Forests of Green Coniferous Trees
Forests of evergreen conifers
(Fir, spruce, cedar, pine, and hemlock trees)
Keep their colour throughout the seasons
And don’t shed foliage in autumn.
Rooted in soil and basking in sunlight,
They grow on hillsides and in valleys,
Encircling rock outcrops, swamps, and leas,
And near rivers and lakes, and on islands.
These hearty trees endure nature’s throes
Of cold, harsh, winters to warm spring thaws,
Thriving in summer and fall to help provide
A habitat for the forest dwellers.
Conifer pollen and seed cones pollinate,
And fertilized seeds disperse on windy days
—Or get stashed away by squirrels and birds—
And grow into stately coniferous trees.
Before you came
I spoke through rivers
and trees, the flat plains
spilling distance out to where
the world was a mirage
and time shimmered dreamlike
plunging downwards
into a vast inner sea.
Fish swam where now rocky
outcrops rise above the red earth
and exotic lifeforms floated
silently through a celestial dark.
All was an ocean of dream,
creations womb where earth,
sky and water were one
before being born
and pulled apart.
There is something in us
that imbues landscapes
with substance or senses
what is there hidden beneath
the camouflage of form.
It finds voice in myth
and survives in the shadows
of the imagination,
birthplace of our being.
It enters this world
through ancient fissures,
openings in the mind,
sacred places and in the crevices
weathered in lava outcrops
spewed out of a volcano
more than six million years ago
halfway between Melbourne
and Bendigo.
Hanging Rock rises up
out the plain like a cathedral
but houses no familiar god.
Here, something primal
breathes out of the lava pores
and sleeps within.
In the mirror of our smug certainties,
it is never seen
but festers in a fear
that we may awaken it
from its ancient dream.
Note.
Hanging Rock features as the main backdrop
in Peter Weir's haunting film,
‘Picnic At Hanging Rock’. Would suggest
a viewing of the trailer on YouTube to get
a sense of how this rather strange rock
formation sets off an interference pattern
on the imagination.
The path is thin, the land high,
tree lines and rocky outcrops
lean into each other.
My dog bounces away,
she's found some dappled deer; spooked
they run across my trace.
It’s another Smoky Mountain moment,
a dance-stepping poem
framed by shafts of sunlight.
A dog, and a bunch of white tails,
their softly pixelated images,
filtering across my eyed,
I sense an angel looking over my shoulder
she also is holding a camera.
Large boulders piled high
stretch out into the bay
and form a breakwater
that shields the beach
from high waves
and heavy swells rolling in
from southerly gales.
I have stood there
at the end when the sea
was hurling its rage
and all fury exploded
like bomb bursts of watery
shrapnel into the air.
I have seen such power
subside and tamed
to compliant licks
around the feet of rocks.
More than forty years ago
on a deep breath
I snorkeled down its ledges
into the rock strewn and weedy
world that lay at its base,
places where stingrays slept
and where fish glided
effortlessly along crevices
and over sponge
covered outcrops.
I cradled a fragile seahorse
in my trembling hands.
I no longer have
the confidence to rock hop
its length to the end
but stand where it butts
the land, commanding memory
to whip up a wind
and set wave upon wave
to awaken a soul
from its sleep
and make it feel
the sting of a southerly gale,
wet, cold and wonderful,
once again.
Carpet patterns
and the swirlings of grain
in wooden floors were maps
to me of exotic worlds,
portal holes for a child
to enter and explore
places edged on the
furthest reaches
of the fabulous.
Even today, as an old man,
I saw a landscape
in miniature when morning sunlight
came through the window
and crept across
the room, illuminating a map
in the knots and welts of grain
rolled out on the pinewood floor.
I found myself off on tour
swept into the detail
along its ravines
and imagined trails,
into its wild inland,
the unfenced territories whose
vast subterranean caves
well far below what
can be seen, the dank
dormitories of dream.
And then,
above the underworld,
dry plains paused
by rocky outcrops
of doubt, the long silences
that stretch for miles
and curl up in corners
when evening falls.
The star pitted dark hung
with mystery, morse
for the mystic,
until a sober perspective
shrank the sublime
back into a smaller space
to fit ordinary sight
and became
the comforting familiarity
of a well trodden
wooden floor, aged, uneven,
basking in the morning's
honeyed light.
