Ghosts in the Trees, #212

Find one woman
and place her hands
within your hands
to kiss always

Find one woman
and place her hands
within your hands
and lift her

Find one woman
and place her hands
over your heart
share the rhythm

Find one woman
and promise her
to never stray
and cross your heart

Find one woman
and promise her
within your hands
to share rhythm

Take this poor man
to kiss always
over your heart
and never stray

Take this poor man
to kiss always
over your heart
and embrace him

Take this poor man
to kiss always
as if no time
passes you by

Take this poor man
and rescue him
from his own mind
before he strays

Take this poor man
and rescue him
as if no time
can embrace him

This tender thunder
between a couple
what starts as hatred
and ends as hatred

This tender thunder
has a warm middle
center of tension
that rises like bread

This tender thunder
produces a reign
as great as monarchs
can hope to maintain

This tender thunder
vibrates to the edge
rattling the house
and down to the toes

This tender thunder
and vibrant lightning
roll across a life
leaving trees behind

The roots we unearth
go deeper than thought
running underneath
the haunted forest

The roots we unearth
carry the markings
of our ancestors
long dead in the ground

The roots we unearth
suggest a longing
of two lost lovers
who reach tree to tree

The roots we unearth
show signs of fatigue
like they’ve been walked on
time and time again

The roots we unearth
to whisper stories
we should either know
or simply let die

In another lifetime
we could have been allies,
together we nearly
had guts to dominate

In another lifetime
we really might have tried
to make something happen
in the mix-up of us

In another lifetime
the wonder and thunder
of our love might have breathed
a sigh of contentment

In another lifetime
fear I experience
when thinking of calling
dissipates into mist

In another lifetime
the babies who suckle
from your bosoms would have
shared a body with me

Coming over the hill
I see the invasion
my own body falling
to the warrior’s sword

Coming over the hill
a vixen’s high heels
at the base of long legs
on the way to the store

Coming over the hill
cracking like an egg shell
the yoke of the morning
whites of the humid air

Coming over the hill
with a cake and candles
greeting me like a kin
grey hair and father time

Coming over the hill
the rumbling masses
hoping for a serving
of the rich man’s meal

If you can find a rhythm
in the pattern of dreaming
dwell for a moment in sleep
let the visions wash over

If you can find a rhythm
early on in the morning
and ride it through the evening
off into the setting sun

If you can find a rhythm
in the absence of a kiss
and the many devices
we spend our hard earned cash on

If you can find a rhythm
in the music you bathe in
and in rocking back-and-forth
at the battle of the bands

If you can find a rhythm
then jump up on the wave son
and let the other follow
or tumble by the wayside

Her body like a temple
altar to the goddesses
I kneel before to pray
bury my face and tongue in

Her body like a temple
built first by the townspeople
who settled here in my heart
and then built malls and houses

Her body like a temple
core of civilization
constructed on the remains
of many long lost cultures

Her body like a temple
whose doors are always open
in whose pews we’re worshiping
where sinners come to be saved

Her body like a temple
of bread and holy water
wine and sacrament body
and blood of the Son of God

Prone at the sole of the master
subservient to the doctrine
we keep as the basis for breath
the prostration we do each day

Prone at the sole of the master
my soul sharpened to a mirror
in hopes of summoning the sun
to come and reflect off of it

Prone at the sole of the master
missing the home I abandoned
the automobiles and bills
and all the meaningless banter

Prone at the sole of the master
my head bowed in embarrassment
at the agony I have caused
and the people disappointed

Prone at the sole of the master
prone to make mistakes of students
to move too fast down easy paths
and miss the wisdom of breathing

I wake before you this morning
and marvel at your chest rising
the fiddle of arms and blankets
and back muscles against mattress

I wake before you this morning
and hear that you are still dreaming
having another not good night
an argument under your breath

I wake before you this morning
to smell the trash and the forest
hoping to throw out the garbage
and bury the ghosts of the trees

I wake before you this morning
to the taste of the stale air
we choose to sustain ourselves on
the thick tongue that requires drink

I wake before you this morning
to the feather touch of blankets
but not the supple graze of skin
because in dreams we are separate

For whatever quest you choose to take
I can only suggest you carry
a blanket a pen and shoelace
so you can keep warm in the cool night

For whatever quest you choose to take
whether it be of the body or mind
carry along side all your stories
jot down the ideas that pass you by

For whatever quest you choose to take
let the anger subside and love
rise like the face of a fine woman
in the morning like the rising sun

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Author:

A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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