Category Archives: Nature

Flight

Dropping down through the rain cloud looks like when you drive in a blizzard. I have the temptation to put my finger out to feel the drops hit against it at speed as one may do with a trailing hand through the water in a leisurely puttering boat. I’m sure it would spear my hand and as the flesh was torn from bones that bent and broke like miniature thunder cracks streams of my blood would mix with the rain to be quite the bad omen for anyone unlucky enough to look at in the storm at an inopportune moment. Which is a very good reason not to give into the impulse not to mention the whole flying inside the plane part.

A Pile of Originals

Perhaps a snowflake falling down the air
is truly a special unique treat.
Perhaps it should be on display
for you and I to view and learn from.
Perhaps it has a secret twin
if we cared enough to dig around.
Perhaps it likes being on a pedestal
creating chatter and lazy metaphors.
Perhaps it’s lonely and seeking acceptance
wanting to find  it’s not alone.
Perhaps it looks to its drifting neighbors
And comments on the uniqueness of humans.
Perhaps it’s filled with contempt
that we dare to think we compare.
But who has time to stop and check
when it’s buried in a snowdrift?

Meaning of the Season

Tall, prickly, coniferous green
Carrying the name of the holiday
Home,
And cheer,
Family,
Togetherness.

Hateful, hanging, couple bait
Blushing, bashful, giggling fools
Not me,
I couldn’t,
Don’t make me,
Okay fine.

Flashy as the brightest stars
Poisonous if it’s company is partaken
Alone,
It’s fine,
I’m fine,
Go away.

Clipped Wings

Little bird pokes his brother
Want to play?
Want to play?
Little bird flaps and hovers
Sunny day
Want to play?

The breeze is calling from the east
Smells of flowers
Smells of trees
Floating nicely with wings at ease
It is day
Come and play

Mother’s calling us to join her
Has food
Has love
Will guide us to fly up higher
Family day
Come and play

Waken brother, rise and greet me
Night is over
Open eyes
Nudges harder at the body
Happy day
Please play

Mother calls out to bird
Come away
Fly away
Wings drooping, bird obeys
No play
Not today

Intentional

Hello, hello do you hear the wind
Calling out names from yesteryear?
Asking for solace
Seeking respite
Under a gloomy sky of lavender
Tainted with the dirty water
Of the paintbrush wielded by a dark minded god
Praying for absolution for a race that no longer looks up

Hello, hello do you see the rain
Staccatoing half-hearted rhythms?
Hoping for answers
Dreaming of wisdom
Mixing with the slow wake
Of a ferry traversing earthbound Lethe
Clear in purpose but clogged by the ideals of man
Begging for clarity in a world drowning in nihilistic hedonism

Halt, halt the senseless blustering
Crowing loudly, unknowing portents
As ignorance answers
Proud of its dissipation
Crawling hangovers
Of a wastrel world
Listlessly wanderlusting across land seeking emotion
Intentionally avoiding the screaming empathy of humanity

The Weight of the World

The clouds hung so low
that the pillars of smoke
from the factories
held up the sky.
The stacks rose above spires
as straight as the spines
praying as if their words
were as useful as action.
 
Mists of fire
shrouded clustered lights
like fireflies in the fog
tempting the imagination.
The halos tricked
simple minds
into believing the worthiness
of substitutes.
 
Plastic bags danced
as nature’s sprites
across lacerations
on the numb ground.
Atlases noticed none of this
shrugged with indifference
and the future
went to hell.

Rules of Green Thumb

It matter not the name
at least that’s what they say
in their vague wisdom
that we acknowledge.

Close your eyes
breathe in deep
and believe you me
that the scent will be true.

Try to trick humanity
but we will not be
for obviously a word
cannot change essence.

The experts may have studied
good wine and expectations
but I don’t have to know their minds
to know how to doubt.

Doubt easy sayings.
Assume exceptions.
Consider circumstances.
Force truth.

If we all agreed
to name it rose
it does not hold
the scent constant.

Trampled fallen flowers
in spite of identity
smell not of sweet romance
but forgotten fertilizer.

Grows the future
from unquestioned roots
grounded in ideas
that should be rethought.

The Dandelion’s Shame

During the day
the dandelions reign supreme
over the blades,
over the soil.

But at night they wilt in shame.

They blind the bugs
that crawl beneath
that bend and strive
still out of reach.
They primp and sway
under breeze’s praise.

But only feature at the sun’s say.

They mock the tired hand
that cuts them down
or bids them go.
On and on
they grow and grow
no mortal thing
acknowledged foe.

But solely in the daytime though.

For at night,
at night they feel their worth.
Little blemishes upon a small plot of earth.
Cowering under the fallow sky.
Filled with stars’ mirthful cries.

For shame,
for shame what lusterless stalks.
How dare they look up
from their tasteless rock?

For shame,
for shame such insolence.
Pretenders, false glimmers
lack in beauty as penitence.

The dandelions weep echoing
for shame,
for shame that’s in our name
we did not truly see
the vast field
above our heads
filled with that which
we can never be.

Shame ages them gray
beyond shine,
beyond prime.
Until all they could do
was flee
into the next generation.
Never escaping the censure
of those who laughed
at their simple nature.

Lamentations of a Proud English Rose Who Waited too Long to Consent to a Plucking

I look back on when I was but a bud
Recalling how I longed simply to bloom.
Released, I smiled along with the sun
Fully nourished by my ancestors’ tomb.
Promenading in my virgin colors,
Still free to stretch my roots and charm the world.
No single flirting bee did I prefer.
Growing long in the leaf because I could.
But now the frost is creeping down my spine.
My time basking in the light at an end
Petals fall – as if a flower could cry.
The weight of winter forces me to bend.
Wrinkled, I regret wasting the season.
I know next year I will not rise again.

Credo of the Weed Activist

I believe in Dandelions.
They are freckles of the earth
Who only want to reach a sage stage
And bring you luck.
Not acne,
Made worse by picking.

I believe in Queen Anne’s lace.
I believe you can’t even really see the little black bugs
Unless you look for them.

I believe Thistles are prickly
Because they have been hurt before.
Someone told them they were pretty
But abandoned them for something with petals.

I believe wild Violets blush
Because they know they are whores;
Ashamed,
The try to hide their parentage
Behind deceptive good looks.
Pretty enough for you to pick
But not worth bringing home to meet the family.

I believe in weeds
Far more than the vanity
In a hybrid rose.