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not sure how many words

I love these trees.
Misted mystery.
This forest owns me,
calls me back
when I leave.

More shades of green
than a dictionary has words,
more silence
than a monastery holds.

Embracing with comfort,
holding secrets for centuries
and sighing out the air
cleaned of the filth left
in our ignorance.

At night the filtered moon
wakes whiteness
and lights the way for
wide-eyes creatures that disappear
by day break.
 
Tristesse2 said:
I love these trees.
Misted mystery.
This forest owns me,
calls me back
when I leave.

More shades of green
than a dictionary has words,
more silence
than a monastery holds.

Embracing with comfort,
holding secrets for centuries
and sighing out the air
cleaned of the filth left
in our ignorance.

At night the filtered moon
wakes whiteness
and lights the way for
wide-eyes creatures that disappear
by day break.
Click to expand...
Very nice, T2.
 
Zen in the Woodpile

Thank you fg69, for the card too.


First the slow donning of wamth.
Socks, fleece and toque,
boots and gloves covering
all bases. Then
the open air kissing cold
blinking eyes in shock.
The frozen crunch as snow
dies under foot leaving
a record in passing.

The axe still
from disuse hangs
in the fragrance of the barn.
I lift it down hefting it
heavy in my hands.
The log pile waits,
hiding under the blanketing snow,
grumbles as I wake it.

My choice is a long dead
apple tree to burn hot
and silent, filling the air
with the scent of summer.
Balance, steady, aim and swing.
One strike splits it clean
into two, just the start
of this particular meditation.
 
Winter Muse

It is a certain silence
that comes only with snow,
the slow journey from cloud
to ground, a dream-like drifting,
shifting perspectives in the end.

Each falling flake yearning
for company. The lightness
of one belying the weight of many
to the joy of the child, tongue out
to taste the coldness
of this singular journey
leading to angels
and men fashioned from the travelers.
 
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My silence on the subject of us
lies in my inadequacy as a poet
to do justice to the depth
of the experience we shared

I will not be
trite
cliche’
sappy
maudlin
manipulative
effusive
overwrought

I will remember
I will smile
I will cry
I will treasure

I will be silent
 
I hear them outside
muffled by cold and mufflers.
Shrieks as they play.
Sliding? Snow ball fights or
just shrieking for the hell
of breaking the snowbound silence?
Old enough to know better,
wise enough to save a bit
of youth. Young enough
at heart to play in the snow.
 
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It doesn't take much
to crumble my confidence
just a scathing look or
whithering word
I wish my resolve
was more resolute, my chin
less glassy but those
sucker-punches pulled so suddenly
privately knocking my stuffing
sideways stun me.
 
Confessional

I had no part
in making you fall.
I saw you on your knees
and bent to help
but it wasn't for love.

It wasn't I who drew
the lines then carefully
coloured outside them
to confuse the cause.

Your tears were not
deliberately drawn
by me but fell in my lap
anyway and made me
realise the damage
I had unwittingly done.

There is no way
no detour around this
to avoid the inevitable
hurt to come.
Platitudes aplenty
occur to me but you,
you are beyond words now.
 
Natural Birth

I'm sure I heard the first line
born out of the wails and carried
into a poem on the back of angst
and desperation to be heard.
A poem meaning less than when
first discovered hiding amongst
the disordered thoughts and gravid
belly of a poet about to bring
forth just one more metaphor.
 
Last night we watched the full moon
rise over Saltspring.
Mist veiled her with mystery
like lowered eyes promising
something more.
Cedars hid her passage
standing in silhouette
guarding the pale light.
This morning the mist remains
holding the memory
of moonlight and you.
 
The dragon sports a burgundy velvet jacket
That shimeys under a plug nickel moon,
He's been a shapeshifter since
The moment he stiffed her,
And can't help but thinking he shouldn't
Have returned so soon.

Up and down the walk, the scaley beast
Breathes smoke and jazz as the townies talk,
And the cops jangle keys while the whole town
Gets down on its knees sayin Please Mrs Morley Please,
And he accidently lights the world on fire
Fuels the blazes out of it and its desire.

And the Novembers bleed Decembers'
Dry ice while the calender remembers,
Lines on his face splash all over the place
And on boardwalks the toy horses
Whisper news of divorces
And then are gone without a trace.

He's been jolly in the face of all folly
Takes in stride what the glue man has applied,
Fights off being sick over sugar that might stick,
Had it not been for the
Vision he done spied.

