Daily Archives: November 29, 2013

Ode to Winter, Ode to Summer

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By the west end of the Lake
is a bittersweet orange
it is the tang and oder of sorrow
and the sweet citrus skin of newness.
I bring these things from the lake,
the west end of the lake in june
so the waters rise like a slow baloon
and the winter crawls out from its snowy cocoon
and the oranges flower at noon.
by the west end of the land
she spies you
and her hands grasp at her middle
as a sharp longing.
to feel the same as a child
and yet to never be forever young
it scraped at the bone marrow of her.

You left a little bruise on her cheek
and she smiles.

It is like the soft rain beating against a drum
sprinkling her soft berry stained lips.
the oranges are all tied to her bedside
and the smell is like sorrow
covered with the feathers of a crow
and all of the feelings
that were once new.
by the west end of the Lake
is a bittersweet orange.
it is the tang and oder of sorrow
and the sweet citrus smell
of newness:
to begin again on the same road
is to never end,
it is to know the skies
as well as you do your brother
with the faint rustle of trees
in the fall,
on a morning
oh so aching
as a welcome
haunting
call.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

Grafting Rosmerta

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grafting
it was simple
I’d place the oil burners full of fat into the tree
and the branch would light up.
simple.

grafting.
i would take a lock of my hair
and braid it with yours
unmeditated
full, like a benediction
and whole, like love.

grafting
i might run like a kite and never find myself again
and my deep interior might grab at me and say
stay close
dont run away
be simple.
graft me back inside.

the milk and warm apples and pearl earrings
and my darling teddy bear and the conversations
the milk spilling sour and turning sour
the apples being eaten
and the teddy being torn
and the coversations empty.
I want to be at the edge of the forrest, braiding my hair and flying my kite
and breathing a cinnamon story of warmth.
do you think i know the truth?
why do you ask me questions, Dan?
I’m just twenty
i need some money
i want a bed full of straw and full of heady hearts
stringing along like electric parts
until its so bright i have to squint.
i am made of you
you, of me:
it is simple.
I am grafting a staircase to the underbelly
you shook, i shake
the world topples over
but we stay on mount balance,
never moving an inch
never feeling a pinch
grafted
and laughed
like bees filling up the cup
with sweet honey.
the rosemary fills my lungs,
and its time,
i realize,
to move on,
steadily,
like a grafted tree or branch:

like a whirlwind
the world is all moving sound and color
and i will hear you when i wake.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

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