Tag Archives: trees

the Scorching Blue Sun

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His love carried it’s way

through the waterside

and i found myself broken up on the sand

and looked to the edge of the water

that was nearing,

fearing that the sea moss was clearing

knowing he was never as endearing

as the sea moss that cradles my breath.

it is like a tangled up teal bed frame

that i cannot sleep on,

(but oh, so sweet!)

 

love carried it’s way

into an unshakable hurdle.

would i keep hold of the

balancing I had done

on one leg in the water

when seeing his gray body bloodied

through an invisible glass

that could not shatter?

It’s impossible,

when thought of mechanically

through metal.

 

“It’s all for the best”

i whisper

(smiling till my teeth grind)

 

We do not exchange farewell glances

even though that’s what i want to do

we just touch the scorching blue sun

with the tips of our bare fingertips,

like slippery wet crayfish not colliding

but swimming visibly close if seen from above.

 

the sea moss leaves me now,

in a huddle of whispers,

and i do not know where to go

and there is nothing here that breathes

and there is nothing here in sight

only dark penetrating trees.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

Toadstoolfindings

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Toadstool

A little girl, like the bending tree
Whose only pleasure lies in watching trees
And who only finds the god-soul in the climbing of the trees
(mine, hers, and what of hers that once was)
Whose play things  but the twigs and the leaves and trees
And the jeweled sun, that plays upon her by the hours
Wind shaking her knees,
you found her crouching on a toadstool by the tree-ditch
and that is all bark bone and mud and moss
you picked me up and shook me
and tasted the question “who are you?”
drinking it.
all I said was “Tree, Tree” not tasting anything remotely sweet.
He said “Tara”. Tara, for Tree.
I am Tara, He says, now Tara.
How old?
Oh, how long since I have counted, I think? The day goes on much further
without knowing how to count. But I remeber lessons…
someone…
I count on my fingers and again. Fourteen. I do not know how to make
three more quarters,
so I do not.
Little girl, who only finds the God-soul finds love in trees
and takes home with her
the memento
of dark leather and metal
Love and the jewled memento of the sun
that plays apon the trees
that I see from the glass window,
(and what a
little girl)

I  fog up it’s mirror, and

when I finish my gazing, with it’s white shining dazing

he calls down for his inferior.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

Anna and the Silverbirch-dedicated to the many lost trees of Veterans Park

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flower-girl.jpg

The city cut down the tree from my backyard
and saved the sawed bits to recycle
into money, what with the linnen so scarse, they say
with what else they can convey to me
it “died of a desiese”, they say
like the sick old man
who hangs
on the limbs of the branches
and as he hangs

when the sun’s gold reflects on his bruised cheek

I notice, and then the spirit of the tree says
it wants me to come away,and
show me an older time
the oldest it had been
as shade for two lovers
to share a kiss.
I take the rest of it’s memory
and bind it
carefully, and blistering my painted fingers,

I wrap up it’s contents

with my tears
and it’s own paper.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

A Tree Analogy

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This is an older poem of mine (and one of my favorites!)

A tree analogy

A tree analogy:

I whittled down slowly,

like whittling down myself.

I feel the peeling

bark chopping

and the soft moss embeds

and the sticky sap attends

and I feel a sharp kick to my

left ankle.

The deft “swacks!” of the ax

and I watch this chopper closely.

through the pain

I am unattached.

I notice my cries as if from afar

I find

a distance from myself,

the self I used to love.

Lifting my hands, my limbs, their limbs,

the limbs of my branches,

I stretch out like pressed linen

like a newly starched shirt

engraved with a monogrammed name

each time the monogram sticks to me

each time with the foreboding sense

of firm steadiness to identity,

though I do not know who I am.

And, so, I make a tree Analogy:

I whittled down slowly,

not knowing what to make of myself.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry