The Tree That Would be a Bridge

A tale of self-sacrifice.

Once upon a time, there lived a tree.

This tree grew up like any other tree.

Her roots planted firmly into the ground,

She grew up tall and she grew up right,

And took in each day and absorbed all its light,

Casting shadows, where her fruit fell,

To feed the creatures at night.

But this tree was special,

She saw things a bit differently,

Like you and me, this tree could see,

And she knew an important thing.

She wasn’t the only tree in the world,

There were others, so many others.

She was happy for the few that surrounded her,

Even though they were very different from her.

But so many were on the other side of the creek,

And many, she saw, looked just like her.

“Other trees like me,” she thought,

Stretching her branches wide.

When she noticed across the river,

On the other side, those other trees who looked..

Like her, did the same.

It took some time, trees are very slow,

And very patient, but she raised her branches,

Stretching them tall, and to her amazement,

So did they all.

This repeated for days until finally,

She thought, “I must meet them.”

And began an arduous plot,

She would stretch her branches every day,

Reaching, slowly but surely, to meet them.

Season after season passed, as bit by bit,

She made her way across the creek.

Until suddenly, she felt a sharp pain in her trunk,

And everything went dark.

Other, strange looking trees came,

With their axes and saws,

Uprooting the tree, cut without flaw.

She was aware of it all, aware the whole time.

And there really isn’t an appropriate rhyme,

To convey the horror of this crime.

But, the tree thought,

As she was reshaped into a bridge,

And stretched across the creek,

To help others live,

“There are worse fates for a tree,

than being a bridge.”

And in the fall, when the fruits and leaves,

Of the other trees like her covered her completely,

Like a warm blanket, she felt her wish came true.

And the bridge lived happily ever after.

As for those other strange trees that moved over her, they lived less happily, but the bridge was happy to help them move across the creek, as she had so desperately wanted.

Showmanship

You should make amends with you.

You should be running a real stage,

Oh! What a show you’d put on!

Wrapping your audiences in laughter,

You’d dazzle them with your wit,

Clever timing & pilferous bag of tricks

But instead you’re down here again

Drinking in this musicless pit,

Conducting the invisible orchestra;

Bottle in one hand, baton in the other

Casting out the symphony from your head,

Performing for an ideal audience of birds,

Rhythmic wings beating applause

Rowling in with every ring of the bell–

Like, Like, Like, Retweet & Repeat

On and on and on it goes,

Feeding ego tweet after tweet.

Inch after inch for a narcissist..

You know him better me,

“Give him one, he’ll take a mile,”

You always used to say, until

You did– Our inch was our story

Your mile is your grift, so take it;

Walk away from us and think–

Next time he comes along ask,

“Should I really drink? Should I take in

Division and vomit it without vision?

Or give frisson without derision

To everyone I see in the mirror?”

Imagine if you stop, climb out the pit,

And play truth again, a grift against grift:

Where you show him his mile,

And where he can go with it.

Dirty Laundry

It never stops piling up.

Used to be

I hated poetry,

Prose just spoke to the child in me,

Who always colored inside the lines;

Too afraid of what could happen outside,

With no structure, only patterns of lines

Where we put up boundaries like hung laundry,

Clipped to the line, dripping with regret;

Praying in waiting for time and sunshine

To dry up the past and erase stains

From memories in traumatized minds,

Dragged through the mud, shoved into boxes,

Left to mold and mildew on damp floors

Soaked in breath-stealing spore structures

Molded, bloody, but concealing truth

We longed to tell, but kept hidden, breathless,

Stifled in closets, where we always returned,

Borders for borders; safe, clean;

Kept inside while we waited, and grew,

Shedding clothes like we shed skins–

Outgrowing ourselves, and learning

How to conceal ourselves in color

And care more for it than ourselves,

Who we buried beneath posed prose

Hiding shallow breath in hollow structure,

Desperate to hang outside & breathe.

Tree in Me

For all the strangers who know me better than me.

I am not your enemy,

I just really want to be;

‘Cause what you do to me

With your energy’s taking all my empathy

Away from me; I’m tired of sympathy,

Tired of living here quite so judgmentally,

Immobile— In shadows of monoliths—

Undermined by doubts & absolute certainty

Biding time on burning grounds, yearning

To grow like a tree in toxicity, processing life to be,

From recycled trash left on my roots,

Passed by bodies unknowing, uncaring,

Who really say more about themselves

In the garbage they leave about trees

Than any of us, who stand and bear fruit;

Truth in spite of spite, in love in spite of hate,

Even as lies and life threaten to cut us down.

Astral Projection – Spoken Word

Here’s recording(s) of “Astral Projection,” one of my most recent poems.

This came out very weird, but I like it.

There are multiple ways to read some of these lines, and some layers are reading it one way, others are reading it another.

Hope you enjoy!

YouTube Version:

Soundcloud Version:

Why do we look to the stars,

When we could look to ourselves,

For answers unringed from our furtive bells?

