the trees are polite
they bow to the wind
whenever it pushes through clouds
and knocks upon their cracked bark,
their aged and writhed skin,
contours of time shaped by the hand
of everything,
blushes as gusts brush upon them
like the touch of a lover’s face
pressed against a lover’s face,
comfort, sweet and warm
to contrast rough and gritty,
overwhelm these monuments,
make their leaves shake and whisper
to one another, excitedly.
TDM
With so many tears
A dismal life of clutter
And not
Having anything of value
Not a one
Decent face
with whom
To bid the morning anew
Sallow and pale
A cause for no real
Alarm
Nothing permanent to cling to
Not in object defying
Wasteland
Sleepless nights
Tangled sheets for one
With so many tears
For lights out
Without any bed time story
II
With so many tears
A hopeful breath familiar
And with
Attentive nods and grins
Always
A lovely face
with whom to
Tuck away the evening and
bid the morning anew
A smitten tide of
Suitable love,
Of comfort,
Of
Mind at ease and
Simple pace of thoughts
Heart still racing
With excited touch
Lights out
With promise of bed time stories
TDM
It has been a long time
Since I have listened to chirping or
A flutter
A far cry from usual territory
Out of range by a long
Shot
Beats
Like a propeller, where there is a chill
In the air
Retreat
Or do not if your bones permit
If your fragility
Has not caught up with you
And your garb is puffed and fluffed
In flight you are
Formidable
On solid ground
You are canvass and backdrop
All in one
Swoop
And glide
In a most translucent way
That there may be less chance
Of foul and etched irritants
From gilded feathers
Plucked
Of a nuisance.
TDM
I could tell it was storming, but not for the sound of thunder or rain. The window frame was plastered so well that I could hear no sounds from the outside, but I could see the drops falling and the trees whipping in the wind. Flashes of light struck the dark room and made Caroline visible. She seemed so much smaller underneath all those covers. I didn’t think there was anything that could make her petite frame look any frailer than it already did. When insomnia took me, and it so often did, I sat on the end of Caroline’s bed and rubbed her legs. So far, she hadn’t been woken by this, but I swear I could hear her sigh when I started massaging. When the snoring came, I knew she had drifted off properly and I could stop rubbing her little legs. Caroline would fight with anyone who mentioned the fact that she snored. No way did she snore. Snoring was for boys and old grandpas with bad breath and white hair.
Sometimes I imagined what it would be like if Caroline and I lived in the country. The grass would be lush and green wherever we could see it, and the wheat fields would be golden like the stars that hung above them at night. I pictured the two of us lying in the grass with the moon over our heads and fireflies dancing around like fairies. We would probably swap stories and rhymes and point out the Milky Way. Maybe we would lie like this forever.
I moved to the window, my bare feet patting against the cold grey floor, and saw that the rain had stopped; something to look forward to, a clear day, made it easier to rest when I returned to my bed. I kept my hands on the bed, trying not to touch myself, as the hours drifted away and the sun finally came up. By eight o’clock the entire room had been filled with the morning light.
I left the hospital that morning having not slept more than three hours. I couldn’t help but think about the look Caroline gave me as I bent over to kiss her sweet little forehead. Her eyes were wide, black and piercing, like eagle eyes that began to well up with tears. She smelled of jasmine and roses and cool summer nights, a mixture of scents that seemed to stick on her body and never leave.
I was glad to be home, certainly for the freedom of having windows that could open and the busy city as background noise instead of beeping machines and “paging doctor what’s his name.” I opened the window that faced Queen’s Park, and stood in front of it so that I could examine the trees. Most of the leaves had fallen, but those that remained on the branches were rusty coloured, red, orange and yellow. The breeze felt nice on my face, familiar and cozy like an old sweater. The air was frosty on the tip of my nose reminding me that the winter winds would soon be here to greet the city, as they always did.
That night I dreamt I was on a boat, rolling and bouncing along with the tide. I drifted farther and farther away from the coast, until the shore was no longer visible. The gulls in the sky were screeching so loudly that I covered my ears, and when I did, I lost control of the helm. The boat turned round and round, spinning faster with every turn, until the sea beneath me opened up into a whirlpool and swallowed my boat and I whole. And suddenly, it had stopped. The whirlpool turned into calm salt water, and I floated down down to the bottom, until I hit the ocean floor. I was not short of breath but instead fully capable of breathing under water. On the sides of my neck were slits that flapped with every breath I drew. In an instant, I had gills, scales and fins. I was a fish, and not one of those exotic, colourful fish either. I was a tuna.
I woke up in a sweat. I was very angry at my subconscious for turning me into a fish, and a tuna at that. I knew I was plain, but that was a little too modest, even for me.
TDM
I heard once
That slumping through
Moss was enough
To satisfy any
Lust for adventure,
That turning
Pebbles over in my
Hand would be
Rugged enough,
That I should not
Dirty my dress
Or get bugs in my hair,
But I have also heard
That rolling
Over hills and under
Starry skies is never
Enough for a
Single lifetime,
It is never enough
To quench a thirst
For dipping toes in lakes,
Washing hands
In rivers and falling
Asleep to the crickets
Buzz, humming in my ear
Whilst grass and
Earth so cool
Under my body
Tickles before I become
A treat for tiny
Bugs whom I implore
To be gentle
To leave a little something
For myself.
T. DM
P.S. I would love some feedback on this piece, mostly regarding whether or not it sounds incomplete. Cheers readers!
The snow is falling now, and I am happy to walk through the village and let it cover me like a cloak. The flakes tickle my eyelashes and for once I am okay with giggling to myself and smiling, even though passers by can see no reason for a grin or a smirk on such a grey day.
Grey days hardly bother me. I like the stoic feel of the sky, to find the peeking light in other places when the sun is not shining amuses me and brings me much pleasure. And how amplified the little pleasures seem on days when there appears to be no light. The want or need for them is much greater.
I do not want the winter to end. I really do not. I like the way it makes me feel. I love the coziness of coming indoors from a frosty walk and warming my cheeks by the fire. I like how hot chocolate is smooth and how quilts are heavy warmth wrapped around my legs.
I like the woods when it is snowing. How the birch looks behind a sheet of falling snow. How the evergreens become white monuments with green needles poking through. How tracks outline a walkway of otherwise white roads and guide me anyway and every way. And if I find a lonely path, I would hope that my own tracks would not be covered by the ceaseless snowfall, though beautiful and silent, that I might, when I desire, be able to find my way back.
T. DM
I thought it was about time I posted something, so here is a poem I wrote that was published in “Hearing Voices,” an anthology of poetry released by Bareback Press.
When we were young
we scraped our knees
and it felt good.
We looked to the street
lamps like golden lanterns
to light our way home,
as luminaries with promises
of warm blankets
and sweet delights,
and for that, we knew
when the day had ended,
when our breath finally
caught up with us,
for we were certainly
more inclined to hold
warm hands and
turn over our beds
while our hair clung
to sheets of perfumed lilac,
the last trace of warm weather,
and covering our eyes to
hide from the harvest moon,
we laughed ourselves
to sleep through thin walls
of in-jokes and outcomes.
T. DM
