I walked along
Not quite sure
Where the trail would lead,
And to my surprise
It turned into
An orchard ripe for harvest.
There, long I tarried,
Long I shared with Gaia’s full trees
A glass of her sweet nectar.
Long I resisted bumblebees,
Long I waned noon’s sun.
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
Aghast! The land was ever black
Shifting around with all despair
Clouds rolling in Gaia’s hair
And I, loosing my way back.
Should think I would leave no slack
To bring my hems, save no fare,
Back to the toil I’d never dare
Leave alone, I had a knack!
Then all at once I felt a tap
That brought me back into my senses
Clinging tightly to the shore
I un-scrolled my handy map
Which led me betwixt two broken fences
And I, my heart, agape no more.
My windows slidescape at a furious pace
As little sentinels wave from overlooked nooks.
I’m a road warrior when the times get hard
But this is summer now, and these long backs
And bikini tracks are keeping me easy
With two shades of cool running down the side of
A sweating growler called picnic in the park.
I’m laying naked in her presence,
She’s entangling my mind as her long legs
Reach straight up at mine.
We biked here because our history depends on it,
So tempered with that, we find it irresistible
To not heed the folly in pushing sweet Gaia away,
Which, to those of us who mind the traffic,
Becomes about as obsolete as this empty bottle of summer.
To be the sun.
To scream bloody murder
And mean it in a good way,
To wake up and go to bed so consistently
Time pieces become obsolete
And there are no excuses anymore.
Oh, there are bad days
When fog rolls in,
Or random, insignificant civilizations
Decide to proclaim war
Upon their own protective shells –
An eco-systemic, all chemicals in
Kind of war that pins natural resources
And technology
Against simple biology and physics.
There are bad days when children of the sun
Who suckle auras of its very beams
Become stifled and trampled
Beneath plastic rubbish and footware
In an unmercifully ignorant act.
But then again, there are the good times
Which ignite passion,
A brilliance so glorious
Rapid transformations become
Supernatural and unprecedented.
Good times that feed millions of
Conscious and unconscious
Biological matter the very substance
They require to exist.
When these delicate rays are so respected
And in balance that they provide
Sweet little Gaia an answer.
Oh, to be the sun.
Gaia woke today, lazily,
Spread her wings in stretch.
She reached and yawned
Until the moon
Came upon her back.
From here she exposed
Her underbelly –
A welcoming of sorts,
To which the joys
Could be heard
Echoing across the land.
And as the dancing
Round and round
Began to reach climax,
Her sister, the sun,
Waved goodnight
Her dress trailing along.
Through the gates,
Past the edge,
Along the well worn path,
Until Gaia’s eyes
Turned a fiery red
And she reclined to bed.
In the end, we never really know what we’re coming up against.
Like a thrill seeking pre-teen with ill conceived notions of danger.
…life ain’t a movie man. Life just ain’t like that.
So there we are, hanging out with our dicks up Five street.
I shot into darkness as if I knew this foreign lover language;
But never did skies open for my warmest of wishes.
Collapse! Collapse my dear lover, it’s gone on too far.
I’ve pushed to the end and I’m not quite back again.
…Whisper my madness with two squiggled lines to display it in this dust.
Misunderstanding again with my heart. It is drawstrings. It is amicable.
It is pleasing to eyes that only pray upon sunsets.
It is a thousand masterpieces; perfected.
I cannot hurry your authorship, for wind is at neigh and folly on the deck.
A thousand hungry scavengers await in lost calluses at bays end,
Like cavernous regions of our shoreline amidst Gaia’s sweetest affection.
Cower young souls, breath in foul punches of thine enemy,
Congruency only relays smartest on deftest of blokes.
Carry this lanyard on further, as wayward as you choose.
Can you make this wind so calm?
Eyes become lost amidst time,
Fall whithers deep beneath frozen soil
In an exhale from sweet Gaia youth.
Hands beneath a wool fleeced warmth
Trace aged and soggy wooden trusses
To ground all paths sturdy,
Placing soil-meet-water underneath
Obstructions aging gracefully,
With moss
Silhouetting a vista worn on the sleeve
At fogs deepest moment, neigh.
Losing my mind
Into your abyss
Like unending arches
Of Gaia’s iris
What makes it easy?
Tied down like a northern sunset
Whispering softly at the moon.
Is it grass curls
That itch my yearning soul
Into an excited pit of
Frenzied loco-motion?
Or is the slow, unfurling
Heartbeat of Gaia’s necromancing
A long, sensual touch
From mine elbow to mine tips?
I whisper willows
As aging furrows
My easy, evermore.