And I base my tail
But cant slip his jail,
The feathery fellow I have chased,
In all his languid forms
And from the furiest of storms,
The least of which are never ereased.
 
Procrastination

Perhaps it's the carpet
of uncollected leaves below
my open window
that amplifies the sound
of falling rain.
It is strangely comforting
listening to it in the warmth
of my room but I know
those leaves will need raking up
sooner or later.
 
Perhaps
It is the first lavender
Snow of the uncoiling year,
Or, by chance, its the familiar crunch of Freeze dried dreams
Under the prattling boots before the stairs,
Maybe its the stiff emblem of NW December breathed unto
Tuning fork flagpoles that shivers and sticks tongues
To its remembrance-

Nevertheless,
Indigo seas roil
Under a silver button sky,
Poking holes in the oxygen layer
That give birth to a dance
Jigged and jargoned
In the dazzle syllables-

Reeds breathing up from
Native rivers hidden so
Visibly.
 
Keeping up the Neighbours

Let down your hair
He says and watches
as she pulls a single pin
her dark hair spills
dark as oil against the pale
bowed shoulders making Him gasp
Still, so still they are
barely a breath, hardly a tremble.
He takes her there
on the new made bed
moaning the sheets to shreds,
beating the bedding to submission
and keeping up the neighbours.
 
Counting Her Dead

He picks his nose and gives the bugger to
A woman who's been weeping through the night.
"All nine have died," she said, "in last night's fight."
And now she doesn't know what she should do.
"We'll make mistakes before this cleaning's through,
But that's the price you pay to please our might.
We're good guys, don't forget. Believe what's right:
He died upon that cross for scum like you!"

The children, less than twelve, were trapped within,
But held each other close while rockets flied
And damaged walls came crumbling on their heads.
The eldest prayed God's blessings would begin
On those who slipped away. The babies cried.
And God awoke them all from heaven's beds.

Based on a true story, so I'm told, but truth is not so easy to determine. The last line is the only one I have little doubt about.
 
Resolution

She threw him out
with fishwife words
waiting years for an excuse
leaving her empty-handed
relieved of all pretense
the oppressive house
and needy garden
and the icy lack of desire
and the Hugo Boss suits
happy to be free of all trappings
the traps laid out over the years
of holy hellish matrimony
sleep-walking wearily
through the motions of marriage
lonely for too long
now finally
joyfully
alone​
 
ABS (Another Bad Sonnet)

The sonnet is a tired form of poem, it cannot win
new adherents, surely. The form is laxly strict
and seems at times to encourage silliness and whim
and (horror!) off-rhyme. A form appealing to the thick

and maladjusted, those whose days are occupied
with cross words, palindromes, and feng shui.
Where should I place this potted plant? I spied
some lack of harmony in that corner, hey?

But I feel this plant is shy, and best behind
the couch. Ah, yes, it's ugly, too. But surely
you do not believe I would obsess and really mind
where some fucking plant would sit, however surly?

Ahem. To recap, the sonnet is a tired form, I've read.
This one has made me tired. I'm now off to bed.
 
Reminding You Of My Love

Don't forget to dream, sweetheart
when all is fading faint.
Deny the numbness creeping
in to seek the sheltered chambers
of your heart.

Let memory wash over thought;
highlights of a day so fine tomorrow,
even though the future, is shaded
by these arms once wrapped around
today's loneliness.

Don't forget to dream
when seeming solitude swallows
welcome quiet, swells forboding
against the wisp of once
upon a time to leave a memory

of the words I ever say out loud.
I love you. Don't forget to dream
sweetheart. I stand here inside
your heart to help battle back
the spears of shadowed cold and keep
these chambers warm.
 
new to this...

he moves against me
like a poem...

a complicated rhythm
of stressed
and unstressed
moments.​
 
guilt overtakes me
for i know my lover
is dreaming about me
without me

sleep escapes my eyes
and my body
knowing i need rest
but cannot succumb

morning will come
work soon after
but my mind will not
stop running
 
Unbridled_Passion said:
guilt overtakes me
for i know my lover
is dreaming about me
without me

sleep escapes my eyes
and my body
knowing i need rest
but cannot succumb

morning will come
work soon after
but my mind will not
stop running
Click to expand...



he dreams

light kisses trailing down
a platinum tail, swishing aback
to the tempo of tailored dreams
sown on

a swashbuckling sword.
to surge forth and purge,
demolish such demonic passions
that awaken him in midnights
morning. throw covers back

and plant feet upon
the cold floorboards
at heavens gate
restep
restep
 
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