High Cue

Sap from heart-wood drips-

Honey, no one would call It.

Can you Smell the sun?

Painting by George Inness (1825-1894), 'The Mill Stream, Montclair, New Jersey' c. 1888 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Slate grey

Starting to look like my old self

Or young self

And when I steal a glance

In a random reflection

I have seen

The crazy haired

Listening

Clean slate

Child

That has been there

All along

Long time,

No see-

eyes were always grey.

Seriously-

is that the same 

insides out?

Born that way

They say

It goes that way, life

Mirrors...

What?

Again,

an echo reiterates.

Or so it seems slated,

Starting Over and I

Was Here

As if carved into

A tree.

Painting by Thorolf Holmboe, 'Weeping willows' c. 1907 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

branches

This is not love.
We can be certain.

These arms may connect us
or reach
away
yet-
only a knot
knows what was
once there.

And I have started to lose feeling
after clenching so long
the words or a similar
breeze to bring me closer
to you.

Instead I hang
precariously
numb.

A heartwood drains
down my
whitened clasped hand

an indistinct ring-
ing in the ears
is calling for Us
to let go of dead weight
before the wood
turns to bone

without love
there was no way to tell
how high we were
there was no way
we should be certain
to survive the fall.



Painting by Charles Reginald Aston, between 1852-1908 in Public Domain.

Saplings

Not a lack of empathy could turn us-

or the inability to love the ‘other’-
rationally,

we small rats.
It separates us.
A green miasma seeping up

from the loamy soil.
Familiar, like family, the smell of our
(grand) Father.
Toes curl and cringe and yet

we knew all about decomposition,

slanging dirt on white walls,
shit that flies and flows downhill.

We recognize, collectively
all information is absorbed,
the leaves in turn
throw shade.

Dark times don't always dictate
a Virgil. This time,
we were early.

It only takes a conceit to break
sacred ground.

All this diurnal mist adds up
and seeps in-
to crystal beads made for
costume jewellery
to be strung across
the sky.

There were stars
where pupils should be.

Scurrying mice and men gather

blind,
feeling their way away
from a threat that smelt like a fresh
grave.
All information is recreated
to be fertile today.

It stinks making fresh air.

Painting by Tom Roberts [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Seeled Nightjars

The more I grow
the smaller I feel

alluding to the numbers,
volume made us feel safer
en masses
more than a speck or sparrow

excommunication
was what was said
by those who asked
the owl

in stead of the tree
Who
watched us scatter
the wait in seeds
while he preyed.


Photo credit By Benjamint444 (Own work) [GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html) or CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/)], via Wikimedia Commons.

Cross-polination

untouched by light-yet-
feels its warmth and reaches out-
made bigger by desire-
hard wood, hard-ly virgin
forests for the feral trees-
wild in her-ness, promiscuous
phallacy, the protection
of innocence, guarded in a sense-
an essence burgeoning out-
no reason to celibate...




Image by By Jon Sullivan (Public-domain-image.com) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

If I was there (as pictured)

You

can see

The Forest

                                                                                                                        Over there-

Hills bent like knees, folded and prickled with trees, textured tones of green shadowed by their own darkness unseen. Lush in mossy folds of exploding ripe oxygen with spores sparking their sperm of wild plumage fans its layered feathers blurred in flight, this sight you can see-

Wherein,

          fawn and stag trample broken arms under hoof…a trail, a scent, a nymph of notion. (Not I)

                                                                                    Smoke of an obscured roof floats billowing

a periwinkle blanket of Big open skies under Venus’ belt, who tucks in the sprawling landscape-or tries. Soaring in sacred circles on the crown of canopy raptors released, flying cage free.

Blurs of sweeping leaves, fingertips brushing the panoramic pastels, strokes of infinite-wait-

What-

Was

That sound-                                                                                                 Did you hear?

Just a raccoon, bat, owl, opossum, puma or deer…falling down-playing dead, maybe.

Things echo in cathedrals.

Sounds are carried, strung together in symbols, the pin drops but the sewers eyes are sewn shut.

Fears flourishing outlined with dread.

Can you see? Inside, where the trees hide and words disappear-I cannot see, I was not here.

Image by Anna Ramsburg, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service via Wikimedia Commons, (public domain).