Were I to take to the forest
And huddle beneath the bush
I would linger and
sustain my wealth
of gratitude
in seed for
carefully plotted conifers
both in splendour and timber
soil
rain
and sunlight
TDM.
Tag: Writing
Big Sky (Part 1)
Barefoot steps on dirt paths carried me deeper into the wooded area where I was greeted by hordes of people slithering between and grazing one another. Their sun-baked faces turned blue in the starlight, contrasting the drench of sepia and terra cotta that soaked their cotton, burlap and linen garb draped across their bodies. Sipping whiskey before gulping fresh air I stopped noticing where my steps were, and following the brightest lamppost made of moonlight I took my gaze toward the sky. I stopped in my tracks and settled, cross-legged, on the mossy mess of dirt and grass, to draw a line connecting all of the silver specks in the sky. Being under Big Sky meant the changing of gratitude swept in overwhelmingly with the changing of the seasons. The rows of trees were not just trees, but homes for little life, simple life, or companions to the dazed people weaving in and out of them looking for the path. People were not just people under Big Sky either, but friends and gentle faces to stop and hug and wish a happy harvest too. In the short distance beyond the clusters of tent cities was a bon fire whose flames stretched upward, so tall they could have reached over the heads of giants.
TDM
Wither and Rot
In a world of shrivel and wilt
When what we need is seed and sprout
I am neither gather nor grow
I am wither and rot
TDM
Lying on a Rock
I disengaged myself
And let every tender vertebra
Feel as pious as
The stone
They were held upon
And reaching overhead
In my supinated situation
I gasped
And let my hands fall to
The pate of the rock
Connecting them like
A halo
Twisting my fingers
Around my own locks
Tangling them between the crown
On my head
Where the coolness of
The stone had met my skull
Supporting it
TDM
Wish
To wish and
wish and
wish to be
gentle
clothed only in magnetic
silence
would be my bliss
TDM
Andrew
You were trying to be
a Kerouac
When you led me
from subway to streetcar
To marbled sidewalk
and thought you were adventure
Looking for old doorways on Bay
Where I knew there were none
And you were trying to make me
your Queen Anne’s Lace
So I would be
gentle with your secrets
sooth your eccentricities
and unravel your spirit
But I was the seedling of
a dogwood flower
And led you
From subway to streetcar
To tall grass footpath
And thought I was adventure
In convincing you
to cascade backwards between
dandelion and dew
to match my wavelength
which was unravelling itself between
the blades of grass
as though the meadow were
a maze leading straight
to your disposition
TDM
Summer Heat
I need some opinions on this one. Is it complete or does it have a long way to go? Please comment below with any thoughts. Thank you kindly.
I could tickle the shade
on a day like today,
musky odour (I admit)
emitting from my “delicate” temple
whose flustered
along with my will
to make happy with
they
who step lightly and grin
while I drip
and drop
and drag myself onward
through what seems like concrete Sahara
Ugly
I have forgotten myself many times
mostly on purpose
I have made days go by without saying hello to
a mirror
and have been even better
at making nights disappear
suffocating myself under blankets
the easiest place to be
where words are muffled
and sounds elude me.
TDM
Word Vomit of the Imaginary Traveler
I have gone on many paper adventures, pages and pages of text have carried me up and up, far, far away. Daydreams and sleepy dreams have comforted my thoughts and set an imaginary trail behind me. Footsteps through cobblestone pathways, sipping dark coffee, following lamppost moons. Then tracking through snowy banks, heavy feet and runny nose, breathing in crisp frost, windy tears wiping away snowflakes that land on cheeks. Sun baked faces turning red as gazes are lifted, trailing the side of ancient monument and sand castle. Silk or linen draped across wandering eyes, highlighted colours amongst sepia and terra cotta. Crickets keeping souls awake in the night, a reminder to feed the fire to keep the warmth from escaping the tent, so that catching fireflies is a little bit more interesting. Though harder to see them in flame light, it is better for roasting marshmallows. Stopping by a stream to sip or splash water in the cracking faces and worn boots. Stopping by the side and peeling off jackets to rest heads on, stones to prop tired feet upon. And finally listening to ocean swells with active ears and quiet faces, being sprayed with salty mist. Then to squish toes in the sand when the water has not covered them, scraping a heal on a little shell, a tiny home built in repetitive beauty, swirling and twirling curves. The shell made of soft pinks and yellows, like the canvas stretching far beyond the rolling and bouncing waves, going going on until hidden by blues, lighter, then darker, then burst of silver overhead. Twinkle to preserve some light for walking home in, howls to bid goodnight.
TDM
Child Grin
Here is a very rough poem for which I was hoping to get some thoughts on:
i can tell
when you lean in quite close
that you wear the fragile grin of a child
on your face,
to hide behind gritted armour
has done you well
but you leave a trail of feathers behind
whenever I walk with you,
a hurried look on your face
to peek through fences
and burrow in the mud
excitement for any difference in the day,
what wonderful character that is,
to fill my head with thoughts of
daisies and falling
leaves and perfume
staining the air,
innocent charm that
scoops me up and tosses me
onto a bed of golden leaves
stealing sweet smiles
that become gentler
and soften into tiny baby giggles
as you frame my face with your hands
and lean in quite close
Persons
I get nauseous when you speak
And when you walk
With your head held up high
I worry
For when the rain comes
And wonder
If you will drown.
TDM
