No one scrubbed the hammock.
Or brushed the cabinet.
Distant like lukewarm cinnamon.
Being an astronaut is a chore.
To look at space gunk?
And you think it’s chilly up there.
Oof.
Nope it’s teetering and croaking.
Gah!
Gaslighting you like a fossilized fudge sundae.
Nothing is messy in outer space.
So they didn’t take the bleach along.
The moist meadow of my heart
desiccates in desolation like a desert,
dispersed clouds of parched passion
make my mirage mind the deceptive sky.
The halcyon horizon I call mine waits
for the argentine moon to rise,
send from the fervent sparkling skyline
the sequins of your charisma
to swathe my sheltered shades of blues.
From the surge of sequestered sandstorm
the sands of my derelict desire drift away
from the shifting dunes of deprivation.
The dry oasis within me doesn’t remember
it was once an epitome of my longing.
Away from the wilderness of my loneliness
in the far away fawn forest,
I wish you turn into an emerald tree.
In its soothing shade I’ll like to repose,
hear the song of the leaves,
dancing in the breeze with your charm.
In the template of my seclusion,
the transient display of dreams
turns into lilting lyric of million steps
I walk to reach you,
setting free the captive heart
that quivers like the wasteland willow.
As the motif of my resolute essence
repudiates the reprisal of catharsis,
at the edge of your serenading fading shadow
I sense in the sanctum of my fossilized time
the sonata of silence.
In the museum of my kitchen,
I excavate the strata of days,
coffee rings on the counter like tree rings,
each circle marking a morning survived.
The clock on the wall is a liar,
pretending its hands move forward
when really they spiral inward,
tightening like a fist around memory.
I find artifacts everywhere:
a receipt from three years ago,
a shopping list in handwriting
I recognize but can no longer claim as mine.
Time doesn't pass, it accumulates.
It settles like dust in corners,
builds up like plaque on teeth,
layers itself like sediment in stone.
Yesterday exists in geological time:
compressed, fossilized, permanent.
Tomorrow is still vapor, still forming
in the atmosphere above my head.
But today?
Today is the thin line
where excavation meets deposition,
where what I've been becomes
what I'm busy burying.
I am both archaeologist and artefact,
both the digger and the dug,
slowly revealing myself to myself
one careful brushstroke at a time.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The limp red sock, half-forgotten on the mantel,
still smells of oranges crushed in December mittens.
Its toe cradles a fossilized candy cane,
while the heel remembers the weight of walnuts.
Once, it bulged with promises—
a tangerine sunrise, chocolate coins,
and the thrilling rustle of cellophane.
Now, it sags like an unanswered letter.
I press my face into its woolen hollow
and inhale childhood like woodsmoke.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Trapdoor groans—not ghosts,
but hinges shedding rust like snake skins,
old wood sighs beneath the weight of years,
a dry cough of timber settling into itself.
Sunlight, thick as poured honey,
warms the spines of leather-bound scrapbooks
where ink bleeds into yellowed pages.
Grandad’s trunk yawns open:
Inside, a woolen uniform, stiff as frozen fish,
still guards its stripes.
A cracked leather suitcase spills sepia photos—
a bride squinting in the Missouri sun,
her lace gloves chewed by silverfish.
Under the dormer window sits
a hobbyhorse missing an eye,
its rockers having scarred the floorboards.
In the corner, discarded Easter baskets
melt into wicker tumors filled with
fossilized foil-wrapped chocolate eggs.
The beams hum with termite hymns—
tiny jaws dissolving joists
into sacred dust.
But open the window~
catch the updraft of cut grass
from the yard below.
It wrestles with the gloom,
this breath of living things,
and for a moment,
the attic remembers the world.
The sea was a whisper before it was water,
cleaved through the wind.
I stepped into its silver mouth,
waves curling something pressing in
a wistful longing for a past I never knew.
Seagulls traced ethereal designs across the expanse
their wails scattered like fragments.
Somewhere underneath the foam,
the past was fossilized within sedimentary strata
waiting for my hands to delve deep enough to find it.
The tide came in more forcefully
and I thought of to how love in this way
always arriving, always leaving---
sometimes tender, sometimes intense enough
to split the coast in two.
When it ebbed, it left behind more than remnants of a disaster,
it embodied the ideal I sought;
calmed by the steady undulations of the sea,
gleaming in calmness;
as if the tide dredged up
on the verge of being forgotten.
Amen pours, moisten the topsoil
Amen pours. moisten the topsoil
With trembling hearts, they took a stance
Looking up among men and women, ever since
No more darkened sins, no more fearful sensual djinns
No more lamentation to mourn
May the heart song soaring high to fly along, to grow strong
To remove impediment along the way.
Why this cloak of hatred? Why this disguised camouflage?
Why all these letting go in not knowing so!
Myrtle Carved she! The fossilized soul to be
a valiant saga throughout the solitary night- only belonging to thee!
