Gossamer Blossoming

"Forest"

Awaitingbloom — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 06:20:48 GMT

This is the one I've entered into a contest already (I'm still slightly ambivalent about it, but it's my 5th or 6th draft and I guess it's ok..):

Oak pieces rickety-rock
grandma
and her sewing needles
in the back room.

Cut-short redwoods

primly present

school pictures to one another

from their positions on
slabs of color-slathered
cedar between which

families
in newness
in change
in growth
in life and in death
make home.

A "finished" maple
snakes along her sister,
now stairs, to balance
the bounding kids
up and down her ratchets.

Slams of mahogany
slice through kitchen
and bedroom with bustles
of play and dinner.

A column of hickory,
now enclosing chimes and bells,
tickety-tocks the passing of days
from the entryway;

the stump:
home to

new life

from old death...
or the tickety-rock
of progress.

(formatting is weird at points, there shouldn't be more than one space anywhere but I don't know how to fix it...)

Leaf-prints

Awaitingbloom — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 04:32:50 GMT

It's been days since you left me

fluttered far and fast

twirled your stuff free from me

and though I knew it wouldn't last

I cannot stand the coming cold,

cannot bear this nakedness;

true it happens every year,

you abandon greens and - duress!

for me, now I seem

because of your cloaks of red

just seasonal moments away

from looking truly dead!

And now all that's left of my former clothes -

oh I nearly cannot bear to say! -

are your prints on the sidewalk underneath

made with tears and relentless rain.

Blow Me Away

Awaitingbloom — Wed, 16 Sep 2009 06:02:24 GMT

my friend fogs in practicality on my sunny-like-sharp conversations about love and truth

and when the rain comes through my conscience it leaves the clouds of what-to-do?

all this how-and-why talk floods of frustration on what could be teeming vasts of you

and me talking with heavier seas

don't you see?

through a wor storm cloudly?

that, my friend, you can't even breathe until the weather stops and you're all you'll be?

Traveler

Awaitingbloom — Mon, 07 Sep 2009 05:10:17 GMT

Traveling makes it true -

those things about you that you never knew...

some long avoided, dirt-faced

long-winded-impossible to erase.

Some familar-lurking stuff

you'd never known how to get rid of.

But the bounding over whelming waves

sends you out on life-that-saved.

Re-entering the world of home

changes what you thought you've known

what's molded you is now ending

to birth to day a fresh beginning.

Healing

Awaitingbloom — Thu, 13 Aug 2009 18:57:55 GMT

Look.

Why are such wonderful things as people so damned fragile, damn it?

Seek.

All this work to sustain what is merely misted mightily but ony shortly.

See.

Life is too complicated with it's resurfacing and jealousy and pulling to be fake or false or even temporary...right?

Seem.

The dancing back-and-forth of shadowed realities lasts all our lifetimes combined until there is no more time.

Be.

If you lived forever, you'd want to know the you that you'll be with - and friend, forever has already started.

Live.

Amsterdam

Awaitingbloom — Wed, 05 Aug 2009 19:02:33 GMT

The land of call-sweet "honey"

come and sway, that sit-in-a-window

abysmal separation from self

while performing the act rumored to be

of the ultimate unity.

You hock-y talkers blinded yourself

to the devastating beauty

flowing through your city -

'cause all you want are puffy rings and

don't care about the gritty

that's taking over, and under and all around

and don't you know where you'll be found?

Red lights usally mean stop but you're

all go, go, go with lust you're gored

with "happy" food and young things too

but I can't pound you too hard, true

because I hear that longing

underneath the sand so white

I know what keeps you up all night.

It's the same spirit that haunts me

till I run, till I'm done and till I'm won

but, look, the only reason I got found

is cause I dropped the speed

and turned around.

i have i have

Awaitingbloom — Mon, 03 Aug 2009 05:23:14 GMT

all the live i have i have to give away

all the love i have i have to tell the truth

all the love i have you have in your heart first

all the love i have you have it's all from you

The Inner Bay

Awaitingbloom — Wed, 01 Jul 2009 21:08:35 GMT

It's all within the cracks of a breaked heart beating -

how can all this fit? Yet pour out it does. Or should.

"You get what you want," they all say,

"more than anyone else I know."

Which means to me only that I must

care full for what I pray for.

And it's all still within the cracks of

the heart I was handed, the heart

neither I nor those initially entrusted with it

were fully full of care for.

But the beating, the just-keep-swimming is

learning the shapes and beats and groves

of this thing in my chest...

not so I can savor it myself, but so I can

give it away. Pour it out. Like, I'm finding,

it should.

The Ministry of Rolling Hills

Awaitingbloom — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 13:16:29 GMT

   Since I was a youth…ashes to ashes…
   flesh clasped by flesh…we all fall down.

Singsong innocence veneered
a deep shadow of realness underneath…
we all – this all – does fall down
and out of life eventually:

All kinds of posies pocketed in hopes of delaying
      the future which bears all of us away,
   in our smallness we realize not
      the limit to our days.

And so in my youth…ashes to ashes…
hands in tight hands…we all fall down…

The current current of creation
is, by boundlessly understood grace,
toward a thing whose only side
we know from our side is death.

Even yet as all decays
      still what it offers for the seeing
is missed by our growing up,
     and before that in our whirring.

With my failing youth…ashes to ashes…
Hands in loosening hands…we all fall down.

Our spinning circle of kids
a micro circle of life…
if only we’d realize just how
rosey our ring really is:

Mountains blue with laughter,
   rippling under babbling sunlight,
     splashes of birdsong and wing
         and persistent cicadas dot the night.
      Even as such particulars wither, wilt and lie:
   that they’re part of a larger dancing
means they’ll never fully die.

"The Day I Found You"

Awaitingbloom — Tue, 23 Jun 2009 13:22:44 GMT

The Light client provides fewer features

and is sometimes faster.*

Finding Light gives struggle, weariness

but eventual moving about easier.

Once Light is obtained, less extra is needed

because more is now known.

The Light client illuminates (it does not see for you)

the way you've never found home.

*First two lines taken from the log-in page for my school's e-mail client :-)

I don't write love poems

Awaitingbloom — Mon, 15 Jun 2009 18:21:08 GMT

I'd start with a sob after you answered my call. Silence punctured by the breath I'd try to herd.

I'd not know what to say. I'd not know how to feel those things I'd said I'd felt because the moment would crack for me and break.

I'd listen, probably, for what you'd not say. I always did that anyway.

You'd tell me the truth about your heart, which has always been syrupy love for me. If I'd stopped, I'd cry again.

I'd not have thought about what to say. I'd still not know which feelings tug harder at the confusion.

And I'd strain for what you wouldn't say. I'd still be the same.

I'd push and pull you here and away. I know by now that some things never change.

I'd have called anyway, though. Because you stuck to me despite my never-change, which may be, some time, enough to bind my broken mind.

And maybe, I'll get the chance someday, to finally hear what you do say.

The Problem of (and Soltuion to) Pain

Awaitingbloom — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 06:19:46 GMT

The stuff of earth is roughing

brusing, tumble-true,

all it's pain inflicted from

the hurting in it, too.

This often ebbs and flows

to the point of not-stand-more,

and the hope for all-sweep righting

might be what Heaven's for.

Though according to the story

throughout the nations told,

Heaven might be the place

where trials turn to gold.

Myself

Awaitingbloom — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 03:29:37 GMT

The day I found you, I didn't recognize you.

You had four legs instead of two, and were limping on three of them.

Forehead was lightening-bolted open, ink stains blotted across your back.

You leaned slightly to the right, and couldn't stand up still with your eyes closed. You couldn't actually close your eyes, really.

And now, hype as fields, you are leaping.

You stretch to the sun instead of inside when you're cold, and you don't scoot around so as to rip open your knees anymore.

Sometimes your hands hurt, but you allow bandages on them.

You don't snarl.

And every day I find you, I realize you are something Made New.

The Pilgrim

Awaitingbloom — Wed, 03 Jun 2009 01:43:24 GMT

Streaked in yearning, and this stretching holds my hand pounding to the door,

I know what I've got can't be the lot of what life promises for:

Relinquish the room of a two year lay-over

brush the caked-on hiding free:

cradling faith and who I've been made to be with hope in my mind's fore.

Cloaked in beatings from a worry that tosses through night with no relief,

I hope that how I know will grow into a beyond-the-shadow sort of belief:

Lean deep into a rickety structure,

make needs known to new family:

crawling toward deep and true sleep that goes beyond physical reprieve.

Unsettled at the slightest meddling of what I thought was life desired,

raging fear brewing 'neath balmy exterior threatens to start fires:

Honest up the dusty soul;

give chase-after to wilder dreams,

staying quiet or trying to hide it only keeps the depth from getting higher.

Ode to the passing modern

Awaitingbloom — Sun, 31 May 2009 23:00:08 GMT

Set aside in time, does God skip over me and the purposes human life has inherent in its shimmery, arthritizing crawl across the planet?

With Florida as my ceiling - hotness and beach my limit, I mean - and eternity to the threshing floor, it's straight ahead for eleven more miles.

Cats are snuggling in the knobby nooks of aging knees - am I supposed to provide for these furry things who can't ever know horror beyond the puncture wound of their infectizing love-bite?