Season — Augmented Spoken Word

Hey all,

Check out my spoken word work:

 

 

For those that like to read along:

 

 

 

 

 

Spring

 

Broken brown bits,  crisp
crumbles of last year’s green
and several dozen types of leaves,
crust over spring growth.
Like asthmatic ash from Vesuvius
Killing whole swathes of grass
roots and all, thier blades useless
reducing lawn to soil and mold
A graveyard of a landscape
ripe for the visagoth weeds
and hordes of invading seeds.

 

Ruckus winds rustle up dust and pollen

Much to my red-eyed stuffy nosed chagrin

Blowing snow mold from greening grasses

and picking up Spring’s pouring puddles

placing them in soft slow cumulus clouds

that patrol above like sentinels on watch

over birds scouting for nesting real estate

and us walking the recently unclothed yard

hunting sprigs and signs of future flowers

amidst the detritus of falls fallen waste

welcoming a storm’s whisper in the billowing

breeze, thunder being the trumpet blast

heralding the warmer season to come.

 

Late Summer

 

Drowning in throat coating dust
dragging deep dry breathes
thick through burning nose
down into long lashed lungs
on arid August afternoons
with lawn long gone brown
the sandy soil scorched naked
wind whipping up small dust devils
plastering particles of sand
to sweat soak on skin exposed
to reddening low slung searing sun
and one can only sit stone still
waiting for the inevitable window
shaking thunder storm to clear
the air and the damned drought.

 

And the sun surrenders dropping down in water
sky turning shades of fall foliate

The leaves themselves rustling muted and thick

laying in wait as insects hold their breath
upon the whisper of a storm tiptoing toward us  in the air

even the massive mirror of lake sits stil waiting,  a pebble tossed wouldn’t upset it’s calm.
the fish too admire it’s beauty and do not to jump
for bugs on the surface.

A Fire takes root
warming the night
Fingers of flame reach low hung branches
Logs groan and spit heat
Casting errant embers like molten bullets

Among us

As we watch moths,kamikaze to their deaths with unnervingly  grace into the dying flames

 

Fall

Fall fell sudden

Like a broken arrow

from an old archer’s

time worn palsied hand

Leaves crisp aqnd brittle

as rattling ancient bones

tumble around desperately

In the yard Catching

on the lawn or a stick, a puddle

a fence post, reaching for any thing

that holds.

And at night…

Through the leaves and
trees – The cool full
moon does not shine on
me as I sit or maybe
stand by the faltering fire pit
that is full of darkening coals
grown old and cold as the
late September night
and the coals also
do not shine on ….

Through the leaves and
trees – the old and cold
darkening coals do not shine on
me as I stand or maybe
sit, back turned to fire pit
that is full like the cool bright moon

Grown old and cold on this late September night.

 

 

 

Winter

Breath hard and heavy,
stumbling still sleepy,
along an old overgrown road,
cutting through dark woods,
tripping over logs long rotten,
now frozen stone solid

toward deerstand lashed

in marraige to old oak.
The November morning grey
seeps into pre-dawn gloom
as I sit in the soft slow sway

of my metal perch

watching shadow-like trees stand
against sharp freezing air
Frost tugging at tips of toes
damp in booted thick socks
a nape of neck breeze tickling
down the back chilling deep
in spite of my thermal shirt
Fingers pulled into palms
tips tight tucked away
against early winter’s
urgent and constant cold

soon we will cacoon against the season

in anticipation for of the next turning of the cycle

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kite — A Poem about Feeling Hopelessly Stuck

 

A kite in the tree

the crab apple tree

Want to get it down

the kite is stuck

and you only shrug

Say “Let the dog in”

 

This is your life

Charlie Brown

 

A Monarch in the tree

the kite is a Monarch

Stuck in the tree

In the crab apple tree

Still you only shrug

Say, “Let the dog in”

 

This is your life

Charlie Brown

 

Look at that kite

Up in the tree

This is important

The kite stuck in the tree

Again you only shrug

Say “Let the dog in”

 

This is your life

Charlie Brown

 

But Chuck is stuck

Up on a tree

He is no Monarch, no kite

in the crab apple tree

Finally you only shrug

Say, “Let the dog in”

 

This is your life

Charlie Brown.

