it is such a hallowed place
where my hunger is all the time
mixed-up in spirits
& soil
from which grass comes
so grand & green
to rise around
this rotting oak temple
Jerusalem beetles
will do everything
they ever do
inside of it
& on top of it
i will say a prayer
each time my arm comes down
may the universe take you home
it is the merging of iron and oxygen
which gives the weapon its age
&
which spatters my brow
dear bird
the hatchet remains
slightly sunken
in the temple roof
& stands there
all strange memories
& soft flesh
as the talon of an owl
yet it is my talon, see
&
i. it is a time
of big peace
the strangest children
are at play in the neo-prairie
where the second peoples
seeded a native grass
named after the first peoples
no acidic thunderhead
or noxious gale will dull
their small sick body’s scampering
through stretches of wild indigo
& culver’s root
all these fresh souls
have not been on Earth
long enough to know
the hell it has been through
& are most frantically in love
with orb weavers
& parsnip butterflies
these divine children
do not care to distinguish
pollen from pesticides
as if they were
the last honeybees
on Earth
ii. it is a time
of great remembering
all thes
an arc is an infinite number of straight lines by getbeneathmebird, literature
Literature
an arc is an infinite number of straight lines
say i
& you too
like mad
we wandered
wherever
to god
& asked it to appear
& so it soul-sprouted out of earth
or spilled all star-dusted from heaven
or emerged from a gang of goliath worms
& was so splendidly riddled with prisms
or not
we saw god in marvelous feathers
of flaking gold or seven robes
of mica or divinely impoverished
with a putrid buzzard’s beard
or whatever
we were destined
to perceive
our phantoms of truth be
so distinctly two of these
that they must eventually
become one
see:
down inside the kuk, kuk & skow
crackling out each green heron beak
is a different sort of time
or now than is
grown within the roh-r
what sea
how it is welling your eyes a wet mess
what tide
where urchins of the ocean will spill to howl their elegy
where mermaids will turn widows
once brine has swallowed whole their sailor babes
stewarding the land instead
is why i never set sail with you
but to lay in gardens, oh
a bed sheet rotten by the ultraviolet
and our laps full of stars
what black soil will pervert your knees there
where moonlight will mirror out from your teeth
to run fanatic toward cosmic space
after bathing in the space among us
where walking air pushes every dust
one of sun-dried butterflies
one of beaten rug with broom
one of hone
the owl is this
and there its fist
with feathers
such owl of bard,
preying poet bird
with a mask to grow
so nocturnal its face
its place a bloody beak
to speak its danger song
rat-eater, lover, wingspan
and talon-fingered claw
creature to hover around
all and each
wound of trees
easily to kill a rodent supper
if you will align yourself
into a star
i will
memories, making glorious mud by getbeneathmebird, literature
Literature
memories, making glorious mud
his memories are making a glorious mud
i.
it is a lumberjack's wife whose veins are budding twigs,
arms feeble as every dried branch to soak a shining star.
it is her who bares such troubled wrists for oven mitts,
so ardently delivers her hoggish assembly some hulking bird
whose body cavity is crammed tight to the sphincter
with a spiced bread. instinctively, she goes for the knife.
