the maples are bleeding ........................................................................ (a warm February poem mined from the air near where southern Canada looks after its sometimes wayward neighbors to the south)

photo by Adam Collinge ©

In the southern Boreal forests 

often Spring nears 

when ravens pluck grey hairs 

to stir into boiling cauldrons 

I ache and arch 
beg my talent and prowl 
all fours to upright-ed ruddy skin 
rubbing myself raw with pine sap 
on this poem's a-begging in ...

chance blooms 
for it is 
swoon season 
and every turn is 
malady, remedy 

who we are 
pear tree perhap(s) 
gnarled bark, storied leaves 
and what bite and sliver-slows 
old growth in trees 
are we dusty stuffed animals 
do we color and whisper into our lives 
moppet, poppet plunge blade 
to cheeks stained 
with an up turned cup 
as chickens might  
in childhood forest homes 
Baba Yaga prayers in shoe box 
with our tales told, 
each one full of wonder and awe ...

are we birch skin marionettes 
old tires tired eyes, are we places 
or merely faces where memory 
gave in to rememberin' 
a soul is a timeless poem 

the flash point 
I was puzzled by teeming thronged modernity
never sure whether weather was hydrophilic 
or hydrophobic, stomach sacred 
lining lingam blood stables cleaned 
sable saddled fable tabled feast worthy 
this is our fine tine pointed tinfoil hat parade 
and if ye provide shade words, I provide duct tape 
so be kind or be shutting up for the business of destruction 
needs no amplification from any of us, these days ...

sometimes when the poem ends 
I hear You whispering 
howls and growls 
warm mud sounds 
this is how most 
Spring(s) begin 
mischief 
into merry 
from wary eyes 
where wear wears 
once were 
and thirst is a bird 
nested, new and begin ...

EJR ©