Another spring
Counting rings
No longer dark
Dog days wait, for their bark
Signaling life has been in bloom
And soon
A beautiful reality will arrive
You do not really die
Glorious sunshine
Photosynthesis dines
Fed well
From nature's magic spell
Can't you tell?
Arbor figure matures
Always sure
About wilderness’ door
No one ignores
Relaxed, whistling tunes
Branches dance and swoon
Turning everything green
Shade is an escape dream
Then things turn
Brown and burn
Chilling breeze sighs
Giving a ride
To the foliage who occupy
Twigs ready to say goodbye
Fall scheduled to begin
Giving the end
A win
Low temperatures chattering bite
Haunting the cool night
Crumbled leafs descend
Crinkling no bend
Completing their beauty rein
Realizing it's just a plants game
Meeting with the rake
Realizing the bag is ready to take
Them to the disposable bin
No need to call a next of kin
Since they will be shred
Rip and dead
Until spring
And another ring
Appears
Exclaiming the tree is here
Giving a reason
To celebrate each season
Letting the seeds
Do their deed
And grow more trees
I have nothing bad to say to those who die young
It’s no fault of theirs
For in old age they may have foreseen a life so
Burdensome, so demanding, so tiring and so wizened,
With their cute faces eventually lost to the freshness
Of beauty, raw or enhanced.
Imagine wiry, annoying smuts christened grey hair —weeds
On a gold field!
And with “Don’t eat this, don’t drink that.
They are not good for your age.
The time has passed when they would have done your
Body no harm,” rammed into their youthful ears by
Loquacious physicians.
Oh, God!
No!
They had heard enough!
They had seen enough!
So they decide to bow out early, before
It’s all too late, and rainy.
For them, it’s better too soon, with the gurgling
Blood of youth in them, and sunny, than too late, with the
Crinkling bones of senectitude.
Oh, to Hell with sageness!
In her cold, snowy breasts
They lay me down to rest
The pattering of earth
The gravel and the dirt
It doesn't hurt
I don't even feel it;
I hear it as it hits
The top of the casket
I hear my darlings crying
And throwing tearful fits
By far, the worst part of dying:
The grieving I feel
From family and friends
If only they knew,
Though death is real,
Life never ends
And we’re always with you
Even if you’re too sad to see
The wilted rose beside you
Is me
The clouds and falling snow
Is a me, you’ll come to know
When you look out the window
And trace the blowing leaves
And imagine their dry crinkling
And somber familiarity we’d share
Both loving the crisp winter air
How everything seems golden
Yet bare
Your heart sees me
Sees me standing there
Next to the old tree
As a cat’s glare gathers in the gloom
Recollecting me
Orange peel. Scent fresh but bitter,
tangible in taste and air. A circle in fruit
that dangles and is turned, twisted from
branch. The challenge to keep the
peel whole, no break. Sink teeth into
sweet segments of dripping flesh.
Orange rust. A door, a gate. Age in crinkling
metal, steel ancient with salt and sun and
seasons beating what thought strong. Orange
rust of a family home, a flake for each child
who flies the nest. Rusted crisped wings. Upon
closer inspection the rust appears golden.
Not amber nor red,
neither start nor stop.
A forever-in-motion colour.
An alarm clock.
On the edge of the nightstand.
No one came after me the whole night.
Except the skin of my thoughts.
Shaking but nothing.
It’s like I woke up and ate gravity and passed out again.
It’s all about time.
Wrappers crinkling underfoot.
More and more trash scattered.
Warping.
The sound of the garbage truck is blending into everything…
And no one calls me anymore!
An alarm clock.
Which cooks up seconds for us.
And burns us.
Feeling unwieldy when I stand.
Getting up even though I’ll be late anyway.
Being strong is doing things to make yourself later and later.
Uncooking the toast.
Unbrushing your teeth.
Creating more places to be.
Places which are just outlines.
There’s still that alarm clock.
That goes on.
