Poetry

Faces in places

Faces glance down on us when we’re not looking.

Knotted mouths with noses in the air, hands

above their heads, pointing, staring,

laughing at how small we are

compared to their lengthy limbs

that could scoop us up if they could move at all.

The ivy beards cover their mouths,

fungi hiding their tears of mirth.

 

Advertisements
Poetry

Our place

We walk down to the tree shaped like a chair,

years of training to get it just right.

Across the river is the fall

dripping from the woman’s mouth.

This is our spot, this strange location

where magic feels tangible in the air,

and everything is as green and lush

as in our dreams.

You tease and say it is a dream.

Oh, I know that.

I’ve known it for a long time, since you left.

But I still walk here with you.

Poetry

Unexpected things

Today I was sitting in the lap of a tree

watching the world go by:

 

I saw a girl reach up and try to pluck a star

from the sky with her fingers,

as though gently nipping a bud.

 

I saw a prowling cat masquerading

as a gnarled root eyeing up

the darting squirrels and the birds.

 

I saw a giant woman falling from a waterfall,

she was the waterfall, arching back, arms outstretched

to dangle her fingertips in the lake.

 

Poetry

Three trees

Arms outstretched, chest up

arched like the curve of a crescent moon,

the train of her long moss gown

sinking deep into the leafy mulch.

 

The light catches between its arms,

a diamond sparking in the rainbow wood.

Long legs fold into a bench,

fit for the white dusting of the sky.

 

He crouches into a ball, the circle

his body makes a seeing stone, a hole

for all to gaze through, penetrating the distance

to the other side. The trees wave back.

Poetry

Different planes

It’s interesting, don’t you think

how some people can pick up a book

and get so lost in the pages

that hours pass without them noticing

while others

get stuck on the first lines, trying to concentrate

but re-reading the words over and over again

without any meaning seeping in?

How minds can differ, wired so similarly

yet ultimately different.

Is your red really the same as mine?

And why, when you say Wednesday, do I think green?

If we describe the same person,

why do two different images spring up?

Do we see different things,

or is it our focus

that’s different?

Your world is my world…

at least, I think it is.

Poetry

Images from Fern Gulley

My handprints are leaves decorating the walls. Joining the cave painting that has told our tale for generations. We’ve seen the single seed that holds all the magic of life grow to adulthood, and we’ve sown many more like it. Now I have my own to grow, but the trees without heads are overwhelming. I don’t know what to do. How can one seed work, even awash with the blue light of our people? I watch as you carve your initials into the bark. Can’t you feel its pain?

Poetry

Homecoming

The field is green. So green that it blinds me,

taking over my senses with its scent.

Grass, wildflowers, heather. Pine

off in the distance. And you.

All earth and petals, brambles and silky leaves.

You run your fingers through the long fluffy tails

reaching up to your hips, a smile lingering

at the corners of your mouth.

Welcome home, you say,

and I am welcomed by a cloud of

meadow browns and common blues.