Picking apart the pieces of a pinecone
Digging with fingertips sore from the pain
From the sharp edges of a hardened core
The consistent pulling apart to pry open
The heavy wooden doors of the heart
Individually plucking the pieces like the strings of a harp
Angels screaming when the pluck turns to a pull
Like a sharp withdrawal of breath
That doesn’t belong in your lungs
This poison of decay
Not the decay of fall
Like the slowly drifting leaves that cascade
From heights unattainable by man
That can only be felt by the swift sigh of the wind
Between your grasping fingertips
Like the grasping fingers of your love
That slips away because you weren’t strong enough
To hold on to them as they begged with teary eyes
Looking up at you from the great descent
And you let them go, knowing you couldn’t bear the weight
Of both of you and the love that was creating a canopy
Over your heads and compressing your hearts
And lungs until even the soft scent of fall could not revive you
On this cold winter day
As the last of the fall leaves are being swept away down the stream
Where you once cast little paper boats
Wondering as you held hands where they would land
Hoping for fantasy but knowing even as your fingers unwove
That they would end caught in the dam of nature
Of things never quite meant to be
But it wasn’t enough to make you say no
Even as you plucked the ribs of a pinecone
Asking whether she loved you or not
Like petals of a daisy that have atrophied and petrified
Just as the bitterness of the question has cemented in your heart
Like a cancer hardening you from the inside out
Until you are as purely petrified
As the dissected limbs of lumber left for dead
Each band stands out, creating a carousel of time
But the Braille of years gone by has become illegible
Leaving you to remember the lost sound of symphonies
Music notes echoing into starless nights
Caught in cashmere skies cascading with rain
Where only the earthy smell of Petrichor remains
And the scattered scales of the barren pinecone
Left in the fall foliage like spent shells of artillery
Even these bullets cannot stop the pain in you
As you abandon the stripped pinecone
And begin to pull apart the sharp edges of yourself
To find the hardened core within
Hollow it out until it is empty
And start over again
Posts Tagged ‘trees’
Pinecone Pieces
Sunday, February 24th, 2013Wind Mother
Thursday, December 1st, 2011The wind gently rolls through the trees
Like a mothers soft whisper in her infants ear
Telling her of things not yet unfurled
But waiting on the distant horizon
Like a run away balloon
Swept into the abyss
that is not cold, dark or lonely
but quiet and filled with the warmth
of a contented heart that beats
not because it has to but because it wants to
Dancing in pirouettes on the shoulders of the leaves
Rattling the bones the edifice of this green breeze
Until just one person stops to watch and listen
To the secrets swept up by this whirlwind
As the bones are rolled to reveal the truth that lies
In the scattered remains, a world foretold
But not yet cemented
The wind is shifting in this dire breath
Switching back from foot to foot
A ballerina bowing and swaying
With the whispering wind
Dancing not because someone is watching
But to release the rhythm bounding in her mind
Clarity is the remnants of the words left behind
As your hair is tussled and your clothing left displaced
A clairvoyance unachieved until this moment
All you needed was the gentle prompting of the wind
Like a mother letting her child go into the dark, cold, lonely world
That isn’t quite so lonely
And isn’t quite so cold
yes there is a darkness
But your child will find the way
Like a blind woman they will be guided
By the caresses of the wind
When all else is darkened
There will be your hand
Black Bird
Thursday, June 24th, 2010
In a dark forest of old oak trees, where no human would enter there was a desperate fluttering of wings and the movement of tangled branches. A baby bird struggled to free itself from the gnarled grip of the trees limbs. It had fallen in the night from its nest and hung in the balance of life and death. Caught by the hands of an old oak tree. It hadn’t yet learned to fly so it was doomed to fall or be set free. Learn to fly fast or die trying.
A girl watched from a short distance away, the bird’s futile attempt to be freed. She knew the forest was a place forbidden and had been told by her elders it was a cursed and evil place. But still she picked herself up from her little stone perch and walked towards the old gnarled tree. She looked up at the bird and the bird looked down on her.
“You are going to fall baby bird and probably die. I want to save you but I don’t know how. If you could lend me your wings, maybe I could use them to save you from that tree.”
“Little girl little girl,” the poor baby bird cried, “please help me, I am too young to die. I will give you my wings, but you will have to learn to fly. I cannot teach you because I too am just a child. If I give you my wings, you could fly up and save me. You have hands that are gentle and could easily remove me from the tangled fingers that embrace me.”
So the little bird lent the girl its wings so the girl could fly and save the birds life. “You have to find my mother to teach you to fly, she said I was not ready yet. But it can’t hurt for you to try. She lives in the very top of the tree, alone in a nest made of black leaves. Look for the black leaves and her dark blue eyes, and then you will know it is my mother. She will teach you how to survive with my wings. Be careful girl, now you have my wings and my life. The trees are a dangerous place for a little girl to be. The birds can be jealous because they cannot leave the trees. You are of the children of the ground and many will try to be like you. Be wary of those with strange colored eyes for they will try to deceive you like they deceived me. They said I could fly but they tricked me, it is how I ended up stuck in this tree. Go fast now because I grow tired and weak. My little fragile heart is dying slowly.”
