Off you go, into the North
Leaving me here all wrapped in alone,
I see the tender wind a blowing
Guiding you on your way.
All around green leaves are turning,
At first in yellows at the edge,
Then before I know to check my season,
Fully entrapped in brown as vivacious earth below.
This makes me think of how you’ve taken
Over these delicate edges of my heart;
At first you were sweet wind blowing
On a sunny, summer afternoon.
Then you started to set my edges
To warmer shades of home,
Until at last, I fell, expanded,
Into this palm you call forever.
And all the while, I’ve always trusted
An unerring cycle of our earth;
North to South, East to West,
Forest trails from here to there,
And as I turn my inner eye
(Autumn, Winter, Spring, and Summer)
I realize no matter the colour of the sky
It’s nothing, unless you are the colour of my home.
Tag: brown
The Purr of Gaia (day 1672)
Dear George,
The letters from Salem finally arrived today. I had been preparing for them all week – harvesting a few varieties of toadstools in the forest around the area.
Bonhomie fills my heart this time of season. I wear my warm clothes and delight in an extra cup of coffee most days. Are you still exploring your art of the bean? I have started to use a scale to measure proportions for my perfect cup of coffee.
As I read through the hand written letters, the snow started falling here. Big large flakes that have started to stay on the ground, lazily floating there chaotically.
I love this time of year. The browns are so dominant, lacking most any signs of the lush green foliage of summer’s heat. It soothes the black heart inside of me, calling out to me slowly as I imagine the sweet embracing, icy fingers of Gaia as she slowly settles into fetal position – eyes flickering slowly – for a calm rest. Much like the feline.
I saved a feline from certain death two weeks ago. It had come pawing at my door after I fed it one lonely night. I had seen it fishing in garbage cans for luck earlier that week. We tracked down the owner who said it was left behind during a move half way across the country.
Can you imagine the absurdity of that? Moving half way across the country and leaving without your cat?
It’s a beautiful cat with the fullest of coats and a purr that shakes the icicles from sweet Gaia grip as she slowly settles into my black heart.
I look forward to hearing from you soon. The lovely sketch that accompanied your last letter was so enchanting. I’ve had it sitting on my windowsill since you sent it.
Much love,
Lizarious
Drift (day 1494)
A funny situation has left me struggling,
Self medicated anxiety turning yellow, brown and white.
Upside down and round and round,
There’s nothing left here now.
It used to be a lasting impression
Behind safety walls and rusty cars;
Tall grass means it’s summer.
I am a drifter,
Drifting whisper,
Into my drift I sweat.
Puppy’s Breath (day 1455)
Memory had the young lad locked into heartache
Said a long face into still waters, messy brown hair.
Even puppy’s breath flowers, scattered about un-special pebbles
That were delicately delivered by glacial giants in a spring long ago,
Couldn’t lick the apparitions floating about.
Mounting piles of she-loves-me-she-loves-me-not
Couldn’t dare stop to observe silent friends soaring high above,
Or recognize it wasn’t what was left without.
But the great deal of compromise left standing tall
Two men in full militia calling: go within.
Mid-Autumn (day 1247)
In mid-autumn I enjoy how sun flares,
And in it’s wildest most passionate moments
It doesn’t have the all consuming power
The mid-summer sun has.
A t-shirt with an easy breeze you’re not yearning for.
Humility; knowing that in a few short months
The green-green vibrancy will explode
With red-orange-brown
That brings out mom’s hand-made mittens
And warm cups of tea.
Brown Candy (day 1043)
Your brown candy side part pulls at my edges
Leaving my manicured innocence clenching;
Reasonable drip sensing dilated pupils.
Pull into my senses you heart beating faster
Music rolls onward like wheels on the road
And I watch you, young brazen child,
Waiting for a spill on isle two
My tall, naked, and empty cup sits lonely
Please push your digital devices
A little closer to the edge
I’d like to have more space please
Tables always wobbly, clean, but wobbly and full
Cold patrons wander in stomping off the dew drops
I observe the wind blowing the black and white parquet awning
Where I unplug and vacate my window seat
Fly Southward (day 878)
Audible melodies yell out to me
From browns and yellows and oranges
And decay coiling around the forest floor
Waltzing in a downward spiral
Escaping grasping tops of trees
Shedding for coming seasons
And Orchard grass spreading seedlings
About the popular field surrounding
Swept about by gusting winds
Tickling the noses of passing strangers
While squirrels burrow deeper
Birds fly southward
And sun sets earlier
Dead Leaves (day 847)
Strolls through the park now are filled with dead leaves
Dead leaves float down from shifting canopies
Deciduous trees slowly sway with mother earths soothing motion
Dead leaves blanket soiled paths laid through summer
A softening, deadening all sounds of scraping dirt
But shuffling along as I push forward
Dead leaves dance with discarded cones
Tossed away in haste during a squirrels preparation
Dead leaves share with me a full spectrum of browns
Reds, oranges, greens, purples, blacks
As they run the test of time separated from their lifeline
Dead leaves tell of turning seasons
Lazy summer indulging into autumns necessary storage
And clear nights turning into frosts morning
Dead leaves share with me the art of romance
Harmony in age
Holding hands with Mother Nature
As she guides the procession forward
Long Forgotten (day 749)
Will you still love me when my hands have burned to dust
Love is sadness that carries golden rays of sun towards dusk
Did sounds of heartache keep you awake at night
Blood oozing from hands that toiled for your fortunate future
Will you still love me when my hands have wrung themselves dry
Sitting here dancing with eyes around the moon tonight
Our dreams dressing up in black and white shoes
Placing our love into lust into locks of curly golden brown hair
Twirling ourselves round and round to the tune of trumpets in summers night air
Will you still love me when my hands have curled against time
Sheltering our eyes against the hours of sunlight
Carefully pulling apart leaves that shelter the garden
Shaking away caterpillars nibbling on precious shards of life
Will you still love me when my hands have burned to dust
When history remains and old friends have long forgotten
Will you still love me when my hands have burned to dust
When the story ends will there still be a thought
Will you still love me when my hands have burned to dust
In Spite (day 712)
In spite the growing dissent
Of fabricated lighting
Creeping in from out there, farther
Past the nightstand, painted in dad’s home project brown
Past the economy series paneled door
Past the last tenant’s floor mat hallway and
Beyond the door that almost shuts
With the backwards door bolt
In spite the chandelier
Atop the family portrait staircase
That’s powering the dollar store light bulbs
Blackness crawls in, dancing with the music
Suited to tame even the wildest of beasts