September 7, 2016

tree theater yarn and yaw : sway branch chronicles aka ............. how to transport your light through the dark ............................ Befana guided, amused


image by EJR 




"...when I stare long enough 
at the light bulbs overhead 
only one of which works 
sometimes I can ping leaves 
in the trees near you now
rustling whisking whisper soft 
to a moonless womb sky 
I think no not think I smell feel 
fall muddy knees palmed tides 
rise after rise seasons 
of soul in tithed bones 
each articulation  
and gesture 
reminds me 
of your name 
when playing your billows 
of kind knives and carve
on through wind and eon..." 


I gave her my throat 
she gave me entireties 
of life in ritual murmuring(s), 
from ancient rain 
to the morning dew 
already setting up camp 
outside her window

she had candles lit 
and was singing to herself 
while twirling rapt 
wrapping herself 
in an unfurled bolt 
of pretty fabric 

she sang :

"...yes I do love 
to imagine the smell 
of his pine forests 
with the dappled sentinels 
of hardwoods 
there for council 
of trees..."

preambling 
causeways 
tumble alice 
and hare

I remember Winter came 
and the winds drew their rakes 
and breaths from the North 
rawly squeezing angled light 
we would play grand long 
puppet and shadow theater 
for a few precious moments 
when the hearth was always 
a-roaring and sweet clove 
and nutmeg spiced the fruit pies 
we gladly traded our eyes 
for noses then 
when Winter came

the invite 
the accept 
the moment of inertia 
the exit velocity of love 
and the non-brambling comforts fed thee 
in a world that is desperate 
in its stubbornly clung non believe(s) 

I flit and spit bubble 
the lid askew and ask you 
what have you tonight 
when the moon veil avails 
a maddening glee 
of bark and circumstance 
to dance in the joys 
of the Mudville nine 
and county fairs

I met her, 
she was some dulcet eyed 
cabaret the movie extra, 
drew me away 
from the neon come on(s) 
of ten penny's alley 
and into a dark misted waiting 
spread like poems waiting 
over slicked cobbled stones 

she sang stories 
said I made her feel
 I never mention she steals my breath
or that I never minded gasping for a bit 
when bitten such as this 

I was grateful 
for entry and womb 
I say there are many curled 
into tales to regale here, 
she laughs, says listen 
to the tombstones they're whistling back 
at you in a glide language 
of spirit chambering-a-ling-ling-ing
they want you telephoned booth-ed
bring more food next time 
for the elders take back 
to feed their sanctuaries 
where they stoke humanity's 
inner mounting flames 
carrying little else 
of any use 
or matter to them...

and then the crickle-crackle spun overtures begin 
to the tunes in the piles of old records in the corner 
she says they turn her to ribbons and angular undone
and because this is exactly the kind of ache  
to be felt ghost glow soul to bone

 I left little numerical sequences 
in the hoarfrost and around the house when Winter came ... 
little poems sometimes too when she strode the kitchen on a 
stretch when Winter came and really roared 
and the windows steamed up 
diffused artful slag angel Sun 
as it gave way to Holly 
and the bare arms 
of a Winters' night 
in the southern mountain 
reaches of the Boreals ...

she says come and eat now
while I stare out the window 
looking at the trees 
past the barn's yard 
where the chickens 
dart for her attention 

you know darling as I am 
drinking this coffee you poured
from that blue enamel pot
I became aware a ware 
of when Winter comes
and cardinals are set afire 
against barren berry bushes 
what hushes us 
in rushed light 
what sounds whispers 
clasp us with, what dreams 
like a lone seed 
wanting to be a forest
to bird migration song 
I sometimes imagine 
that I can hear  
snowy weather sing 
looking out a warm
kitchen window 
with you

"...velveteen rabbit knows you'
 and always loves to hear you laugh..."


 I wore red silk around my eyes and bared my throat long ago 
and apple to fall again I do to wear your imperceptible(s) 
turning to the undersides of things kindly 
with Mother may I 
deliberately taking stock in passages of time 
when lacing infinity to the colors 
we express when feeling 
human and divine, 
Lord she says and 
the smell of lemon seed oil 
is ever present, thumb thimble 
nimble sages spun loom wheeling the willing 
to find where flow wolves live to love 
she taught me how to bypass 
thievingfingertips the grip was part kung fu 
part falling as rain 
belief a lad insane I remember playing bowie 
somewhere too 
staying up late on Friday night
when a yard sale salty rides 
on a Saturday weighted when we could 

an old rusty nail and belly lint carried with what a palm sweat 
can get one needs served well within pail and toll...

magic is si cig am wave evaw bubble elbbub spit tips 
weave me loom-er I 
hear laughter in the dulcet sweep 
shadows along the stores 
and pantries waiting...

floor skirt and broom 
singing her own 
song always...

know lattice dendrite water's jacobian ladder structures and 
said viscosity sew eye mist herd two became binary code and away the algorithm spent sped and fed into each other...

ugly sticking the craw fisheries the frenzy of storms in painted 
insides of eyelids no need for a head language poem bellows 
lord and stupid by gait and strung bell approach of parcel and 
parting ways with numbing fuckeriesthe raw pieces of me fever for the the morning dew and that you stretching spine and lovelies pounce pan pace with stories of glorious follies that bleakened most outlooks should I lose sight of where I was...

bi-cellular like the stomach lining 
they call to the ancient lore temples 
through telomere breakdown language 
and this is often mistaken 
as cicada-esque hissing buzz noise 
from high tension wires 
strung in angry lace 
over the landscape(s)  
in the fields 
of electromagnetic dissonance 
spectral carbuncles appear 
where desire for control 
supersedes chaise lounge chaos 
and infinity 

why are you troubled darling 
she asks and trembling 
a 'watership down' feeling of dread 
I answer 
I don't know 
and it is in this embrace 
I place my humanity 
hell in hand-baskets and using luck 
to find a fisherman's wife 
who knows her way 
through woods 
wombs and decay 

and quick to laugh she is, 
she says, "when rabbits leap brooms 
and the deepest wells bloom 
right there you're your own damn self ..."


EJR ©

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