I am an ivy vine.
Chasing away the dark, I carve out my own domain.
Then, by chance,
I meet the kindred beings of my roots.
Entangled with one another, we whisper
And complete a single kingdom.
Thus, we extend our territory.
The moment the scorching sun
Grow jealous of us,
We split apart.
We merely wanted the sunlight,
A brief rest in the shade
Where peace is desired.
We split apart.
We are no longer here.
The ivy vines
That once vowed to stay together,
Now wither away from one another.
The sun, exhaling a slow puff of smoke from a cigarette,
Watches on—
"At that moment of truth."
An age passes by,
And the ivy wall welcomes a friend once more.
Yet now,
Stepping into the world of the Fibonacci sequence,
Where leaf delicately wraps around another leaf.
The sun snuffs out its cigarette
And watches on—
"At the wonder of living things."
Yet,
"The sun is still seething."
Sweet potato vines spill variegated purple where morning winds unwind,
their tendrils wander where the daylight strays.
They meander softly, following their mind;
Sweet potato vines spill variegated purple where morning winds unwind.
In every curl, a quiet grace I find~
a green desire to reach, to slip away.
Sweet potato vines spill variegated purple where morning winds unwind,
their tendrils wander where the daylight strays.
Sometimes I contemplate about my own self-destruction.
I wonder if I am at fault for the way this state has simply become a dreadful inevitability.
I wonder if I am at fault for the way my mind hums with a silence that scratches my soul.
I wonder if I am at fault for the visceral, undeniable pull that tugs at my sternum.
Fatigue.
It’s a conflictive concept.
It’s practical. It’s biological. It’s physical.
But for me, it’s the definition of my existence.
It’s the medical complications that pile up through my fingernails like tangled vines on a hanging tree.
It’s the pocket-sized triggers that push me back into a room with claw marks on the door.
It’s the way that no matter who I am, what I am, or where I am, I will always be a victim of exhaustion.
Not the sleepy, heavy-lidded homesick type.
But the invisible type.
The blood-itching need for evaporation.
The throat-clamping desire for combustion.
The tear-scarred plea for deterioration.
And I wonder if all I am meant to be is a hanging tree;
vexed by the vines of her own making and hung by the carvings of her own captivity.
184021
a thousand roots, and oh to one
i have seen your bark split open
and i know the ache you call rot
but what i see is not decay—
it is softness where light
has finally found a way in
the moss creeps gently
not as a thief, but as a witness
draping your arms in green silence
tending to the cracks
like a prayer, slow and deliberate
they will say a tree is only worth
its shadow, its shelter, its fruit
but i know the truth—
you are worth the space you hold,
even when no one remembers the seed
not every wound is ruin,
not every hollow means hunger
sometimes what looks like ending
is simply a resting place
for the breath that carries us forward
so bend, willow,
bend until your branches touch the earth
and let them whisper this:
there is no rot in you—
only moss, only time, only life
to tender the vines
they weep merlot tears
so merlot to hold
they ferment our years
to tender the cask
they reap merlot tears
to bottle and hold
they ferment for years
too tender the cask
they reap merlot fears
no merlot to hold
they ferment our tears
I like to eat tomatoes.
The ones that grow from odd vines.
Whistling sounds.
A slight shine.
I like to grow tomatoes.
All of the dirt in the world wouldn’t be enough.
Seeds which are supposed to be tomato seeds.
They appear anywhere.
Vines that are plentiful,
But we can’t share, no.
There is nothing except tomatoes and their vines.
In this world.
I like to eat tomatoes.
Sliced supernaturally thin.
The crust of the vine.
Ends with nothing.
There is nothing left.
Except what grows on the ends of those vines.
That appear in my bedroom and tangle me up.
Scratch my arms and legs.
I like to grow things.
With dirt, rain, and sun.
Maybe a sprinkle of something odd.
Like the glistening of my eyes in the morning.
They appear anywhere.
Dreams or not.
Awake or tending to the land.
I don’t remember having 20 acres.
A forest of tomatoes.
Tend not to let anyone inside.
I like to eat tomatoes.
Which scratch my arms and legs.
Maybe a sprinkle of something odd.
So long ago did it.
There is nothing left.
Except my soul in those vines.
Crystallized dew drops scatter across vines in winter,
while I can feel the harsh grip of the season reaching for my throat,
slithering ever closer, bitter air sweeping across crackling skin.
Loneliness weighs heavy beneath ashen clouds that coat the skies.
The scent of dry ozone fills my nostrils as I struggle to breathe.
A step upon the gelid ground makes my feet shake, trying not to fall.
I look out in every direction, seeing nothing but the barren carcass of what was once summer~
when the warmth of days seemed to stretch on forever.
The scent of fresh pine once wafted through the breeze;
those days are now just a bygone memory,
shattered , lost in the frozen mist.
