITH THICK CLEAR CRANIAL FLUID BARELY FILTERED THROUGH THE NASCENT HAIRS ON THE BACK OF MY HAND DERIVING WORDS THOUGHTS IDEAS FROM THE DINOSAUR TEETH-CLICKING OF NEURONS AND RECEPTOR CELLS IN A SQUATTING TOADLIKE SOGGY WAD OF SCHOOL BATHROOM PAPER TOWELS CROUCHING IN THE THRONE AT THE TOP OF MY CROOKED SPINAL COLUMN GOUTING INANITIES INTO THE SPEAKER HORN OF THE 101 FREEWAY RUNNING FROM FOREHEAD TO FINGERS DANCING THE END OF SOME STOLEN WRITING UTENSIL LIKE A SKATE OVER A CLEAN SHEET OF HOCKEY RINK ICE STILL STEAMING FROM THE INDUSTRIAL STRENGTH ZAMBONE MACHINE ROLLING FORESTS FLAT INTO PRODUCTS THAT I CAN WIPE MY NEURAL ASS WITH.

Gut Feeling

Posted: July 13, 1993 in Poetry
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Sometimes I can’t write poetry;
I know this so I don’t try.
so I’ll listen to you stomp around
and play your Steely Dan CD.
I’ll lay on my back, look at the ceiling,
and smoke my cigarette.

Then I’ll dream my best poems
and never write them down,
just wander through them
like a forest of different overstuffed chairs,
like a choir of angel’s hymns.

falling asleep with you mad at me
is something I’m getting used to.
I hear your stomach muttering in your sleep
and I’ll know you’re still wondering
how much I love you.

lighting another cigarette end to end,
I let you know I’m not asleep
if you’re listening.
that is if you’re listening,
behind your stuffed animals,
under the comforter.

Untitled Poem #151

Posted: March 7, 1993 in Poetry
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there’s a shadow who lays on my windowsill
from the crow who sits on the telephone wires
and if I wasn’t home reading up your poetry
I’d be out in a forest setting fires.

Untitled Poem #149

Posted: February 22, 1993 in Poetry
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A Druid has stood
In the green of my woods,
A forest of lines of verse.
The light from her eyes
Has given me my eagles
Which soar through my nighttime skies.
I hunt for the words
As mice run from an owl
And stand them in bowls;
Bouquets of flowers
to please me.

Untitled Poem #138

Posted: December 11, 1992 in Poetry
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he thought of strength
in terms of eagles and coyotes:
creatures of power,
of flight and of prey.
he could hear the frogs croak
for him and for the death
he knew was behind his shoulder.
he knew that his writing
had changed. he knew that
he needed to live very differently;
to tell those he loved
how he felt, angry or sad
and live as a warrior who has
stopped the world from turning
without his knowledge.
he wanted most of all
to hold himself, that part
of his being who saw and
who guided him through
the forests and others
that he could write about
but couldn’t thread.