A prince becomes a king
as his mother heard her final ting
His brother part of a ring
A.i begins to sign
Here’s the thing
In the din
that plays out all my sin
with parties withe in
credibly hukled(that A.I again)
A dent that should be present
A dick who likes his taters to much
Everyone is dying
but no one seems to not ice
Ice Baby
hit me anytime
Late to every test
Never gave my best
Watch you snuggling down
Like birds in their
Nestle your face in my
Breath not breathe
If you are impotent
Who would de-seed
Bing Google Instant grams
the hand written shaking Bat man words
Is fling just a through desguise
If a a maze is better than good
Zing like thing crinkling
Fantastically floored
Break ing ever ing
Ting
Moment
Light
Bulge like Kal
In Marvelous movie
Did you
C wot I did
The heir was there with his pet hare
Hair
So you agree
This is definitely…..
Sunshine dappled hazel eyes,
Crinkling with her smiles,
And locks like a candle flame flickering.
Hozier shirts and long, flowing skirts,
Gold jewelry and rings on her fingers,
Masterpieces painted over her nails.
She’s sunflowers and pine trees,
Fingers plucking guitar strings,
The cusp of winter and spring.
She’s curiosity and intelligence,
Whimsy personified,
Folk songs and poetry.
I wonder if she knows that
I wish I could see the world through her eyes,
Understand the world through her mind.
I wonder if she knows that
I wish she could see herself through my eyes,
Understand herself through my mind.
i have a craving today
my tongue salivates
a crinkling yellow bag
i tear it open
salty and sour
potato
chips
Almost Halloween
The candy is back
Crinkling paper
Lots in a sack
Intended for children
Who come by in droves
The candy must stay
But it tweaks my nose
Every year we go through this conundrum
What should I do
What will I eat
The thought of candy
Tugging my tongue
Melting chocolate
Maybe just one
Then five pieces later
Stomachs a roar
Still looking forward to just one more
"I have been a stranger in a strange land." Bible, Exodus 2:22
The compass whirrs.
North toward rock, south toward sand.
East toward ice, and west toward river.
Like a game of spin the bottle I take a chance on north,
run my hands over stone and pebble,
the spine of life a twisting snakeskin, shedding.
The compass whirrs
as words and winds uproot me to the south. Dust ridden,
arid. Earth sizzles, a roast overdone. My flaking skin
drenched in sweated drought.
The compass whirrs
as those years of crinkling sand dune heat melt
somehow into eastern snow. You don’t understand
how or why or when those summers became leaves that
fall, became sleet upon which you slip, recklessly, helplessly, toward time’s
splash. The final plunge pool.
Now, western waters offer a mirror,
sometimes murky, sometimes crystal,
and still, the compass whirrs, as you realise
that strange land - your body.
The stranger - you.
Your life is poetry—
whether words make it
on a page, a screen, an ear,
whether messages
or moments
meet the light of dawn,
parturition processed
sourced from the dusk
of fears and hopes.
You are ebbs
you are flows—
you are metaphors
blooming till they grow feeble
crinkling into fallen flowers,
meeting millipedes
meeting mess—
to grow again
anew—stalks sturdy—
hope an approaching fire
Flower,
Locus,
Living.
The phrophets have ordered disdained execution of phrophecy
A cleansing
Chaos to order
Death and birth
One in the same
Crinkling elder writings
Static in sound
In vibration
The center
In the eye that weaves
At the edge
On one leg
Teetering
Balance of none
A storm
In the midst
Winds of change
Heavy
Shivering and teetering
Wobbling and shaking
The weave
Such a fine
Slippery line
Yet
Perfectly
Symmetrical
All around
Infinite loops
Within
One
As a whole
More intelligent than the rest
The others
The eye
The space
Within the commotion
I know a little girl with eyes so blue,
She's very lovely too.
She melts my heart when she looks
at me.
She's got the cutest little way of crinkling
her nose,
Her little cricket smile makes me smile
too.
One of the happiest baby girls I've ever
known,
And that alone makes me know I'm doing this
parenting thing right.
The best part of all, is I get to call her
mine.
I listened
It had started
A soft crinkling
Of dry leaves
Pirouetting
Across the field
Leaping into the wind
Spiraling sails
Adrift
On a sea of blue
I bid them
adieu
The wave breaks soft yellow tinged
Slow rising on the hoar frost night
Thickened sap retreats in weakened sun
And yet the leaves rejoice in nature’s call
Party hats and favors drape them all
In windblown timpani they fall
Lay their warming truth upon tree roots
Join their crinkling souls in vibrant quilt
Last refuge of the mole and shiv’ring slugs
The wave will break, in raving red display
As squirrels bid adieu and idly play
Fall’s tide will ebb and take the leaves away
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