FEBRUARY
She lives in old trees
things written about her
are strange
black apples
some pomegranates
and glass colored leaves.
I want to touch moisture
her skin.
I search the orchard
but, winter does not end
exhausted
I wait for the rain
hear voices
confused with her name.
SHE MAKES ME PUT AWAY WINTER
I feel the slope of her belly
my hand wet with her tears...
I am tasting pomegranate
my tongue turns
it over
drools in the juices.
she has sent me to look for water
I am leaving the forest
to harvest
and spring
is not yet over
the river running east
wakes
the long winter
shrubs seem greener
I would test the ice
for thaw
flood too early her fields
wash seeds from her eyes
take careful time
with her garden.
IT IS THE FIRST DAY AGAIN
I go to the river for water
and think of fresh oranges
it is march
the vision
of spring vanishes.
harvest
must wait for mushrooms
the birth
of children.
I search the orchard
stare at the sun.
FROM MY PLACE IN THE TREES
bodies I've forgotten
fall in the seeds
I reach through branches
a captured part of me is rain
water to flood her earth
the orange moon
tastes of sun
in the shadow
of leaves
reaches her green
body
even her breath
smells of mushroom.
SOMETHING I HAVE NEVER KNOWN
is near
when I walk back to our dwelling
her coarse limbs
reach for my movement
sudden...
as rainfall
into my hand like leaves.
the apples black from autumn
hang in the trees,
wind touches
both of us
rising to ourselves
in the shadow
we fall into moss.
Away from sun
we cling
to rock
easier than children
accustomed to dark.
the sun turned into us
twelve winters
still hot
and unchanged
blends us obsidian.
I WATCH THE SUN DARKEN
the stone contains
what I've looked for
feels soft
bends me
to her moss life.
I am talking in a poem
to myself
she accepts the sun
there is no warmth in our bodies
for words
touching this close
we turn night into mouths
lips are the first white
to begin
above the moss.
If I take her from this poem
I will have to face the forest
give birth to obsidian
and leave the odor of moss.
I UNDERSTAND THE LOVE OF DARK
the danger in living without sun
her voice
in the stone triggers some ancient
desire..some
knowledge
the earth captured
moss-odor
or promise of pomegranate
is the power her body has
over me..
under me the breath and sweat
of moss eating into us
my teeth in the fruit...
hardly stop to breathe
i devour the dark
in search of her warmth
find in the pool we create
reflections
i should have known were there..
this woman i am mating
is me
her flushed body
slips through my hands
pulsations subside in her
smile flows into mine
we watch each other for hours.
FEBRUARY, FATHER
passes
in the orange grove
pickers meditate
gaze into the sun.
the distance hums
a vegetation
to ancient forms
collapse of everything
echoes the bare leaves
as night sings in the moon
I throw stones to winter
fall in worship to tides
become thoughts you've created...
the soil as it mushrooms
claims the land for harvest
and our women
make their bodies warm
for seed
give birth to sons
who we conquer
with earth
the smell of spring.
She lives in old trees
things written about her
are strange
black apples
some pomegranates
and glass colored leaves.
I want to touch moisture
her skin.
I search the orchard
but, winter does not end
exhausted
I wait for the rain
hear voices
confused with her name.
SHE MAKES ME PUT AWAY WINTER
I feel the slope of her belly
my hand wet with her tears...
I am tasting pomegranate
my tongue turns
it over
drools in the juices.
she has sent me to look for water
I am leaving the forest
to harvest
and spring
is not yet over
the river running east
wakes
the long winter
shrubs seem greener
I would test the ice
for thaw
flood too early her fields
wash seeds from her eyes
take careful time
with her garden.
IT IS THE FIRST DAY AGAIN
I go to the river for water
and think of fresh oranges
it is march
the vision
of spring vanishes.
harvest
must wait for mushrooms
the birth
of children.
I search the orchard
stare at the sun.
FROM MY PLACE IN THE TREES
bodies I've forgotten
fall in the seeds
I reach through branches
a captured part of me is rain
water to flood her earth
the orange moon
tastes of sun
in the shadow
of leaves
reaches her green
body
even her breath
smells of mushroom.
SOMETHING I HAVE NEVER KNOWN
is near
when I walk back to our dwelling
her coarse limbs
reach for my movement
sudden...
as rainfall
into my hand like leaves.
the apples black from autumn
hang in the trees,
wind touches
both of us
rising to ourselves
in the shadow
we fall into moss.
Away from sun
we cling
to rock
easier than children
accustomed to dark.
the sun turned into us
twelve winters
still hot
and unchanged
blends us obsidian.
I WATCH THE SUN DARKEN
the stone contains
what I've looked for
feels soft
bends me
to her moss life.
I am talking in a poem
to myself
she accepts the sun
there is no warmth in our bodies
for words
touching this close
we turn night into mouths
lips are the first white
to begin
above the moss.
If I take her from this poem
I will have to face the forest
give birth to obsidian
and leave the odor of moss.
I UNDERSTAND THE LOVE OF DARK
the danger in living without sun
her voice
in the stone triggers some ancient
desire..some
knowledge
the earth captured
moss-odor
or promise of pomegranate
is the power her body has
over me..
under me the breath and sweat
of moss eating into us
my teeth in the fruit...
hardly stop to breathe
i devour the dark
in search of her warmth
find in the pool we create
reflections
i should have known were there..
this woman i am mating
is me
her flushed body
slips through my hands
pulsations subside in her
smile flows into mine
we watch each other for hours.
FEBRUARY, FATHER
passes
in the orange grove
pickers meditate
gaze into the sun.
the distance hums
a vegetation
to ancient forms
collapse of everything
echoes the bare leaves
as night sings in the moon
I throw stones to winter
fall in worship to tides
become thoughts you've created...
the soil as it mushrooms
claims the land for harvest
and our women
make their bodies warm
for seed
give birth to sons
who we conquer
with earth
the smell of spring.
VIEW 8 of 8 COMMENTS
vidnik:
Yes... I wrote this. These are some of the poems from the February series....
chika:
loved what you wrote!