At once I thundered through the forest
Chapter to my name
Dust had neither settled nor swept
Alarm for every cocoon
Axe in one hand, saw the other
Limbs begone, forever cleared
Forest to grow strong and free
And let live as can live
Diversity amidst the settlers
Forgive the intrusion
I am to be human.
Tag: cocoon
Nightly (day 2830)
You sing for me nightly
With your silent tune
Playing on repeat;
My fullest moon.
What sways in the ocean
And lets me cocoon?
What holds out
Your hand for touch?
What holds you to me?
What makes you so shine bright,
Valuably true?
For in you I see me
As I desire to be,
No matter the hardship
Sailing across seas.
And in you I see what
Makes warm ocean air.
But your song after dark sets
Holds me so dear,
Do you hear me responding
Do you hear me so near?
Dusk (day 2158)
This is the spark that sets seed
A jubilant setting free
A sunset beyond every sea
With a new day the grain that grows.
And if each sign these clouds do point
Expose a pasture fit for rose
Should a foot that heals the earth
Lay thin dust that bitter burns?
Nay, each dusk a seat be found
To hold each glass, a little worn
A ritual many should be warmed
At last, sweet moon, a gray cocoon.
Inevitable Spring (day 2099)
My inevitable spring
Slopes Eastward from here
Awakened by long train stops
Eclipsing my moon
Which cannot bare to withhold
Another day without you
But without silent winter
I cannot let go of autumn
So carefully pruned
As knitters of cocoons
Lay under aurora borealis
To watch Icarus
Climb as a nighthawk
Like my midnight winter moon
Alone again
Lost in a scape of twinkling
And gravitas bound.
White Blues (day 1921)
It was late, early as the birds wake. The sun making it’s trajectory project through blind slits that tickled my nose and ruffled pure white sheets that smelled of everything I had ever dreamed. I wished I had worn my own button up so she could wear it, cotton thoughts underneath the purest thoughts I could believe, her ear lobe dangerously close to my sanity I buried deep into the sleepy eyes she wiped away.
She was business and I was coffee on Sunday morning. Her ancient wooden bowls with carved and stained mosaics sat on bare shelves between three curiously new vinyl records I had yet to identify or spin, so my bare feet sadly ripped spaces beside this cocoon to leave invisible heat scores on a treasure hunt around pieces of clothing that each had still alive memories attached, each a little puddle of our reserve that began as we stepped towards our island.
As the needle scratched dangerously towards the first note, it was the crackling that trumped even her cigarette into casual, I spotted her pinstripe skirt, now draped across the wicker chair underneath a baby blue Fender Telecaster she had plugged into a tiny hand held amplifier to show me what she knew of blues.
I propped myself up with her pillow and through the patio window I saw she was looking at me.
The Morning (day 415)
The morning fights into my eyes
Prying me from the warm cocoon
Of the flannel mother
And soaks me to my bone
Quickly cleaning
The soggy drops
Of left over residue
From the sleeping fairies
But as I stretch out the cobwebs
And look into the full sun’s shine
I realize how perfect it is
To refresh ones mind
With many hours
Of thought filled dreaming
For in the morning
When eyes are opened
I rise refreshed
To the sound of birds