The little girl climbed up into the great old tree. Winding her way through branches of that twisted oak tree. The farther she went, the darker it got and soon she knew she would never be able to see the black leaves because everything was dark, not just the leaves. She found herself lost with no help in sight. With twigs in her hair and scratches on her hands she curled herself up and began to cry. It shuttered the leaves and brought about the cold wind. The little girl sobbed and didn’t know how to stop.
“What is a little girl like you doing up here where only the birds and leaves belong?”
The girl picked up her head and found a dark bird. It stood there before her with feathers black as coal and eyes that had a gold shine. “What brings you here child from the ground into the world of the children from the sky.”
“I am looking for a mother who has lost her child. A bird who lives in a nest of black leaves. I found the baby bird and she asked me for help. So she gave me her wings to go get some help. Are you a mommy who lives in a black nest?”
“Why yes dear child, and I have lost my baby bird. I guess that you need me to teach you how to use your wings, so you can save my baby child.”
“Yes, that is exactly why I am here. Teach me mother black bird to fly amidst the trees, to navigate the gnarled ways of the old oak tree so I can save the baby bird and bring it back to you safely. I just have one question to ask, why don’t you go save your baby yourself?”
“I can’t you see for I hurt my own wing. For now I am like you. All I can do is sing. I am bound to the ground and cannot fly to save my child’s life.”
So the little girls training began. The black bird taught her to fly so she could save the baby bird. One thing remained that bothered the little girl still. Something the baby bird had said but she couldn’t remember it now.
Now the little girl with twigs in hr hair had learned the techniques and the skill but had not flown, not quite yet. The bird with the golden eyes sat on the branch next to her and said. “It is time now for you to fly. I have given you my knowledge now it is up to you to fly. “
Something didn’t feel right though to the little girl, maybe it was the gleam in the black birds golden eyes. “ Are you sure I am ready, I feel I have just begun to learn.”
“Oh yes dear child, and I am sure your time is short to save the baby bird. Every minute you wait, is one heart beat less of its fluttering heart.”
So the little girl knew she would have to move fast to save the baby’s life. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes. She opened her wings and leaned off the branch. But then she was falling, falling way too fast. The limbs reaching out to claw her as she fell down amongst the trees. Tearing at her and hurting her as she tried to fly. She beat her wings but they were just too weak. Then she remembered the warning from the baby bird, the birds were jealous and would try to trick her. The mother had blue eyes, not gold. She knew she was deceived and like the little bird before her was doomed to fall and die. The little girl tried to let out a scream but it was too late.
The black bird with golden eyes lazily drifted down in spirals from the top of the trees. Singing a quiet song of sweet victory. The bird landed on the little girls back as she lay motionless on the ground. It picked out a few twigs and walked along her back.
“Now I have a body to use so I can become a child of the ground, no more bound by the twisted branches of the cursed oak tree. Free I will be, free at last.”
So the deceitful bird with golden eyes took the little girls body and made it her own. To live, breath, and die as a human would. The only remnants of the birds old past, was a tattoo of a pair of black wings that no one could see.
The baby bird was left to die, also tricked by the evil black bird, without wings or a chance to fight. It’s poor little heart just stopped beating one day. Two birds with one stone fell by the black birds hand. Leaving the old oak tree a few people emptier. With nothing left but the twisted branches of that gnarled old tree reaching out, beckoning to newcomers to enter into the forest where no child of the ground ever leaves.
Posted in Photos, Stories |
Yellowstone: The Trees
Wednesday, March 10th, 2010
When I was in Yellowstone, I saw some of the most beautiful scenery in my whole life. Valleys of snow and brush, trees lit by fading sunlight, and the bluest sky you will ever know. Montana is called big sky country for a reason (yes I know Yellowstone is Wyoming but we stayed in Montana). This tree was so pretty even though it was barren, the sunset hit it in a beautiful light making something dead look beautiful beyond words. I wish this photo could have captured it better but here it is anyway.
This is a grove of trees we camped out near when we were waiting to see the river otters. It was so cool and a bunch of the trees had been knocked over by beavers or almost gnawed down. Very interesting.
Fall Colors
Wednesday, October 21st, 2009
Fall is finally here, this is my favorite season by far. I just wish that in California there were more trees that changed colors.
The Trees and The Leaves
Sunday, September 20th, 2009The leaves are falling
Gone in a blur
But who will remember
The fallen leaves
Each color unique
As they drift away
Forever forgotten
Gone in the breeze
The trees protectors
Forgotten, when they fall
Never to be remembered
For who they really are
When they have fallen
They freeze in the snow
Forsaken and discarded
Like an old broken toy
The trees stand bare
Believing they can stand
Forgetting the leaves
And their role in its life
Winter pushes forward
The tree cannot stand
But the leaves all fallen
Can never be returned
As the snow melts
The tree must see
Its horrible mistake
The fallen leaves lay dead
Buried by snow
Now the tree stands bitter and alone
So it grows more leaves
To replace those loyal to it
So easily forgetting its treason
But as years pass by
And seasons replay
Over and over
The tree repeats its mistake
Never learning its lesson
Cursed forever to relive its life
The leave’s revenge
For they never fall alone
Because inside they know
Each fall that passes
Has its winter in turn
Here is a very generic poem of mine, I dislike it but I have nothing else to put up currently. This is why I think classes don’t make writers… they create canned poetry. Here is some good evidence of the fact.