To Jim Roberts With All my Love

So cold in the shadow of woe and loss

Struggling to pay the daily cost

How many took with selfish greed?

Every green dollar and it’s hopeful seed?

Not you my friend, whom others spurned

Your company so firey, it burns

Of what you uttered, too scalding for most

The sinuous dance, the wild boast

But I knew you then, and loved you well

Thourouly, beneath your spell

And you should know what you meant to me

How friendship then was rarely free

So what you gave in your simple way

Means more that trite words will ever convey

Thank you for being so fiercely youself

Despite all those who have you Hell

And thank you for being there so late at night

When storms were raging, as I went seeking flight

For drying my shoes, my tears, and my babbling streams

For hanging your hat on the myriad dreams

What a person you are… what a spirit, what a man

What a friend I am so lucky, to hold in hand

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Call From An Old Friend

 

Yes i do

Remember  you

when the dark demands an honest hue

 

I danced for your adoring eye

Beneath a starry, knowing sky

And when the sun arose, I flew away

For lack of worthy words to say

 

How could I speak what I did not know?

And so with the current did I flow

 

So small my love to you had been

Terrified to let me in

So sad that I would struggle so…

To be loved by two, who would rather go

 

So gently into the gathered night

While still, my caged spirit fights

Keeping demons silent, at bay

Though secretly we yearned to pray

And to Hell with those who judged the cost

Sometimes I dream of what we lost

It Was Late In the Evening

An acute progression of time

Moments compressing in memory until…

Only impression remains

 

The ghost of a name

A lifetime confounded by pathways

Choices

Made in the darkness, when you believed

In your own light

 

How silence became a challenge

To speak your mind to the wind

 

How has it come to pass

That one who’s bare foot was knowing in the moss

Now at a loss

For a scent to follow?

 

A snake mayhap, though once a tiger

Still I move amoungst the grass

Knowing in my age, my page

The Hunt is in my breath

 

It’s not my poetry that whispers, it is the wind

Inside me

When a flower blooms, my petals unfold

I feed the hungry bees who come to glut

They in turn pollinate the blooms of another

As they flit out across the luscious, intercontinental web of meadows

Of WordPress-

As if one could press, squeeze the fruits of my knowledge

Into a simple post

 

Please

I am not so easily quaffed

 

Still…

I offer this stream to you

Of consciousness flowing clear and true

To sip and wash the salt away

From the ocean of apathy you keep at bay

 

 

Journal/poetry entry 12/16/17

 

The cold brings me back, as it bites my bones

To those aching hours spent alone

When the brush of my pen was the only sound

In pages that whispered on frozen ground

Immutable mountains looked down without remorse

A river cut stone in Her sinuous course

And beside her I ran, where a pathway cut clean

Sharpened  my edges, and made myself lean

Hard enough, to stand firmly with ease

Yet soft enough, for my prose to appease

 

A poet disembodied from the roots of her craft

Must make of circumstance a feasible raft

Constructed from metaphor, closer to any truth

Than all the bald faced lie of youth

 

Night winds blow through my shallow layers

A solitary moon receives my prayers

This moment is made to reflect, refract

That ambiguous line between TRUTH and fact

It has been too long, my arrival here

This seat, this home, this blessed year

 

I give you now my friendly eye

This blackened thought, this starry sky

Sit here with me as it grows far too late

Let us ramble… pontificate

It is the time when REAL is relative

To what you are willing, or unwilling to give

What do you stand for, as you stand beneath these stars

Can you sculpt something beautiful from the passage of scars

Or are you a detriment to my current of flow

Have you no mind that seeks the puzzle of prose?

 

In this moment I am shifting, evolving as it were

I make no apologies, I’m not a caged bird

A thought flies now to the roots of the matter

Where shaky insights inevitably shatter

Why always the moment unspoken, un-captured

That holds the ever present rapture?

I try in vain, to convey this wind

How it stirs the plants, the trees, my skin

How cold cuts sharply into my wit

Revolves around the chair I sit

Spinning these words, these thoughts to you

And in this moment the current is true

So I thank you dearly for tossing with me

In choppy currents as I find the sea

As every river does, in its eventual course

With gentle persistence, and awesome force

To My Readers, With Love

I am at a point in my life where I look back upon my words with envy. Those fiercely written poems of shameless passion and fiery feline deliveries of perspective unique to the naïveté of youth.

Sigh.

I find myself consistently jaded and disillusioned with the world, and that is reflected in my lapse of attention to my blog and writing overall.

I am raising  a toddler which accounts for much of my time, but honestly, my lack of contributions to this page of late has nothing to do with Simon, that is just a lame excuse. I refuse to attribute my lack of writing to my son, because honestly, he has taught me the greatest lessons imaginable which are worthy of pages in poetry and wisdom.

No, the fault lies in myself.

Writing was always a retreat for me, a self-indulgent reprieve from black and white lines of reality, where all could be ONE with a few clever contortions of metaphor.

I find it hard to be there truly in my personal head space while shit is hitting the fan all around me, and I cannot seem to let this shit shit roll off my back like water from a duck- because damnit- this is not fucking pond water it is all the things that made me remotely proud to be an American methodically trampled upon by narrow minded sadistic ego crazed muther fuckers who are now running this country and representing me and my country to the world. Breath. Sigh. No hysterics. I’m backing off. Breath….

what I want to say to you my friends, those poets of mine who are now by this point the only readers to this pathetic artistic outlet once known as the Memory Of Trees, where wind through pages made a rustling of boughs in the wind and warm moss once went questing between bare toes, this blog, this woman, loves you dearly. Those of you who write, I love you I read you and I rely on you. Please don’t give up on me. Your poetry in my inbox keeps me loving, reminds me of those beautiful people out there being themselves with riteous beauty, holds me close when I feel too far away… please stay with me, bear with me, I know I have not given so freely with my words of late, but yours are my sustenance.

Please perservere. Thank you, Aloha, and Ayah to you my sweet peas. You are beautiful.