On Pimple Pond
Pocked, our dreams spurt from cabin walls.
Woolen cover and cotton pillow catch
pin point boils from day breaking, like pitted glass.
White pebbled path meanders the hill’s cheek,
wet from being squeezed by nights cold hard hands,
to where set-tables will not wait our scrubs,
pastes and pleas for clarity like hot egg whites.
Yawns pop-jaws hinged under waxy ears.
We pass the lake and spit the dregs of sleep
onto her smooth glassine mask.
At the mess ladybugs rest, on pickle-surfaced leaves,
decline to fly. We arrive for breakfast.
One hundred-twenty faces come to bond
And maybe find a friend on pimple pond.
cast iron monster
belching smoke and steam
small hands enfolded
framed beneath
glassine perfection
quietly staring
strange world streams by
silent but for noise
engine screams
arrival ahead
grandparents standing in snow
Christmas awaits
I’ll sleep when I die
Sleep when I die
Go out like Dad
Couldn’t speak when he died
The look in his eyes
Like a newborn
Wishing for words
All the mistakes
Hindsight really is
20/20
So was the price
Of that glassine
Every ounce of hope
Extinguished
In a swift rush to the brain
Green light went flat
There was no more
Pain.
Tonight we’ll share the heavens;
Souls knitted into one,
Fly together we, the ochre moontrails,
on gossamer wings.
The decanter overflows with nectar;
its sweetness permeates the ethereal void,
like ephemerous orbs when touched
by the hands of a child.
The secret Garden’s lit by Eos’ mirth;
polychromatic hues emanate from glassine showers;
Gait filling the place, radiating in splendor,
Warming every psyche in its solace.
Silence may, yet rule the void;
Plenary peace acquiesced e’en for a nanosecond.
Then from some aperture, a tiny tingle crescendos,
as the angelic host thunder their majestic heralds.
Come with me now my beloved;
Dry I your tears with lotus petals,
Come with me now, reach out your hand
and together we’ll share a millennium in a succinct moment
in this paradise called DREAMS.
The new tomatoes were
Little bumps
On the
Vine
Showing off to the
Universe
Before sundown
On the fourth of
July
Waiting for the
Celebration
To begin
Duckweed choked
The pond
Set back in the
Woods
Baby
Painted Turtles
Full of hope
Sunning on an exposed
Log
Heads snorkeled
Towards the
Diaphanous
Crescent moon
Vinelike tree limbs
Trellised the
Surface
Scum
Stretching
Glassine algae
Like a smoky
Haze
Clinging
To the
Underworld
Gripping
My
Stare
Never
Letting
Go
07/04/14
In an icen forest ,
inside a crystal grave,
beneath the ancient snowy trees,
a tiny fairy lays.
In frosted air above her,
brushing wings with glassine leaves,
snowflakes dust the branches,
as all faerie-kind does grieve.
For a summer fae was never meant
in wintertime to bide,
the northern King,thought love would be,
enough to warm his bride.
But the King’s brother did wish her heart to claim,
and when she did not turn,
he poisoned her with holly,
and left her with frost burn.
But justice is not lacking,
for the evil deed was seen,
a sprite was in the window,
but could not save the Queen.
The King’s brother we see frozen,
hung now from diamond thread,
he thought to win the Queen her love,
but now has lost his head.
So now forever sits the King ,
in the winter land of Fae,
to never love another ,
from the land of Summer’s Day.
Winter's secret beauty
born within the grey
of stormy clouds,
formless vapors crystallized
to miniature glassine sculptures
unique beyond comprehension,
drift earthward to linger a season
and cleanse a soul in reflection
on a singular Creator.
The days go by
as I walk around the man made lake,
churning the tides of time backwards
making butter from the gold and brown broth
a solitary wanderers on the same gravel path.
Always a person for whom the flow meant danger
from spring to summer, I walk the scene
with cheery “mornin’s”
popping the insular bubbles
of self imposed
Silence.
The days go by
as spring returned to my aged step.
The flow lures the weary mind tired of treading water.
Glassine eyes cataract dimmed clear and lift to blue skies.
Familiar faces grin back hooked
on a cheery “mornin’”
Marshaled resources clockwise turn.
Forward thinking, right sided, occasion walks
from summer to fall
popping the insular bubbles
of self imposed
Silence.
Worming through the tantalizing jungle
nearly catatonically sated
with bitter antonym of nourishment,
my choice is to withdraw reclusively.
Time’s suspended …
dreams elsewhere,
until,
under glassine membrane occurs
a veiled but stirring transformation.
Soon opened,
this envelope reveals
the full-fledged figure
that’s fluttered proudly
in the warm light of day.
Then swiftly flying,
joyously, to the glittering bank,
I sip the nectar of the gods
as a newly emerged writer.
FOUR FOOLS AND FOUR FIGHTS
The four fought for first
It wasn’t so much triage
As it was oral strength
He who SCREAMED the LOUDEST and LONGEST went first
So with that having been settled now who would go second
And again a minor scuffle
It was children fighting over an ice cream cone and the second one took the needle
Washed it off in a filthy and tepid bottle of water
He did the S**T and passed their “works” on to fool number three
Now who was going to play didn’t depend on who would pay
It mattered that addicts pay tribute only to a glassine envelope
And grants power unto the powder number four impatiently waits for to be his
So an audible ahhhhhh was heard from number three
And then finally came number four,
And that wouldst be me
At last
But alas that which came to pass was four fools who may as well have swallowed
razor blades
Because what I’ve just described is how I and millions of others contracted Aids
© 2011.….Phreepoetree
I.
Whitening sands upmirror desert glare,
Glinting, underneath my mind’s burnt sun…
Paling, dream expanse.
And there I wander, rootless in some Netherwhere—
Mental vagabond, my trek begun…
Picaresque romance!
II.
Whitening bones appear by poison springs,
Dread oasis, tempting me to drink.
Shining, silver pool,
Mirage aglow. A maiden floats on glassine wings—
Beckoning me toward the toxic sink.
Reckless, I sip cool
Blighted waters. Thirsty fool.
As I look out my frosted window
my breath fogs it over.
My warm fingers ease
the minute water droplets away,
to reveal mother nature's majesty.
Powerlines struggle under the weight
of her breath.
Winter's icy grip has it's fingers
entwined upon the landscape.
Brown trees peek through
their glassine envelop.
The sun's bright rays
reflect off the icicled rooftops.
Children slip and slide up the hill
only to come racing down
with shouts of glee.
I will enjoy this day
looking through the window
of my warm and toasty home
knowing the day will not last.
For now, I will only revel
in the beauty of the land.
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