All the people from the village
are on the same pilgrimage
and they know
that they must all go with the flow.
It's always been the same story
for each generation
has the same destination
in the quest for glory.
Everybody ends up
at a spot on the hilltop
under the big bristlecone pine tree
located in the middle of the cemetery.
It is also known
as the hill of bones
and as the silent place
for those who ran out of pace.
.
lost in the
conifers
the
bristlecone pines
out her cry
goes
az Jane uv the jungle
to i
her lost
("Bristlecone", 2016, original pen and ink)
Samsara
Beneath the titillation of Samsara
the veneer of morality waits.
Or is it the opposite?
Beneath the veneer of morality
the titillation of Samsara awaits.
Either way, it’s the same thing,
the whole damn mess
being one giant game of seduction.
But that sucking sound
at the heart of seduction….
pulling us in
to a void
that's impossible to avoid
the force at the core
that makes the ten thousand
whirling contents irrelevant
Ah, that!
“Darkness within darkness
The gate to all mystery”
the old sage mentioned…
(9/19/23)
OF SAGE LEAVES AND SWEET FLOWERS…
While flowers may be deemed
The sweetness of nature and life,
It is the leaves of her trees that are
The essences of life, death, and rising:-
It is the leaves of the tree
That feeds and nourishes her;
That ensures her branches’ bearings;
Photosynthesizing her peace and love:-
While living flowers are plucked,
Vase-like buried, and housed until death,
They are later thrown away—forgotten.
But fallen leaves reflect resurrection:-
Yes, in nature, trees shed their shading blades
And for a while, stoically stand in nakedness;
Piercing skyward to the coming resurrection
Of their green and rainbow colored leaves.
Thus, I’d rather be a leaf than a flower;
All trees bear leaves; but all don’t flower.
Leaves—nature’s resurrection symbols;
Her saged bristlecone pine allegories:-
Strong sentinel on high
Beneath a mountain sky;
Called by name Bristlecone.
Twisted tree all alone
With green needles so dark
Life clings stoic and stark.
Worn wood with thin bark edge
Locked to a limestone ledge.
Thousands of years flowed past
‘Gainst snow and wind, a mast.
No sails with which to fly
You grew gnarled by-and-by.
Drought and quakes, you did face
Yet you held firm your place.
Despite all nature’s strife,
How do you cling to life?
A flower blooms in paltry places
To nature's gardens tall and wide
Little eyes on petalled faces
A sweet short time before she dies
Her moment flowered like no other
Short-lived but more than beauty allows
Eternal clocks are for nature's mother
Endless deadlines for her till and plough
Yet far away on mountain peaks glory
A scraggly rough tree has stood far too long
5000 years it has shared its story
Its ancient Bristlecone endures its timeworn song
Somewhere in a chard of amber
A seed still waits for its millennial birth
Its' timeless stillness held in golden slumber
Awaiting to emerge out of the arms of mother earth
And NOW my love is when we have harvest
Together in our journey with all that allows
We are as one for now and forever eternal
Performing the miracle of the till and plough
February 13, 2020
Strand Select 0, any form, any theme Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
It’s Twine Time!
(to Alvin Cash)
It’s twine time!
ooh, ah, ooh, ah, ooh, ah!
It’s time to twine, baby!
Time to forget about it all!
The latest lollipop disasters,
The catastrophes dressed in nude attire,
The latest bristlecone attacks
Manufactured with iced fear,
Riveted with barbecued bullets.
Lookin’ good, baby; have mercy!
It’s twine time!
Passing grooving styling peeps
Living lives in psychotic bondage
To the ghost children, still
Living fast episodes of ennui with
All the random traumas,
Passing all the purple bruises,
The red-stained tears.
It’s twine time, baby!
The far-out space girls
dressed in sheepskin adornments,
Intense as roadside bombs,
Made of acrimony and glycerin.
Yeah! Them that are wearing
Dancing boots made of twine!
It’s twine time, baby!
Ooh, ah, ooh, ah ooh ah!
When it's going smoothly and purring along
like a Maserati on a silky autobahn.
I'd like to live a long life, like a bristlecone pine.
Bathe in the moonbeams of infinity
throttle down the Rolex of Father Time...
When life's slings rocks at the center of the soul.
I want life to be brief as a mud puddle protozoan.
Just take a few sips of bad water-then die within seconds.
Instead, these wings beat somewhere between,
I think it's not for me to decide when it's my time...
Or is it?
A portal to another realm
Etched frame and frost adorned
The cadence of the fire’s sound
Keeps all my senses warm
A vast array of bristlecone pine
And snow tipped, Douglas fir
Stand just beyond this door of mine
Where squirrels and wild game stir
A winter blanket, hides the green
Covering miles of rolling fields
The stretch of land, as white and clean
As the picture that it yields
Sunshine through my windows
Warm up the hardwood floor
A magnet for my pup to doze
Beneath the morning pour
Sipping from my favorite mug
A pleasing size and shape
It provides, For me, a morning tug
It soothes me wide awake
These are the days, I find myself
When I create my works of art
Soaking in my sights and smells
Where ideas begin to spark
paper is meant for messages
chairs are meant for sitting
water is meant for life
and truth is meant for living
sometimes exits close
sometimes we have no choice
those directions that times pose
guides the living that I voice
fields of wild flowers
the rustling of trees
nature shows God's will
seeking, stirred up by the breeze
Trials as solid diamond
more solid than graphene
both melt in great temperature
heat not stronger than this queen
resilience meant for trials
birth is meant for new
brings change meant to alter
old fallacies that grew
Great Basin Bristlecone Pine
Can one change as time goes on?
Or do I cut down the growth
til unwillingness is gone?
mirrors meant for reflection
a caress meant for affection
I'm meant for a new resurrection
for a new life connection
The drizzling of rain
the patter as it falls
I hear drops of a new life
thru rebirth as it calls
For four-thousand years and more
He’s withstood the tests of time;
Extremes of heat and cold
Haven’t cut him down in his prime;
Even now he proudly stands
As a testament of endurance,
The elements sure can’t defeat
This tree of majestic stance.
This Californian Bristlecone-Pine
Stands high up in the mountain range,
How it manages to survive there
Leaves us gasping, it seems so strange;
How it’s lived for millennia
When other trees have long since died
Is truly amazing to consider,
Such tenacity can’t be denied.
On so dry and thirsty a terrain
This tree seems but to thrive,
A resilient nature for sure
Helps to keep it so alive
And, within its tough bark,
In the very heart of the tree
Must be a durability
Of the highest degree.
Yes, the oldest living thing
On our Planet Earth
Is a magnificent tree
Of such invaluable worth.
A grand, visible display
Of what determination can do;
A symbol of a great survivor
For us all to look up to.
So, me? A tree?
How could that be?
You say they're much like humans
If that's the case; as you might say,
then I'm one from Sundarbans
Passur, most praised
Oh sure, that's it
I'm sure you'd beg to differ
Keora - most graceful it's been labeled
with that you cannot argue
But if you must, go right ahead
with leaves of RED
I'm Japanese Maple
Dwarf Willow, the smallest they call
going down the lines
or Bristlecone Pines
Oldest living tree -- Don't you dare insist this tree is me!
But, the most fruitful there is
Is the spirit that lives
in the seeds that we plant day by day
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