Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘Nature’

Birds sing, brooks babble, and trees sway
while the ax chops.
Hunks of tree flesh dance in a slight wind
and stick to the dewy bark
of a thing called man.

Sticky sweet blood runs.

Somewhere a blinking monitor
remembers the key strokes
regarding Marxists capitol
and Foucaultian power.
These heavens bear down on the man.
A sun too bright, a salvation too far removed.

A double helix composed of turned pages.

The forest howls at the loss of a friend,
a child, a mother, a brother, a life extinguished.
Here in the pulsing womb of creation
all falls silent when the slight wind dies.
The clockwork devil, unlike fire and trembling earth,
pauses to adore work and creation
before eloping with the corpse.

Imagine, now the future.

The thing called man and wife adoring
their things called son and daughter,
who like hurricanes blow aimlessly around
the cabin the thing called man built for them.
Unlike fire and trembling earth,
they pause to adore work and creation.
Not unlike bird, or brook, or tree
but for the ax hanging over the fire place.

 

Read Full Post »

Tentative Fate

Together they would come to know the cause.
Resolved as they were in their affection
To be a love greater than any laws.

Her look would have given Adam pause.
The fruit of choice being against perfection
Together they would come to know the cause.

His tongue gave name to her virtues and flaws.
The taste of it all provoked the infection
To be a love greater than any laws.

Upon the fall of night, the feeling gnaws
at the heart, the mind, and the midsection.
Together they would come to know the cause.

He cries “calamity” when winter thaws
receding ice shapes their indiscretion
to be a love greater than any laws.

How has this union made them outlaws?
Banished from God and Nature’s intersection
Together they would come to know the cause
to be a love greater than any laws.

Read Full Post »

Evaporation

She has become
the benefactor
of bad advertisement.
Willfully hidden
though not reclusive.
The sweet nectar that
entices and drowns.

Fecund and frail green
filled and surrounded
by dead flies. You know
not to touch her, so you
admire instead.
The momentum of nature
comes from this tension.

A school boy
runs his hand up her leg –
the leg of a girl. 9th grade
is hard for everyone.
Such courage he has never felt
thriving and pumping
in his head and heart.
To fly, or a fly.

Dioanea, the teacher
of Socrates
the Virgin Mary
of Ancient Greece.
The mother,
who sits and waits
as devious as she is
pristine. Her ancestry
bringing a ruler down
on the boys desk.
To save, or to savor.

The sheepish hand withdraws.

Read Full Post »

202… 203… 204
bright green
made separate
by light cracking through.
A silent shore
brings a breeze
and I watch one
fall.

A green ambassador
from a heaven
slightly out of reach.
Did I already count
this angel
or was he yet unknown?

I watch him hit the sand.
I bless him in his graceful fall
because now I must restart
the count, and in counting
return to art.

Where is my leaf savior?
To make these black
feet go away. To uncount
these stone words
and bless me with the ability
to experience again
the refreshing wind,
the green canopy,
the fallen ones.

It cannot save me
like that.
This poem remained
in my mind
despite trying to forget
and emerged
like a leaf
to flutter
to the ground.

Read Full Post »

A Piece of My Mind

I
sit refusing
sand particles become me
they sit refusing
shape.

Ages ago
water broke us down
from the whole
words, waters,
baptism

the once united
now claim their
nothing individual
dry, dry, dried by the sun
They are one.

I
sit wet
from rain
we are now mud
together

what is left of the rock
is the key
and I am the lock
shhhh says the
falling rain

just be.

Read Full Post »

We never intend our voice to be a mirror
after a year. Writing is a release –
that means don’t come back.
To cry the tear of a reader
to pose a question – to describe a lack.
The cocoon sealed green opens
and the history of those people
is a stream reflecting light.
Water isn’t without connotation
words are not without denotation –
and thus an elderly man can come across
the stream he crossed in youth
sockless and happy –
and feel nothing but sorrow at
the sameness of it all.
In time he will build a bridge
to never look upon the waters again.
The bridge will bear his name
the name on the lips of those who pass
with their children in hand.
Small girls laugh at the wind carrying seeds
as mothers sneeze loudly.
The young boys pull with all their might
against the weight of their fathers
toward the edge of the path.
For one second they want to see the river
as it passes through the trees,
under the bridge,
and on into the horizon.

Read Full Post »

The black asphalt leaks steam
as the sun rises. A short run
prolongs my morning caffeine
Long enough for me to travel a mile
of rough natural terrain.
A man, far larger than me, in a gray hoodie
is suddenly labeled a thief, or rapist, or murder…
He smiles and runs by. Perhaps he thought
I was young or pretty. Within time I will learn not to worry.

The air is a transparent mystery that fuels my breathe.
The sun rises over Mr. Patterson and his grocery store
he waves without any doubt that he is a perfect gentlemen
an old man of a different tradition.
He thinks the Sun is a miracle though in reality
it is a giant hostile ball of fire which hasn’t moved
in a million years. Yet it rises every day. Now that’s a miracle –
something appearing even though it never does.

Mr. Patterson often confuses beautiful things as miraculous.
As if nothing natural can be beautiful. He says the same about me
and has persisted in that illusion since I was a young girl.
Which despite its good intentions always made me feel
as though I was a disappointment. Needless to say this is why I run,
even though I should be home drinking coffee.

St. Mary’s church signals halfway – her shadow is a sundial –
I am running late. Though the graveyard is in shadows, as it should be,
the sidewalk is bathed in light. I turn right before Ash street
and head back. Patterson’s is open for business even though nobody
comes until after 8. My joints ache. I persistently tell myself
that the pain resides in my mind and push on.

The trees on either side of School street bend over the road
sheltering it from the sun. Light barely breaks through
allowing a runner some mercy. But I havn’t come for that
I have come to atone. So I turn up Old Hickory road
whose houses have displaced the hanging trees
and whose stone walls make the road almost cave-like
and foreign. Both roads intersect the road where I live
but Old Hickory Hill only breaks the flat earth
at this one point.

The ascent is the toughest part of the trip
and always appears as a giant gray wave
approaching from the horizon.
It is of the heritage of mythology
its titanic ancestor imprisoned Sisyphus
increasing the weight he must bear until, at its zenith,
it became impossible to move forward. Only back.
But I am not a Sisyphus, the burden is not on my back
I am a descendant of a different class
the fire wielders, born in caves, and emerged to conquer the earth.

The hill comes and goes. Its passing signifies a quiet victory.
No more a miracle than the sun. Just feet and steaming black tar.

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »