Category Archives: romance

Under the strentberry tree

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Come, and go wand’ring for churier times,
away from the riptin and rinants, their crime,
the villor and vagell in all their retorts,
The jumb-poling penguity, wanstier sort.

Observe the small paregallow sat on a twig,
that tweets a small tune, with a purintly squig.
Clasp hold my hand without chuberous thought,
and pick up the footspeed, with clip and with clought.

And when we have reached, with flooks and with guills,
the strentberry tree with its tassles and twills,
we’ll lay in the greenier grassles that wave
and meekestly coddle the songs that we saved.

Singing through tassles, and loring through twills
with our hands embraced tightly, and our giggles that thrill
the logus with all its galand and its hue.
Your grin and my smilishness, baylishly soothed.

Come and let’s wander a churier time,
clasp my hand, coddle and purintly rhyme.

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Should you be wondering “what does purintly mean,” I used a random nonsense word generator to help me with the words for this poem. The innocence conveyed by the silliness of the word choices was my goal. I often search for the greenier grassles that wave, just to have some quiet time, under a strentberry tree.

guardians of the forest

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20140518_201357I am an intruder,
though the path before me
encourages that. pressed gravel
that crunches in the silence
disturbed by my stride.

further in, and I
hear the breeze
impersonate the
the moving brush,
and doves interrogate
the sound, but once still,
it cannot
be captured.

I am an interloper,
the light dims to the floor
where ancient secrets
fallen have decayed
with the years;
forgotten, though the trees in
their circumferences, remember
to punctuate the darkness
as I creep in, uninvited.

How to move through the rain

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Into each life, some rain must fall – H. W. Longfellow

Use an umbrella, preferably compact
and easily stored.

Use an umbrella, preferably full-sized,
with a six foot diameter.

Cover your head:
Use the Plain-Dealer
Or the Times-Picayune
Or an old copy of the Post-Intelligencer

Don’t use the Sun-Times
The Sun-News,
Or the Standard-Examiner

Move like Gene Kelly,
and sing,
sing and tap,
sing,
and tap and sway.

Pirouette,
in comfortable shoes.

Swing at raindrops with a Katana sword.

Be like a petal, opened
and rediscovered
in the spring.

Let the rain kiss you on your head,
as it must,
and even though a-washed in dreary
and cold, silver, liquid drops,
revel in the
-slishity slosh-

Calculate the horizontal velocity and random path
required to pass through a normalized distribution of water drops
falling
at their terminal velocity,
and walk
between
them.

Avoid the puddles.
Dash through the puddles.

Hold hands.

Soak,
and watch the water
drip from your fingers.
Down to the ground
and wash away.

As when dandelions bloom

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four months from now,
the sun will lie in wait,
hanging in the damp,
and the air will be thick
with summer’s late serenades
that twist
and linger,
before a precipitous
lunge. Time will stand still,
before exhaling at its crest
to signal an end
to an effulgent season,
four months from now.

into the wind

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It was cold when
I heard her singing, but
it was only an interlude,
filled with the remnants
that had dropped in between
an arpeggio’d smile.
still -improvised- it was enough
to wrap me against the wishes
of the wind,
as I chased it over the hill,
and casted fate in a song
of my own,
written in summer’s tongue.

Etude triste

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when you love her,
and practice different words
between the silences,
ascending in chromatic notes
to tempt her fortress
until the muscles betray the bones.

yet, lamps smother their song
and I hear a mandolin
when she says,
“it’s too soon for another forever,”
words that are too soon splayed
for another poem.

words of note

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An aubergine sound
and a hollow bitter wind,
that portends of a sadness, lately then,
after the reign of summer’s end
and autumnal color,
red and yellow and their kin.

When joy is moved indoors to stand
the test of winter’s blunting hand,
bound with the melodies to hum
within your heart, with flute and drum.

Seeking clear, in midnight skies, between
the snowfall, when angels fly;
and you, among the ones that seek and pray,
wishing upon the stars to stay
awake and listen to the songs you sing
with words of note for every little, living thing.

Then rest your head and fall asleep
in dark and as lovely as woods are deep,
and echos of your song on air,
warm the bitterness to fair.

matin chimes

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risen echos call forth
the dawn to come, with dew
from disconsolate night.
and in striking tubular bells
an aubade
in summer or winter played,
the pleasing tones describe
a recapitulation of the day.
each one silent, then sonorous
in glad resonant array;
different
from ones sooner struck,
then died away.

offset

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I turned the page,
and there was writing
on both sides.
symbols showing
the birth and death of an idea
comprised of words that twisted and faded
into obscurity.

I remember the texture
of the paper on my fingers, though,
rough fiber and noisy,
and the way the ink
nicked and disappeared
like snowflakes in autumn.

Consecrated between my finger and thumb,
without a varnish that might
have held words together,
it is the feel of the paper
that transferred longing.