there is some raucous applause as she serrates
its oiled, peppered and flightless skin and on
into its succulent chest meat as every spectator
dreams of flying. her blade burrows farther in
and under enough to dredge up a pinkish marrow,
where
it is such a hallowed place
where my hunger is all the time
mixed-up in spirits
& soil
from which grass comes
so grand & green
to rise around
this rotting oak temple
Jerusalem beetles
will do everything
they ever do
inside of it
& on top of it
i will say a prayer
each time my arm comes down
may the universe take you home
it is the merging of iron and oxygen
which gives the weapon its age
&
which spatters my brow
dear bird
the hatchet remains
slightly sunken
in the temple roof
& stands there
all strange memories
& soft flesh
as the talon of an owl
yet it is my talon, see
&
i. it is a time
of big peace
the strangest children
are at play in the neo-prairie
where the second peoples
seeded a native grass
named after the first peoples
no acidic thunderhead
or noxious gale will dull
their small sick body’s scampering
through stretches of wild indigo
& culver’s root
all these fresh souls
have not been on Earth
long enough to know
the hell it has been through
& are most frantically in love
with orb weavers
& parsnip butterflies
these divine children
do not care to distinguish
pollen from pesticides
as if they were
the last honeybees
on Earth
ii. it is a time
of great remembering
all thes
an arc is an infinite number of straight lines by getbeneathmebird, literature
Literature
an arc is an infinite number of straight lines
say i
& you too
like mad
we wandered
wherever
to god
& asked it to appear
& so it soul-sprouted out of earth
or spilled all star-dusted from heaven
or emerged from a gang of goliath worms
& was so splendidly riddled with prisms
or not
we saw god in marvelous feathers
of flaking gold or seven robes
of mica or divinely impoverished
with a putrid buzzard’s beard
or whatever
we were destined
to perceive
our phantoms of truth be
so distinctly two of these
that they must eventually
become one
see:
down inside the kuk, kuk & skow
crackling out each green heron beak
is a different sort of time
or now than is
grown within the roh-r
what sea
how it is welling your eyes a wet mess
what tide
where urchins of the ocean will spill to howl their elegy
where mermaids will turn widows
once brine has swallowed whole their sailor babes
stewarding the land instead
is why i never set sail with you
but to lay in gardens, oh
a bed sheet rotten by the ultraviolet
and our laps full of stars
what black soil will pervert your knees there
where moonlight will mirror out from your teeth
to run fanatic toward cosmic space
after bathing in the space among us
where walking air pushes every dust
one of sun-dried butterflies
one of beaten rug with broom
one of hone
When you realize you are feeling
a moment fading into all the moments
that preceded it,
and you must try, impossibly, to describe
the big feeling,
a thing apart from your self,
or, perhaps,
as close to it as humanly possible:
like when looking through a microscope
and realizing that each magnification shows
we only know so much of anything,
The big feeling that is life's disappearing,
into the many echoes
of each moment, somehow touching
across the vast expanse,
the one that lead you here,
Where you stop to witness
the minute spectacle of time's expression;
the familiar creaking of wind against wood panels,
branches whipping in those gust
well, it is that time again. every two years since 2013, around september/october, i have mysteriously been inspired to complete and upload a poem here. while i have been writing a lot lately, unfortunately i have no new poem to share for this two-year cycle.
this may signify the end. but every end is a beginning.
and so begins dweller of the wood: https://www.dwellerofthewood.com
damn, this place is nostalgic for me. it always feel strange when i come back and look around a bit. i used to spend so much time here, and write poetry with a maddening fertility that will likely never happen again. but i do sink my teeth into it every now and then. these days i am mostly in the forest, and my art form is how to live in good relation to Earth, and it is dwelling on this land that gives me vision.
it seems that my poem 'a creation story' got a DD. i wasn't around, so all the worth that was thrown about is sort of dated, but that is okay. it is good to be appreciated. thank you for the recommendation NLY (https://www.deviantart.com/nly).
y'all be well.
i have a lot to be grateful for. gratitude is an expression that opens the heart, creating a more coherent resonance of one with its environment & the interactions within it. my visions of an existence for myself & those around me that is marvelously bound to the deepest sentiments & greatest wisdom of nature & being manifest more all the time. i see the patterns & they still astound me.
in other news i posted a poem here for the first time in 5 years(?) about 5 months ago. i am not sure what the bar of quality is around here these days, but it got a DD. i remember that used to be an honor of sorts in the literature commu
i am also just realizing that i am one month shy of 2 years since i have completed a poem. i write one about every two years. i am not sure i got it in me this time around. but now i feel the pressure!