Posts Tagged ‘Tree’

Star Storm

Posted: April 14, 2003 in Poetry
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Stay drunk, you;
Keep worrying.
Preoccupied
With what’s next.
Can’t sleep
Without churning
Sheets like shorebreak.
Tumbled concrete,
Husking winds,
Hissing palm trees,
Gravel bullets
Of sky-spat rain.
The hole is growing
Withdrawn chill
Bring out the star storm
Get it over with.

Wasn’t I just here
Dragging the hose to the top of this hill
When Mom wasn’t looking, on the phone
Eroding the soil to catch it
At the bottom with a friend, shovels, and a dam
Before it floods my parent’s bedroom?
Wasn’t I just here, throwing a party
Snapped sprinkler heads and underage drinking?
Wasn’t I just here planting this sapling
That towers above me – does she remember
Me saving her from my chores of cleanup?
Wasn’t I just here, parking the Monte Carlo
One tire up on the curb
And staggering into the house on drugs?
Wasn’t I just on my way to the Nickels
To fuck around with high school experiments:
How much Jim Beam can I drink
Before I drown or forget whose breasts I am holding?
Wasn’t I just around the corner
Cursing up a storm just to roll those words?
Wasn’t I drinking Cisco just the other night
And shooting pool with the MH Posse?
I thought I was just down at Nobes
Throwing stolen pallets off the cliff
And leaping through the fire with my Mickeys.
Could have sworn I was just at Nati’s
While my parents told our favorite waitress
That they were so proud of Kyle and I.
Wasn’t I the one who broke Mom’s last wind chime,
And threw my Dad against the breezeway wall
When he tried to stop me from running away again?
Didn’t I just lie to Dad about
Doing all my chores but I didn’t coil the hose?
Wasn’t that just me and Gary
Doing stupid hazardous tricks of that stolen launch ramp?
Wasn’t that me the other day
Looking down from the top of the pine tree
At my hysterical mother telling me to come down
And powerless to do anything about it?
Didn’t I just steal my first Penthouse
From the neighbor’s garage
And see Venus, Venus, Venus
In three color pictorals?
Don’t I get my $5 allowance now, Dad?
I want to go buy Lemonheads at Delta Drug.
Didn’t I just have those army men
And Matchbox Cars
That Dad keeps digging out of the backyard?
I swear that I just read the pain
In Jared’s poetry and thought that I could do that.
Wasn’t I just hammering my drum set
In the garage to “We Built This City”?
Where are Samwise and Frodo;
They were around
Just a second ago.
And I thought I saw Grandma and Grandpa
Last weekend for miniature golf;
How come Grandpa always won?
Wasn’t I just here with Karen, with Laura,
With Dawn, with someone else?
Wasn’t I just here?

Floodgate

Posted: February 14, 2002 in Poetry
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Closing my eyes against this real light,
I see warm red through my eyelids
And if I stretch my hand out blind like this
I can imagine caressing your face,
Turning your chin up to taste your full lips
And the salt tang of the sea
That has faerie dusted them.
Hanging out in trees and lagoons;
Spray-painting abandoned concrete;
Stacking records on the autoplay spindle
And rearranging my room
To the crackle of spinning vinyl;
Romping pell-mell over islands
Chased by hunter dogs and fat wild boars;
Floods of experience wrapped in whispers of red hair,
The clickety-clack of eight wheels and nine inch nails.
I know that my every effort to erase what we’ve done
Has come to naught but a floodgate
Open wide of oh my god
I never forgot, only forgot to remember.

Cricket Machine

Posted: January 18, 2002 in Poetry
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It is cold in this basement
Cracks in the casement
Windows leak whatever warmth
To the suckling of the cold.
Share! Share creaks the air
Of that many mouthed night sky.
In a forest of bare breasted trees,
Their raiment mulching around their knees
Winds a path I build when I first got here
Now only walked by squirrels and deer
Within the house, but still below ground
Is that subtly comforting electronic sound
Of the magical cricket machine.

Risen

Posted: November 10, 1996 in Poetry
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That which may sink still may rise
Those who are living still may die
Rock may crumble, trees may fall
A king may sit in an empty hall
Mountains may soar to support the sky
If lightning speaks, will thunder reply?
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust
Wood may break, iron can rust
That which is sunken still might rise
Even those who are dead still can die.