Externally valid in our navigating–

Our selves stay at home, hidden awaiting,

Bodies in spaces where no one is screaming,

We cling to Orion’s belt, foiled and seething;

Desperate, we seek our forsaken divine,

Lost to the ebb and flowing of time.

Until at last we fall from this grace,

Embalmed with dirt masking a face–

Self-service eroded by forward procedure,

We’ll keep looking on, when no one is here;

Burnt away in life’s fortune and flames,

Wandering hollow with forgotten names,

We’ll look to the stars reflected in the mere,

Without ever knowing we’ve always been there.


Buck

A tale of misconception.

Buck was a giant.

Like most giants, he was angry for no real reason.

Well, he thought it was real. It was real to him, you might say.

Buck was so big that he couldn’t hear the little people in the nearby village. Buck didn’t know that the people in that village were afraid of him and afraid of the trolls who lived under their bridges. And how could those little people understand the pains of a giant like Buck?

Every night, the trolls would come out from under their bridge and go in two directions:

One group would go into the village and harass the people there, the other would go up to Buck’s cave to taunt him and steal his goods.

Buck was so big that he couldn’t tell the difference between the people in the village and the trolls when he saw the trolls fleeing back to their bridges.

One day, as he spotted them fleeing, Buck grabbed the biggest rock he could find and hurled it at the village. He stomped, kicked, and smashed his way through its walls shouting, “Where’s my goods?!” in a language the people couldn’t understand.

Terrified, they screamed as Buck picked up a screaming child and hurled her across the countryside.

Buck smashed the whole village that day. It was obliterated, nothing left but dust, stains, and splinters.

But, he never found his goods. He never checked under the bridges.

And the trolls lived happily ever-after.

Predictive Text

We don’t choose our beliefs, but we’ll choose yours for you.

Who’s who? We don’t know,

Fragments of disinformation

Anonymous, coercive, flow

Outbound to digital waters

Brought here from below

Where men cry, “lonliness”

And women cry to be lone

As bad mutations cross generations

While nobody puts down phones..

When forgotten gods speak–

Predictive text proclaims all:

We don’t know, we don’t know,

We don’t know,

We don’t know each other,

We don’t know ourselves,

We don’t know our failures,

We don’t know our cells,

We don’t know what we mean,

Or why we feel like we do,

We don’t choose our beliefs,

But we’ll choose yours for you

Someone

What the caterpillar calls the end of the world the master calls a butterfly.

We are all Dysphoria

Trapped together alone

Forever in atonement

For what we only know

They say my body is me

Searching for a soul

Lost on the highways

Plowing through our homes

At once, we are ancients

Of tales untold before

Greatness unbecoming

For one such a bore;

With selves who’re not

And selves whoever are

Afraid to be becoming

Hopelessly bound to bars;

Imprisoned by reality

With billions of dying selves,

Locked in loops eternally,

Just bodies shedding cells

As cages of emotion

Hold on to every one

In lost minds wondering,

Who could Euphoria become?

No One

A helpful and compassionate poem.

Erase me, baby..

I need to be gone,

Define me out of here

Don’t let it take long

Say it never happened

Break me before it’s real

Shove it down my throat

You can take it from here..

Project yourself into me

Take what you know is yours

Every word that describes me

Those are words you need more;

Control is all your’s, daddy..

We all know what it’s like too

When you lose it, don’t worry,

No one will be here for you.

Astral Projection

“Youth without youth, born without time, youth without youth, can you read my mind?”

Why do we look to the stars,

When we could look to ourselves,

For answers unringed from our furtive bells?

Externally valid in our navigating–

Our selves stay at home, hidden awaiting,

Bodies in spaces where no one is screaming,

We cling to Orion’s belt, foiled and seething;

Desperate, we seek our forsaken divine,

Lost to the ebb and flowing of time.

Until at last we fall from this grace,

Embalmed with dirt masking a face–

Self-service eroded by forward procedure,

We’ll keep looking on, when no one is here;

Burnt away in life’s fortune and flames,

Wandering hollow with forgotten names,

We’ll look to the stars reflected in the mere,

Without ever knowing we’ve always been there.

Realitea

“..where stars make dreams, and dreams make stars.”

Nothing’s harder to fix

Than broken people,

Fallen from beginnings yearning–

Never together in the first place,

But always fools will be cunning

As others are shamed for our shortcomings

And those awful, awe filled memories

Drunken in certain flaw filled teas;

But what do we do without

Maps to our properties?

When trauma roots itself in

How do we repair the lonely

One never known beyond

“Me, me, me,” in spite of you

And “You, you, you” in spite of you

We pour our hearts out in spite of you

As we project our spite of ourselves

Look up there on the silver screen

Touched with your light as it plays the scene

Of failures fixed on fermented fruits

Wrapped in lies we can’t stop growing

With every ticket sold at the booth.