 

A kite in the tree

the crab apple tree

Want to get it done

The kite is stuck

Finally, you shrug

Say, “Let the dog in”

 

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W is for….Winter Chill

Cuddle under a favorite quilt
slide into slippers left on a radiator
dive between sheets fresh from the dryer
or burrow deep in a winter coat against the wind
as if delivered into waiting arms of
mother, mothfather, guardian, protector.

~~~~

Sorry I recycled this from prior to the A to Z Challenge….I have company this weekend and not much with the aggressive schedule we have. Only three days left…and I am going to start writing a paragraph a day (or more) on a short story.

The Trail — A Poem about Enjoying Late Fall Nature

Walking in waist to shoulder
Frost crowned grass standing
Silent, still, and stiff
the first to thaw and dry
in the weak late year sun
A forest within the forest
On a frozen November morning

Hard rutted truck tracks,
Tread design clearly visible
Like dinosaur footprints
Serve as finely fossilized
records Of slick rain soaked
early fall firewood collection
In solid loam of rocky clay

Raspberry red arch bridges
hang white leafed, berryless
between islands of brown
fronds from large ostrich ferns
contrasted against the last green
grasses that refuse to go dormant
denying the approach of winter.

A large group of beastly birds
roost in a leaveless cottonwood
raise a ruckus as I approach
and cast doubt who is more alarmed
as my heart catches in throat
they wing down and away from me
gobbling loud in the cold quiet.

Trees awaken and start popping
warming long night numbed limbs
as squirrels begin chattering
and checking hidden caches quickly
furtively eyeing me walking past
sizing me up a scaveneger or predator
preying upon thier quiet natural lives.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Not sure about the ending on this one….I feel like it seems rushed. It was my intention to just describe the scene…and let you get what you can from it…then I thought maybe I should add some ‘zinger’ at the end…not sure I like doing zingers. I kind of like writing poems that just leave a moment in someone’s mind…an image, thought, feeling, what-have-you…nothing deep or heady, other than what you come up with yourself as the reader — a sort of impressionist poetry if you will.

So you all might see a re-write of this after the A to Z Challenge is done…:)

Enjoy.

Cold — A Poem to Read in August

Breath hard and heavy,
stumbling still sleepy,
along old overgrown road,
cutting through dark woods,
tripping over logs long rotten,
toward a night hidden stand
lashed in marraige to old oak.
The November morning grey
seeps into pre-dawn gloom
while sitting in the soft
slow sway of my metal perch
as shadow like trees stand
against sharp freezing air
Frost tugs at tips of toes
damp in booted thick socks
nape of neck breeze tickled
down the back chilling deep
to spite my thermal shirt
Fingers pulled into palms
tips tight tucked away
against early winter’s
urgent and constant cold.

~~~~~

I thought I should add the C is for… to the blog title as that is how I am seeing the others doing it for the A to Z Challenge.  I normal don’t struggle much to write shorter poems, but this one I struggled with (for some reason).  I am finding it difficult to write a poem based on a letter each day, so I am guessing this excerize is truly good for me.

Thanks for reading,

~angry1541

Back Into Poetry

For a number of years I buried myself in various vices and as such have ignored those things that brought me satisfaction and even joy — essentially I let my bad habits slowly pack up those things I used to do and love and quietly stash them away in dark places where they were out-of-sight and out-of-mind.  But….over the last year I have set aside a number of those vices and under layers of mental dust and psychic cobwebs I re-discovered some of those long forgotten talents and passions.

One of those things I have been working to unpack again is poetry — both reading and writing.  The poem below is my first real poem in a number of years that is not about one my vices.

Enjoy!

Warmth

Curling up under a favorite quilt

or into slippers left on a radiator

sheets fresh from the dryer

or a winter coat against the wind

as if delivered into the waiting arms

of mother, father, guardian, protector.