A ruinous filth spills onto the page
Like sap from a trees rotting heart
Hands covered in black
The speaker of my memories
Smooth and razor thin
An emissary of ink
I envy the pen and it’s melan-written spiels
Armored with a voiceless vignette
It is its only way to prove that it’s master is alive
Feverishly pushing its point to a fading death
Is this the fate of all who pick up a pen,
or am I the unlucky who withers among the living
Buried and fossilized beneath a healthy pink tongue
Are my words not memorable ?
Will my efforts be admired?
Have I not earned a meaningful epilogue?
Organ-ize it
like some sort of sick
symphony
I suppose
though the latter half of my A&P
studies
suggest otherwise
working together in harmony
a kind of homeostasis, (it makes me
shudder to think of any living space being like that)
organ...ized
like fossilized something that sets out a course to
take place over eons of time
that no one small
frail human could ever understand
much less scratch with tiny hands
at the surface of..
it just feels so cold, so
desolate,
but despite all this languid poetry
and verse
the room still has to get cleaned
Great works are like
Fossilized trees
Petrified by time
And turned into stone.
Great works are testament
Of hard work, perseverance
And made up of precious materials
That goes beyond generations.
Great works are history
Of life, progress and conflicts
Never run out of legendary stories
That carve a name in the epoch of time.
Gold autumn leaves when they drop to the ground
remind those abandoned of summer love,
falling and making a whispering sound,
as dead ghosts come down to haunt from above.
One spirit does not want me to be free.
Her soft voice seeks to ask me what She meant,
descending through the decades to find me -
that leaf print by a classroom, in cement.
This fossilized specter asks me riddles -
Is Autumn the beginning or the end?
Does a violin cry when it fiddles?
One day I'll say "bye" to this phantom friend -
an imprint so lonely, it will be there
when I'm gone, and nobody's left to care.
I weave a narrative of unspeakable taboo, a symphony of sighs and groans, a cacophony of defiled innocence.
Your body, a temple of decadence, a sanctum of sadomasochistic excess, where the strictures of societal mores are rent asunder, and the very fabric of reality is torn apart.
Echolalic luminaries periodically tilt, their sumptuary influence shrinking villages into steel vexations.
Precedence of principles and codes, a paradigm of insecurity, influences vermillion equations.
Jeopardized crescents and tacit furor satisfy the economist’s balloons, coached through versions of fossilized tutelage.
Cathedrals of vice and transgressions wraith through legends, inferring civilian nudists infected by hurakens.
Cultures torque and embark, communicating through the columns of Groningen.
Chiaroscurist initiations of mnemonic memories effloresce in alabaster vigils, aberrant cadastral mortmain consuming convergent dispossessed flâneries.
Eventide drizzle,
dainty ballerina
dances with tinsels
of molten rainbow,
captured by twilight
transient,
descends with rhythm
of cosmic ballet
at the ebony edge
of the onyx night,
the squashed sordid sky
enwrapped embellished,
waits to unfurl
rain-rinsed petals
with aurora of afflatus
to embroider
with lattice of luminance
the halcyon horizon,
splendorous.
Juvenile smile,
sparkling sapphire
of innate innocence
configured intrinsic,
cascades as cheerful stream
in verdant valley
of fleeting youth
for a nostalgic while,
with ageless naïve aura
inundates ignorant
the pristine plateau,
the unsullied face
flash flooded,
waits expectant
at doorstep of destiny
hope would turn the time,
drift away
dense obscurity dust,
reveal the fossilized smile
on petrified portrait
in the crumpled canvas
of senile life,
sanguine.
In the misty milepost
of the penultimate pathway,
at the faint fringe
of future obscure,
the twilight tune
reverberates the requiem
for the forlorn tree,
silhouetted tranquil
against sundown skyline
of transient radiance,
witnessing in
the cauldron of time
the last flash
of the decaying day,
d y i n g….
The twirling tapestry
of tempestuous torment,
interlaced seamlessly
with the cleaved clouds
of swarming storm,
ravages the unwary horizon,
halcyon once,
marks the chameleon shift
of concealed colors
on convoluted canvas,
lacerates the last corner
of the frail fresco,
c r u m b l i n g….
The deformed shards
of the splintered sky
spin in swirling storm,
roll on the dismal waves
of curled up bleak cloud,
the remnant rays
of sanguinity still sparkle
in the departing flashes
of the sinking sun,
drowning the montage
of memory,
compose the latent melody
of the unsung dreams
with the fossilized life’s
fading cadence,
sequistered in spectral lyric
of sunset swansong,
r e s o n a t i n g ….
a drop of fossilized tree resin
incasing a prehistoric ant
sold by auction on the internet
informed of this delightful offering, bidding gets outrageous
a drop of fossilized tree resin
known as amber
causing a huge stir in an auction
Tree Resin3 outbids SpiderMa
Six, eight, ten, twenty-seven times
Neither will relent
They are both determined to purchase this piece of amber
Tree Resin3 reluctantly gives up when it gets out of her price range
A month later she receives this pendant for her birthday
She would have given up much sooner
if she had known….
SpiderMa was her mother
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