A purring song of liquid honey Angelkitten,
Burnished golden metallic wings,
Diamond-bright dinky halo and
Those kitten-soft feet to mommy-paw
Your eyes shut at sleepytime,
Hunting your hair,
As the wind from the waves of her home,
Corner-of-your-eye cat-quick paranoid spirit
Of Cleopatra Mykelti kittenator flatulator,
Calling-cards framing those other cats,
Wrestling with an orange and brown Afgan
Slim but phat tunnel-runner big-eyed kitten.
Lovin’ the palm tree, kisses for mommy silly
Rabbit treat-begging troublemaking kitten.
Heart of gold trusting Egyptian princess kitten.
Brave Cleo-kitten.
The Angelkitten.

Pine Tree

Posted: April 3, 1995 in Poetry
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I climbed up as far as my courage
And strength would take me
One day in the life of a monkey-boy;
Those branches were spaced
With a long-armed youth in mind –
A kind encouragement
Beckoning boys to the heavens,
That grandfather pine tree still stood
As of the date of this writing,
And it still looks as tall.
Things change as I grow older –
Hey, I thought it might have grown smaller
Like my free time, but
I’ll bet the wind still waves
The top of that tree back and forth
Enough to make a mother faint.
It seemed like yards, side to side,
The crow’s nest on a stormy ship
Clinging to the sparse branches,
Inadvertently gluing myself to the trunk
With pine sap and a boy’s luck,
Feeling the tickle of the ever-curious ants
That make freeways in the channels
Of such an old tree’s bark.
I think climbing tall things
Is conquering the world to a child.
I remember my parent’s roof,
Paved with pink pumice,
Once all stones,
Then weather beaten gravel,
Looking like a picnic blanket –
Something you could almost fall into
And just sink in,
Like a cat for a headrest.
From that altitude, the clouds were nearby:
I was pretty much one with the sky.
I wondered if I believed enough
On the way down,
Could I fly?

A Christmas Vision

Posted: November 10, 1994 in Poetry
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Quietly now, the children are sleeping
While we two are creeping
to bite cookies and leave them.
Practical worries about the yearly tour of duty:
Every floorboard creaks, every giggle recognizeable;
Make sure the flat of the hearth is newly sooty,
Make sure the stockings are equally full.
Finally finished, our excitement diminished
By the prospect of the warm bundle wake-up call;
The warning comes as bare soles in the hall —
my arm ‘round your waist,
we can admire the tree
and break our own rule
of conserving electricity:
Plug the lights in and hear the hush
Of the new snowfall, the moonlight’s touch
Twinkles the icicles on the eaves
Outside the window past the wreath-leaves.
Now that Santa’s come and gone,
I’m sure he would have left
the Christmas lights on.

Balancing Act

Posted: January 27, 1994 in Poetry
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When does it all come crashing down;
a sawed-through tree trunk,
an old building downtown —
this balancing act of teacups and champagne flutes,
china, crystal, candles,
coffee, coriander and cinnamon.
Sanity on low wattage wire
heating up in the house walls
threatening to start a fire
when the force of gravity falls.

Untitled Poem #169

Posted: August 7, 1993 in Poetry
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we write poems when our tongues tie
together in my mouth, behind your lips;
unspoken words like unnoticed snow
in the shade of a tree in the high mountains.

The Decay of a Cartoon

Posted: July 28, 1993 in Poetry
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The poet sojourns
to the real world,
concerned with education and finances,
too busy with real matters
to watch his own walk
like a bluejay on a telephone line
assuming it is his,
too bust to enjoy
the glances at his jester clashed clothing
and his odd squatting posture,
recounting endless stories
of dubious origin.
The decay of a cartoon
into another weary act of flesh and blood
is done through weight,
self-inflicted,
burdens of soggy peat responsibility
and the yokes of limiting your own strength.

I fell from 20 feet up, from a tree branch
and I landed on my head;
when I should have been dead,
(I was 10)
I walked into the house
to bandage my gashes
so that Mom wouldn’t worry about me.

I tell myself I can’t do that now
because my weight has quadrupled
from all of these woes I balance on my nose
trying to smile around them
everyday at other people,
and their circus tricks;
jugglers and mimes and tightrope walkers,
sometimes the fear of falling shows as plain as day.
It’s getting heavier and higher and
we’re all being thrown more things to juggle.
So if I fell from that tree
would I end up worrying so much on the way down
that I’d break my neck?
Or could I bounce like the balls I juggle?

a star winked out in the nighttime sky
and did not return my love
as I cast into the heavens;
a sword standing still
riding my mind like the hip of a warrior.
one oboe quietly mediates the tree’s disputes
about who is shading who
as I am walking through.
there is no medium for art
like the dreams dreamed when all alone
and happy with where you are in the world.
writing to be poetic, prolific
I sometimes wind myself soporific
scratching at the paper making nothing terrific,
just words that rhyme
a line at a time or three
cavorting in silent melodies
like those oboes, sleepy in the trees.