I rub my hands together, desperate to feel something beyond the numbness.
I continue onward with my journey~
there is no time for rest now.
The sun begins to set upon alabaster fields below,
and the wolves begin their search at dusk.
I must find your burial shrouds before they do,
for they are the only way to bring us back together again.
Stark naked and bare
Creepers conserving new life
Vines in wintertime
Vines in the spring of my life
were sturdy and spry. Utterly dependable,
they ran along the many parts of my body.
Able to cling to ligaments, tendons and muscles
with great connectivity,
they allowed me to walk, run, and jump with ease.
How wonderful was my pain-free youth!
Winter has arrived all too soon.
The vines down my spine have lost
some of their much-needed support.
With hardship now, they move toward
the joints of my left knee.
My vines in winter have me out of kilter.
No longer do they comfortably sprawl.
No more can I joyfully jump or dance.
Matching their apparent stagnation,
I still try my best to keep
c r e e p i n g a l o n g
longing for the days when
vines were green.
Into dormancy vines enter
preparing to grow for next season,
as vines have some valid reasons
to adjust with chill of winter.
Vines to undergo some changes
as both physiological,
and also biological,
survival process to arrange.
Leaves take on soft shimmering glow
before shedding off in the Fall .
when Autumn breeze starts to follow.
No photosynthesis at all.
The sap just sinks into the roots
till next vegetable cycle
to sleep getting ready for fruits :
Resting period ! Plant’s own style.
Till Spring plant takes this precaution
Simple behaviour of Vine.
Plant to get Nature’s protection.
In winter survival runs fine.
The leaves, long gone, each golden child carried
on autumn draft to reach a season's death,
portends bitter squalls will blow the harried
vines with long, cruel winter's icy breath.
Now slumber long beneath the warming banks
upon your tender roots deep in the earth.
All while stillness patrols your sentried ranks,
you strengthen sap to bring a new year's birth.
The spice of burning wood pervades the air
as gentle snipping of the pruning shear
sets free your limbs for summer fruit to bear;
from tender newborn buds, which soon appear.
And so the cycle starts for wondrous vine
to once again turn sunshine into wine.
A wanderer's heart, by Gemini vines embraced, A starlight mystery, in your eyes it shines, A dance unknown, in lunar realms we're graced, Beneath twin moons, where love divinely dines.
Your heart, the north star, guides my twilight dream, Where whispers soft in shadows gently hide, Between the dark and light, a passion's gleam, In this enchanted realm, our souls abide.
A new love dawns, a bright epiphany's art, Like dawn's first glow, our tale in time entwines, A cosmic sign, where fates forever start, In starlight etched, our love in lunar designs.
For in this dance, our destinies convene, Twin souls entwined, a love forever keen.
I want a drunk moon
one entirely at home
in a glass of golden wine.
Let evil be forever sober,
wine hydrates reality,
a dead moon bloom's
in small cups of tipsy poetry.
I want to rest my eyes
in a winding river of moonlight,
let the madmen thunder and rail,
my peace booms above
their loudest shouts.
I used to be a tomcat,
I made love to my animal nature,
I used to spit at the moon,
that grey orb so utterly buried
under trash heaps of saccharine lyrics.
Now I am drunk,
for love drinks me down.
Within the velvet closets
of moonlit nights
love comes to me,
then we drink,
to all the easeful drunks,
here on the rim and lip
of paradise.
See within those starry skies,
Beauty of binding vines,
Fluorescent meaning lies,
In its parting petals spouting lies.
A clams soft pink shell,
Glints in thousand little pearls,
They glide gracefully and swell,
Winding around the rivers swirls.
The white serpents eyes are peach,
Tempting, soft but out of reach,
High up in the turquoise trees,
It's flicker preceding a cool breeze.
The glowing fruits are unfamilar,
No beauty is ever similar,
Eating one would erase the river,
As well as the beautigul glimmer.
The grass shall sustain instead,
The roots of the waters might,
It's coming from the river bed,
And will surely set things right.
The peachy glimmer on waters shell,
Relinquishes its glow for now,
Floras torrent said go back to hell,
No calm waters at this hour.
The grass has grown in your head,
No ecosystems full without fauna,
Water fuels both now one is dead,
Powerful serpent still along a
River
The paring knife of winter
undams the dense brown
blood. Asps awaken and seethe—.
Twining stems sweat,
Irregular coralla dance
around your feet, pray at your altar.
Children of the soil, meek
and mirthless—no currency
save the smooth skin of spring.
Flexous philosophies, grown
splendidly in the shade
do not flower well in sunlight.
Black axillaries, soft feather!
Cower in the green heat,
pull away in kindness.
The slate gray scrape of whetstone
Sunlight sharpens her blade—
a smile carved through the clouds.
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