Overwhelmed by dire thirst
Oppressed without water
Over the next sand dune
Offered in a vision
Optical illusions
Outcrops of tall date palms
Oasis; a mirage
I watch white waves crashing upon the shore
onto rocky outcrops of solid stone
the view from this ledge lets my eyes explore
and taste the sea from winds seeming to moan
I see ships sail on the horizon's line
slowly they move to a time they measure
when winds are captured by the sail's design
appears they're sailing at their leisure
behind me lay a meadow filled with brush
their flowers attract butterflies and bees
I see woodland deer whose coats are now lush
they hide in shadows beneath limbs of trees
I'll end this day in a soft twilight dream
and watch the red sunset's glorious gleam
Between seedlings
of jasmines,
daisies,
my violets
orchestra of a thousand
flowers touch
nature...
elegant orchids
dance in the afternoons
of life, ferns
light greens greet
the newly arrived flowers.
large hands
tiny ones
Caring, and
delicate fingers
handling...
myriad of little plants
jewelry...
My feelings
in between these
flowers omens
of happiness
i sense us
a thousand odors...
I do the pruning
of my mistakes
and at that time,
my soul
renewed dresses,
it's love
outcrops...!
I surfed upon the silver tides,
a moss skin vortex cross point
to my quest but no one knew.
I roamed the moonstone forest with my inner light as map but no one spotted me except an antsy kamikaze squirrel.
I mined the opal rocks while combing
crystal feldspar outcrops for some bounty.
I sang my hymn to Mother Earth, the source of spectral light and nature’s milk to all us siblings and
the world stood up
And noticed.
Found its voice!
Despite the deluge of a thousand siren earthquakes,
that suddenly encroach on seismic venture.
Lonely I reside inside a metropolis of tents,
not too far from an anthill of insignificance,
It’s little occupants take no notice of me
and why should they, for I’m insipid waste,
Growing weary and paranoid I prod the
anthill with a stick, seeking some attention,
A few ants come out to check, turn around and go back in,
it’s just that scruffy dumb kid again, ignore him
I walk away deflated and depressed at
my inability to interact, and rouse them into action,
Fruitlessly probing at inanimate outcrops,
just fills me with more inadequacy,
Killing time killing the day
nowhere to go nowhere to play,
But wait hold on! things are looking up, I’ve been
given a mask, now the ants won’t recognize me,
I can’t wait to play with them tomorrow
A child in UNHCR camp, somewhere in the
middle of anywhere, that’ll take him
Human Rights Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
01/12/21
Starry Night
A bluing sky
Seascape
Aloft
Squalls
Adrift
Currents flowing
Starfish swirls
Stirs heaven
Midst a dark purge
Tamed voices
Outcrops a town
Pellucid
Envision
A
Work of art
Goes
Sprawling
2020 March 04
The mountains rose in its climb
tall and dangerous outcrops created over time
the images imagined of earth and weather unrefined
and hovering along the cliff's ledge
clung the vision of dismantled countenance and its edge.
A soul longing for solutions
easily ignorant, disfigured by earth's pollution
where cloud and sun and sky dared ask why
the laughter and the tears must be cried
in the farce of tragedy and comedy demise.
There aching with regret
came visions of the circus stretched
when elephants, tigers, and bears
played freely without a care
and in the background stood the clowns falling down.
The smile to tears once could make all of mankind laugh
but here at the precipice lay unchanged history cast
the clown, a trickster, the silent harlequin of the past
edges cautiously along the extending precipice
of the earth disappearing into the dark abyss.
for Kai Michael Neumann's contest
Clown at the Abyss
3/1/2020
Our misty eyes were destined for each other,
when at last we met at crossroads by the brook,
where voices in the sky did gently guide us,
up enchanting pathways known to but a few,
passed the prickly rose bush shepherds on each side of us,
the barren plains worn out by trampling hoofs,
over granite outcrops solemn crystal rubicon,
toward an ever arching slope that slowly rises above time and earthly longing,
to that peak beyond the sky where lovers dwell.
BOUGAINVILLEA CITY
The city that enjoyed the floral name
Is now a transformed spectre of its past
A semi-graced decline has changed its mien
Like comely lady reaching certain age
But still today the Bougainvillea blooms
'Bougainvillea City' blossoms would abound
In graceful streets of affluence and pride
Bank halls baroque attested wealth enjoyed
But last days of boom brought vanity and fall
Yet still today the Bougainvillea blooms
Venal rulers chose antiquity disdain
Deflowered many an elegant urban scene
Tasteless vulgar outcrops broke the symmetry
Yet there remains a fading lustre at its heart
And still today the Bougainvillea blooms
With graceful flaming blossoms that conceal
Sharp prickles that will pierce unwary skin
To match the scarlet petals that abound
On streets and gardens riverside and verge
Yes still today the Bougainvillea blooms
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