Posts Tagged ‘Nature’

Fire Engine Red

Posted: July 11, 2012 in My Poetry
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Raining ash
for forty days.
Everything’s on fire and
you, with your small words
like “god” and “hope”,
beg to be burnt
to a cinder.

Smoky skies;
days dark with
spent embers from
mountains blazing
with raw fury;
anger,
a question,
answered in flame.

Even futility
is useless
against this towering rage.
The world is aflame.

Hope,
like love,
is a dirty word.
It gives you faith in
nothing and

you, with your petty dreams,
small words
bleeding dry to white spit,
at the corners
of your parched mouth,
are insignificant.

In the face of nature’s wrath.
you are nothing.
No one.

Your words
are sounds
coughed up by
dying animals.

Everyone protests
that last, great
blast of
life.

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Grief is
an uphill climb in sand
with no oasis in sight

Hot wind erases footprints
as if you came from nowhere.
No path to show the way.

This journey is taken alone.

Unable to find your bearings;
Maps become senseless
when blinded by harsh light.

Stumble through a world
where nothing ever changes and
everything looks the same.

Perhaps it is the same and
you’ve been walking in circles
like a dog chasing its tail.

There is no past –
not anymore.
Memories are unwelcome.
They make people nervous.

Death is so uncivilized
especially suicide.

Between a breath and

the one that never follows,

you slip away;

crippled body left behind

like leaves dropped after a storm.

Forgotten, unnecessary –

marking the end of a season.

Starless

Posted: April 28, 2011 in My Poetry
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Stars pin
the night sky in place,
give lovers
something to wish on.

Dark sky without stars
would always be rainy.
The moon crying
all night,
every night,
inconsolable; lonely.

Humans would blunder
through the dark,
looking for some
kind of guidance.

Even on cloudy nights,
we know that stars
wait behind the curtains.

No milky way,
no twinkling treasure,
no signposts
for sailors lost at sea.

Nothing to reach for.

Springtime in the Rockies

Posted: April 26, 2011 in My Poetry
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Clouds chase each other
across dark sky,
playing follow the leader.

It is quiet in this hollow
between raindrops
and snow.

Long grass
tries to hide
dandelion riot.

The willow tree lies broken;
too much snow
on budding branches.

Stubborn clench
of winter,
has yet to loose its hold.

Re: Your Message

Posted: April 21, 2011 in My Poetry
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Shutterstock_6711424

I found your bottle
late last week,
and wanted to respond.

I fear
I won’t be much help.
I’m on an island
of my own.

Please excuse
me writing
on the back
of your S.O.S.
but I wound up here
with no paper,
bottle, cork or ink.

The blood
I write with
is my own.
I have plenty
to spare.

Do the stars
shine for you
like they do for me?
Rolling surf
sings me to sleep.

I am happy
here,
alone.

I hope this bottle
finds you well,
so you can try again.

Sincerely yours,
Miss Anthropy

Big Picture

Posted: April 17, 2011 in My Poetry
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Tie tiny love poems,
to the legs of bumblebees.

Their lazy dance carries
across meadows
far away.

Pollen dusted,
yellow fuzz
on flowers bright with life.

Everything important
starts with
little things.

The drone
of a bluebottle fly,
blossoming trees of spring.

Rapid pulse of wings,
as hummingbirds
blur the throat of nectar.

Things begin
as moments in time;
interested eyes,
a simple hello.
Lifespan
in a second.

Exhilarating rush
of cold air
in grey lungs,

the cry of a seagull
or tern.

Nothing big
ever starts out that way.

The whole world
moves in small breaths.

The color
of grape Kool-Aid;
purple with swirling blue.

Umbilical cord tight
around his neck,
he strangled
with every contraction.

Heart rate dropped
so perilously low,
a pediatrician was called
to be on hand…
Just-In-Case.

Pushing then swoosh
there he was,
my blue baby.

They removed
the cord from his neck,
and handed him to his father.
I stroked his face;
the same color as my nail polish.

