Sticky tears of Winter.

At a cold distance with nature,

a callow understanding

of what once

gathered under my fingernails,

whipped blithely my hair,

and scoffed at my presumptuous white dress.

I run from car to home to avoid you,

and I don’t visit you in the woods.

How can you forgive me?

I must fear the lash of the eddy-your white waters.

I couldn’t bear to know what it thinks of me now,

I don’t know anymore moss’s soft recoil

upon pealing my heavy hand away,

but I know your tamed wood at my kitchen table

–shaved of its skin to suit my needs.

I know plastic, steel, and plaster better than I know

the smell and feel of sap as I once did.

Sticky tears.

Luminous conflict

As the sunlight barges in on the stars

when he catches them all unaware,

 

The moon must retreat to the world afar

so others can glance on its hazy stare.

 

The sun finds its canvas; pale and new

once dark, painted orange and tickled pink

 

The rays catch the gleam of the fog and dew

As light tip toes in on puddles brink

 

Play hide and seek with the sun amongst trees

as flowers open for their beaming friend

 

Boasting of luster, though the moon disagrees

that lunar light was from morning star’s lend

 

Moon returns from its trip across the sphere

and docks its beams at its misty sky pier

 

Familiar Stranger

Fragrance

of passing stranger

suspends me in lives

I could have lived;

like undulating fog.

A memory I’ve never had:

tells me in whispered postage

faint,

and fading.

I can remember

the image,

no wait, the feeling.

I can recall neither but sense them both:

taupe and winnowed.

It’s the scent of halcyon years: burnt sugar and pine

Very familiar stranger

Hike Musings

Do you ever feel as if you can smell ‘cold’? How would you describe it?

To me it smells like wet cave and cedar.

Earlier, by way of wind, jasmine found a path to my nose.

I suspect it was phantom jasmine, because it doesn’t grow naturally here.

That was only the beginning of the hike my nose took.

I could make out the aroma of pine, all cozy and masculine.

I don’t mean that in the societal sense, but ┬áin the idea of earthen masculinity–stable and

unchanging, immune to the cycles of mother nature…as evergreens are.

As I made my way from the shadow of trees I smelled heat of gravel and dirt; mildly sticky

but mostly arid. A cove of rhododendron is what I came to next. The leaves seemed

encased in wax, allowing other scents to take center stage on their countenance, mostly

rain water. The welcome breeze was absent of one thing–and I suspect it always will be..

because we will never know the smell of a spiderweb.

On Ungratefulness

Your eyes crack open to a vision of dawn;

Yet “here comes the night!” you say.

Here gallop steeds with ends of a dark blanket in their mouth

ready to cloak your vicinity

With fire in eyes,

theirs and yours–

which is why you can’t see the good

around you.

You can’t see past your third eye.

Day breaks!!

Day breaks and you’re still here!

Rejoice and reconsider.

War in Antiquity. War in General

Why would a poet have agreed to fight for Athens? With their keen knowledge of beauty and romance…of personal feats and empathy. Certainly they didn’t decide to indulge in their senses, so they could defeat another body of humans, subservient to a group of vessels masquerading as men.

One fought for the truly ambiguous lines separating countries and sea divisions that no man can truly own.

A sword slices limbs and releases red ribbons to dance between bodies. So three dimensional…but those limbs were five, six, seven….eight dimensional. They’ve held babies, written poetry, welded, cooked meals for families and now they’re reduced to flailing obstacles.

The greed and singular power, for which they unknowingly fight, flows so intensely from the top of the pyramid and trickles down to the ones who truly battle for someone else’s “cause”…trickles down, diluted with false senses of duty and glory.

But I recognize deep in history with man to man combat, one didn’t always have an alternate chemin.

Wicked Rapture

stay busy child, jesus is coming

don’t let him catch you idle at hand

when you hear the distant drumming

calm abandon sweeps the land

houses are empty, old and weary

painted masks lay on the floor

this wicked rapture, of which i’m leery

has left me with a sealed door

this is my home now,it is my home

the hand of God has left me here

the sky is yellow, the seas are chrome

fallow fields, dead, brown, clear

desolate me, dejected creature

a lazy calm sweeps my slacken form

a languid feeler from the grimmest reaper

hooks my body, i join the swarm