Archive for nature

The Imposter Feeds The Birds

Posted in Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 14, 2017 by beautifulimposter

One moment there’s an empty bench, the next there I am. It’s easy when you exist between the cracks of things, you’re always just everywhere. The daylight is weak, watery, thin gold hammered to transparency by winter’s hardness. My breath is the smoke of dragons, or at least that’s the fiction I’m maintaining today.
I rummage through the deep pockets of my great, black coat, picking through the contents, the bits of dreams, lost keys, remnants and fragments until my fingers find the bag of seed. Taking it out, I hold it in my left palm while my right hand dips in, feeling the cool slither of the grains slip sliding. A cast handful glitters briefly, suspended in air that shouldn’t be able to hold the weight of a feather, an arch shimmering bright before bounce scattering across pavement washed in slipshod wisps of snow.
They come slowly, in ones and twos, little, beetle black iridescent, wings fingering strands of cold air before alighting, heads curious tilt, ink drop eyes suspicious yet hunger overrides caution. Starlings, sparrows, little ragged pieces of fugitive night hop between the avenues of seed, needle beaks dipping, peck peck peck.
I watch them, hop and flutter, a moving mandala. Within the blue-purple-green-black feathers the faces surface slowly, rising up from deep, deep waters trapped in jeweled wings. Each feather is a screen, a frame showing the motion picture of a whole life. The stories are endless, myriad, woe and joy, smiles, tears, the rending of garments and spilling of ash, homemade pies, kisses and salt, spinning and whirling, almost more than the eye can hold, or at least more than most eyes. After a while you get used to it. I’ve often thought it’s a wonder they can fly at all, with the weight of all the souls glued to them, caught on honey sticky feathers.
The few passers by are chased by the wicked teeth of the cold, no one looks. Even if they did, they wouldn’t see, it takes a knack that most forget beyond the borders of childhood. A shame really, but that’s is the way, always forgetting, always wondering on to the the next. That’s why I make it a point to sit and feed the birds and watch the lives in the dark mirrors. For the remembering. I scatter another handful and sit back to enjoy the show.

Flight

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on February 17, 2017 by beautifulimposter

Skyline punctured by silhouettes
Tiny holes of nothing wheeling, diving
Carving strange and wonderful curves
Patches of night in bird shapes
Defying the rising sun
Left behind are the weight of thought or memory
Wingtips trailing feathery clouds
Inky fingering postscripts along the horizon
Treatises upon the marvel and freedom
Of bodies suspended upon oceans of clear air.

Flow

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 17, 2015 by beautifulimposter

Breathe
In, out, simple
Clean
Toes dug in sand
White foam
Wash, cold
Tidal
Blood rush
Push pull
No resistance
Open, clouds pour through
Arms outstretched
Holding in all skies
Raw nerve trembling
Shoreline reed
Cries of gulls
Echoes, presence of
Far off thunder
Green power
Deep roots
Black earth
Chlorophyll respiration
Sunlight food for
Deep thought
Indrawn
Lungs swallow
Hurricanes
Beautiful destruction
Sound and fury
Yawning forked lightning
Fire and sky
Earth and sea
Flesh and bone
Indrawn
All the love
All the hate
All the pain
All the everything
Washing through
Washing bright new clear
Take, hold, release
Breathe
Out

The Nature of Water

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on July 31, 2015 by beautifulimposter

I used to build dams
In the little creek out back
Of my grandparents house
In a forest I was sure held
Hobbit houses within the hills
Fairies and dryads
Even the little stream
I knew, was a water nymph
Singing chirrupy burbling songs.

I’d spend hours beneath
Waiving green, watching light and shadow
Write out spells upon the clear rills
My hands black with mud
Stacking stones reverently
My own little monolith
An inuksuk, to show that I was here
Leaving my mark as the water pooled
A little glistening fingerprint.

I know now that water
Bears no marks
Has no memory
Unlike skin, unlike hearts
Or the raw earth
I wish I could go back there
Be the stream
With no memory.

But I can’t,
As they say
You can never cross the same waters twice.

Knee Deep

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on July 15, 2015 by beautifulimposter

Summer was falling from the sky
Sunbeams of ripened wheat were ribbons
You wore in your hair
Cascades of brass and honey dripping down
The column of your spine
The only concession to modesty you wore
As you waded out into the bright swirling waters.

The stream lapped at your calves
Eager, curling tongues raising the fine hairs
You always said they were too big
Too muscular
When you stood in front of the mirror
Twisting this way and that, eyes full of flaws
Hands running over your belly
As if to flatten it away.

I would always look at you
Baffled by how those bright eyes could never
See the grace, how your body was not
Made of stars, filled with clear light
How I would see the dawn rising
Over the horizon of your hips
That everything you were, exactly as it was
Would be how I described love for the rest of my life.

That day though, you didn’t seem to care
You just squealed as you entered
The cold creek, knee deep and waiting
Half turning with a smile
Coy Venus sans clamshell
Something mythical, primal
Born out of the water, pulling at the salt in me
As I fumbled with my boots.

You laughed as I stumbled over the slick stones
Cursing softly and shivering
Wading out to you, arms trapping your waist
A drowning man clinging to a spar
Pulling you tight, but never close enough
I could never hold all of you
Not inside of me the way I always wanted.

So we stood, naked in the stream
Sun warmed skin fragrant, belly to belly
Your lips tasted like strawberries
Tongues for some reason almost shy
We were the first and only lovers
Clothed in gold and blue and flesh and bone
Perfect for one afternoon or forever
As the waters curled about our knees.

Midwestern Mythologies

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , on July 13, 2015 by beautifulimposter

The Midwestern sky is dusty green

Pregnant with storm, swollen, round bellied

Oppressive heat palm pressing

Trees groaning, sweat rising from pavements

Pressure building to ache within the bones

A summons, a harbinger.

The heartlands have a pulse

Blue white veins jagged, tracings of fire

Jehovah’s hand scribbling out

The All Father’s sky lore runes

In the shadows you can see Yggdrasil

Iron grey spearhead clouds

Piercing mythologies.

There is something about the prairie

Something that dreams beneath waves

Of black earth and liquid, churning sky

Terrible silence is the finger upon lips

Sealing them to dumbness

Locking away all of the secrets

Leaked in sibilance

As endless wind over grass like sword blades.

There is manifold shape in emptiness

It can easily be seen

Pinion stretching horizon to horizon

The thunderbird could only have been born

From new eyes looking up for the first time

Into skies pregnant with storms

Over tossing seas of grass.

Oceans

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on July 13, 2015 by beautifulimposter

Grey and green and ragged white lace
Roiling, ponderous cold swells
These fill my dreams
I awake with brine stinging my lips
Skin crack’d and weather’d
Rising up and up and up
From thunderous deeps.

I stood with my feet in the Atlantic
Drank it into me through cuts and scrapes
Swallowed vast and barren and salt
Bones twisted by currents cold and swift 
Eyes welded forever to the chill steel
Of endless horizon.

Now I find myself on different shores
Waves of burnt caramel and burnished bronze
Rolling away, rising to meet blue skies
That break men’s hearts
Another sharp border begging feet westward
Echoes of hoofbeats, sudden thunder
Jagged ladders of fire eager for the climbing.

Torn between two tides
The salt of my veins, the black earth of my bones
Water churning great thunderheads
Mountains as grey green waves
Towering over amber
Hands itching both for leathern reign 
Or carven tiller.