Miss Tree

3 stamps, a tree branch, and a person you’re not

When you get down to the bottom,

To the root of it all

You’ll find:

3 stamps, a tree branch, and a person you’re not

I hear you all singing

Telling me to join in

You tell me, “It all means something.”

You tell me to commit

But I know the true face of mystery

I’ve seen what’s behind the mask:

I know I’m really no one

And I’m okay with it

It doesn’t have to matter

To have meaning

It’s about common sense

But sometimes sense is senseless

And I just go along with it

With my 3 stamps, my tree branch, and the person I’m not

The trick is to be no one

To commit against sense

But commit to “commitment”

Or be committed for “making sense”

When you tell them about:

the “3 stamps,” the “tree branch,” and the “person you’re not”

You are who you are as you are who you’re not

And which one is real is a mystery

The Forest

The World is on Fire

The forest is on fire,

But I’m standing my ground.

My roots are planted firmly in it,

Never letting me down.

Oh, it’s coming for me now I know,

And yes, it should be time to go,

but I’m not moving. No, I’m not moving

This ground is mine, there will be time

For more falls with fruit that fell

To spread and share the wealth around.

More winters to sleep and dream of spring,

When they’ll grow and bloom for the summer,

And stand their ground when the time comes

For them too, to stand against fire.

Your Problem

Gnōthi seauton.

Your problem

Has always been

A problem of freedom

Of too much space

And too much mind

Of too much time

And too much too much too much

No clarity

Without reason

And no focus

Always saying NO because there is no..

Focus!

Give it clarity

Make the reason, to

Read between the stars

To see constellations as concepts

And ask

Who you are?

A star, who crashed here

Centuries ago, before time

With too many options

And too many reasons;

Constants and variables;

Time and time and time.

Without understanding, without

Focus, without concepts; With

Concepts like focus,

It’s difficult to grasp

Too much freedom

Too much time

And too much too much too much

Makes things slippery.

What is your problem? Everything

And nothing at all

Your problem is you

Like the universe you are,

Don’t know

Yourself.

The Woman in the Mirror

Mirrors are just glass. We are more than that, but just as fragile.

There’s a woman in my mirror.

She’s been there all my life.

Staring back at me, in spite

Of what others may have seen.

She has suffered, like me. She is

Me after all, never have we

Not shared circumstances.

 

She is a “TERF”, a woman scorned

Who lacks empathy for the man

She sees in her space, whose

Presence threatens her life, preventing her

From safety

freedom of mobility,

and opportunity

To live and seek happiness. To feel

Safe.

 

He is a threat to everything she

Longs to be. His presence

Dominates her. Screaming at

Him in rage, she takes the wooden brush

From the counter-top below.

Pulling back her arm, she weaponizes

It, hurling it at his grotesque

Face. The mirror shatters, leaving

Behind nothing but dysphoria.

Beauty in the Blank Space

An experimental poetic conceptualization of the creative process to poetry.

In honor of National Poetry Day, here is the most bizarre poem I’ve ever written. It’s too experimental for WordPress. I couldn’t work out how to copy over the formatting, so you’re just going to have to enjoy it as an image.

Beauty in the Blank Space

[Originally written: 2011]

All of a Heap

Here, I lie,
In this pit I call
My self, surrounded
By the heap of the Others,
With nothing I call my own.
Feeling no right to claim;
Knowing no claim to feel.
This pit is filled to the rim of the brim,
For here is where the Others heap
And heap all of a heap of a world.
Words and wisdoms like weighted water
Drown the light I know is there,
Waiting at the top.
I lie at the bottom
Beneath the heap, suffocated,
Stifled, and lying still.
The Others wait, knowing
The Truth I know, waiting
For me to stop lying, knowing
All I have known is lying.
Truth is, I am the heap
Personified; this pit I call my self is filled;
Words and wisdoms waiting,
Knowing I will come.
I will lift from this pit, leaving
Behind the lie, knowing
I carry Truth to share,
All of a heap to bare.
Rising, all I see is pits,
And pits, and pits, and pits..
I see them all lying, knowing
The Others are waiting,
For all of a heap to come.

[Originally written, 2012]

The Tree That Would be a Bridge

A tale of self-sacrifice.

Once upon a time, there lived a tree.

This tree grew up like any other tree.

Her roots planted firmly into the ground,

She grew up tall and she grew up right,

And took in each day and absorbed all its light,

Casting shadows, where her fruit fell,

To feed the creatures at night.

But this tree was special,

She saw things a bit differently,

Like you and me, this tree could see,

And she knew an important thing.

She wasn’t the only tree in the world,

There were others, so many others.

She was happy for the few that surrounded her,

Even though they were very different from her.

But so many were on the other side of the creek,

And many, she saw, looked just like her.

“Other trees like me,” she thought,

Stretching her branches wide.

When she noticed across the river,

On the other side, those other trees who looked..

Like her, did the same.

It took some time, trees are very slow,

And very patient, but she raised her branches,

Stretching them tall, and to her amazement,

So did they all.

This repeated for days until finally,

She thought, “I must meet them.”

And began an arduous plot,

She would stretch her branches every day,

Reaching, slowly but surely, to meet them.

Season after season passed, as bit by bit,

She made her way across the creek.

Until suddenly, she felt a sharp pain in her trunk,

And everything went dark.

Other, strange looking trees came,

With their axes and saws,

Uprooting the tree, cut without flaw.

She was aware of it all, aware the whole time.

And there really isn’t an appropriate rhyme,

To convey the horror of this crime.

But, the tree thought,

As she was reshaped into a bridge,

And stretched across the creek,

To help others live,

“There are worse fates for a tree,

than being a bridge.”

And in the fall, when the fruits and leaves,

Of the other trees like her covered her completely,

Like a warm blanket, she felt her wish came true.

And the bridge lived happily ever after.

As for those other strange trees that moved over her, they lived less happily, but the bridge was happy to help them move across the creek, as she had so desperately wanted.