A Poem for Me

Posted: March 28, 1993 in Poetry
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a leaf falls from a tree
so that it may grow stronger;
healthy without its burden
of dead weight this tree
will rise to higher heights.
and me,
without my dead leaves
will also soar as high.

Untitled Poem #148

Posted: February 15, 1993 in Poetry
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wherever you walk
I watch from treetops
still your little blue boy.

my eyes haven’t suffered
the same sanding that my heart has.
I see like an eagle hunts
and my heart heals.

I see a sad Druid.
the crows raise eyebrows at me
but I show them my eyes
and they understand.
we’re all watching you
from our treetops.

He Stood Like a Tree

Posted: December 6, 1992 in Poetry
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he stood like a tree
on the edge of a cliff
before the sea
and raised his arms
as if wearing a cloak,
as if they were wings.

his voice flew
to the clouds in the sky
calling them to fly
for him.

the breathing of the wind
hummed in his ears,
the earth fell away;
his body lay twisted
and broken open
where his mind had left
it alone, just a tool
that didn’t work this way.

climbing stairs
of cold dry air
ascending to grasp the halos
of those clouds,
flocking with birds
and smoothing his way
with the power of his thoughts.

no need for the wings
of physical flight;
the rain couldn’t touch him,
the dark couldn’t hold him,
and the songs couldn’t
sing him away.

Cat Hide

Posted: September 7, 1992 in Poetry
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I am the prickle
which makes your mother start
and cover your eyes
as if you, being young
don’t know the fear of the closet.

I am the voice that whispers
through the crack;
all that’s left when
the door is shut tight,
caressing you with words
from a green foot-long tongue,
slithering out from the darker dark.

I am the clothes that hang
from all the hangers,
swaying in the imaginary breeze
of a hanging tree in the moonlight,
the one they told you about at camp.

I am the nightmare
created by frustrated imaginations
living in the people
who inhabit your house.
I frighten your strong father
and terrify your poor mother
– this alone scares you.

I am the noise
so slightly out of place,
that each of you lies awake,
debating whether to see what it was
or go back to an uneasy sleep.

I leave your closet doors
open just a little
for you to find in the morning.

Untitled Poem #131

Posted: June 22, 1992 in Poetry
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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.

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.

On a Brook

Posted: April 8, 1992 in Poetry
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On coming to a brook I think I’ll find
A way across from rock to slip’ry rock.
The gaps between are wide and hard to time
When jumping ‘cause they’re just too far to walk.
My strides are longer with the nerve to leap;
A sure-foot method always startles me.
Even though I am not the one to creep
From stone to stone, then on a fallen tree.
The brook is lovely, dark and deep in those
Odd places where stones sit with mossy hair.
To run across, split seconds’ grip with toes?
To plot and place my soles with ginger care?
Still no one minded the time that I took
To doff my shoes and socks to wade the brook.

in the photograph,
taped at the corners,
we were caught falling
into the river with smiles
and half-closed eyes;
flowers were falling
on the glossy surface
in the middle of the white album page,
shifting the reflection of the sun.
outside the open oak-framed window,
shining over the tall broad-leafed trees,
and the clouds spiraling away
falling over the edge of the world.

Sick of It

Posted: January 28, 1992 in Poetry
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but tired of listening
to nothing worthwhile,
I got a glass of water,
I walked a long way,
I climbed a sturdy tree and listened to
a worthwhile nothing.

Untitled Poem #107

Posted: April 19, 1991 in Poetry
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A saddened tree
Dips slender limbs
Into her reflection
In the quiet lake;
There she catches
Litter.

Chinese Imitation Poem #2

Posted: April 7, 1991 in Poetry
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water falls as an old man’s beard
which grows down flat to the sea.
a summer trickle leaves hung moss;
a drip makes music like wind bells.
a tree nearby sends leaves as boats
to drift into the setting sun.

Untitled Poem #103

Posted: February 10, 1991 in Poetry
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I can hear the sound of the ocean
as I float in my sea of whipped cream sheets.
the wind in the trees outside my window
calls me softly
to sleep.

Untitled Poem #100

Posted: December 28, 1990 in Poetry
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I heard the liquid drums pounding
and the silver sky tore apart.
the moonbeams fell sharp and screaming
bending their rainfall to my face.
I smelled the coming heat
and the clouds were writhing soundless.
the wind chimes swung emptily,
wailing their grief into the night.
I saw the many trees dancing
and the glow from my eyes went silent.
the earth grew faint beneath my feet,
melting my flesh off in runnels.
I knew the serpents were stirring
and my old scars split with delight.
the hum of the land was loud on my skin
when walking with the Lords of the Wind.