I had grown up beside a bald tree. Whether be it the spring or full moon, the tree watched its days in stillness of impotent life And over it, spirits shuffled in the night when the yellow bulb of the house flickered and mother would cry, the pigeons were dead under the AC and the dogs ran like wolves The lights went out in the powerhouse a beast shook the floor, my mother hid under the pillows but I remained still Very still, like the bald tree.
There was a color in the woods
of the sun
threading into the plant life
and leaving soft insect trails of
grass burnt too golden
till the grass, she flew
out in a solitary vapor
of the broad open sky
of no people,
happened a soft autumn day
where I let my untamed foot fall
off the silk edge of my ordinary bed,
to let it fight with the tarnished wooden door
hunch-backed by a snoring inverter
when past the dust-coughing jail-skins,
there came a ruffle from the
dark of tall surmounting trees
breathing on my ankles,
in all oddity of the oncoming winter.
Then I had dug under the culture’s paws
Asked them, of what of the Winter gloom—
So languid upon my prickling skin,
He had protected life.
There rests a diabolical caress
Of sandpaper bed-sheets
Till my feet are sore
From the coaling livers of the winter-verse.
Oh, to look for light switches in the dreadful dead-dark,
Paranoid chants that the curtains must not move—
All my sacred pathos intruded
Red demonstration of corpse-like darkness.
Do the old—as the Laker Poet once cried—must only lament what can no longer be felt?
In my heart, I invite
I had shut down my famished words
Again, a prayer
To be fertilized with meaning, I ink
I conjure up my sprite:
In the hearth of a breathing cold
The tepid haunt of a sea nymph
Upon one changing breeze of the earth
Colluding with mist,
Into a body of unknown
That I uncloak, even though I am dressed
In great perspiration
to reclaim the night.
I had an epiphany just now. I actually had a dream about different models of ceiling fans today–funny that I must write a poem dictated by the winds.
‘Something watches and stirs in the dark, it is alive.’