Suction of fluid from lungs
then oxygen followed
until he grew pinker,
more human.
Still, a bloody little thing
always held by someone else.

I felt no sense of attachment.
Just crushing weight of responsibility;
knowing he was mine
completely,
at for least 18 years.

I didn’t want to get too close,
terrified by my year-old nephew’s
repeated clinical deaths.
I spent the night awake,
trying to devise ways
to make a break for it –
despite the pain.

Morning came
I was still there,
unable to figure out
how to flee into the darkness;
leave him to his father,
my mother…anyone
but me.

Then,
around the corner;
a clear acrylic bin.
I looked in –
my fatal error.
I never looked back again.

He was mine.
My child.
The one I’d waited for.
I loved his little turtle face,
strange mewling sounds,
his smell.

Through the years,
there were problems.
Bad lungs kept me afraid
that I’d lose
the only thing that mattered.

A sweet child,
beautiful, charming.
He always had that gift.

Then pre-teen,
cocky, sullen
but sometimes mine
again, at night.
I would read to him
or sing
and he would forget
that he was not a mama’s boy;
nestle into the crook of my arm.

Teenage years
spent learning how
to kill with his bare hands:
martial arts
obsessed.

Now he’s an adult.
I look back
on years
that went too fast.

All the changes
all the chances
I had to make a difference.
I messed up
most of them.

He has no need,
now, for a mother.
He wants me far away.
He’s just a cold stranger
but I love him, anyway.

If you were to ask me
what he wanted
where he lived,
or how he felt,
I could give you general answers,
gleaned from other sources.

My own son
is as alien to me
as any stranger on the street.

Looking at his baby books,
I pause at this page,
and that. Remember favorite pastimes.
They’re all past time, now.

All I have is memory
of the son I brought to earth.
Cherished as well as I was able
then let go, at his request.

People say
he loves me.
But I know it isn’t true.
He wants me to disappear
as much as I want to.

Embarrassed
by me; my scars,
my insanity;
by that fact that I exist

I am embarrassed too,
for loving him as much as I do
when I’m simply a source
of shame for him,
my former Little Boy Blue.

This should be the time
of deepening thought.
But the northern wind
wanted to join in and sent up a blur
of brain-dust obscuring distant
noise, as if dimming a light.

It is time for shining light
in forgotten places. That celebrated time
when foggy, distant
thoughts
race to mind…only to be blurred
by icy wind.

Friendly fire in the form of wind;
cold, from northern lights.
All those colors shifting and blurring,
confound even timely,
mature thoughts;
keep them at a distance

Often the distance
is so far away, wind
hitches a ride on thought
and only the speed of light –
surpasses the time
of arrival which, by then itself, is blurred.

With time and tears, all things blur;
become strangers in the distance,
where there are no reasons or seasons. No time
for goodbyes and the cold, gritty wind
erases all that is good and light
like a whiteboard full of thoughts.

A nightmare of thoughts
smeared, emotion-blurred
hard to find the light
in the vast distance
between two ears where whistling wind
makes its home most of the time.

Time confounds. Clear thoughts
should reign but wind up more blurred
and distant than foggy city starlight.

1:53 AM

Posted: April 10, 2011 in My Poetry
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Although it’s early
evening, for me,
it feels late.

Went to bed at 5 AM,
got back up at 7:30.
Between various errands,
visual abnormalities
warned me a migraine
was on its way.

Voices became tinny
little echoes
while lights screamed
at my eyes.
Nausea appeared,
charging through static edges
of vision, full tilt,
weapons at the ready.

Raced to bathroom,
only to find one of the cats
had vomited in the sink…
the sink with no running water,
because I need to replace
a leaky water-supply valve,
and just got the part today.

This was clearly not my day
to rise and shine,
so I’ll surrender my body
to sleep, hoping it can,
to paraphrase Shakespeare,
“knit the raveled sleeve of care.”

Or, at the very least,
darn my holey underwear.