tempest.

 

 

 

when I was a boy, I dreamed often

of a tree house that my father never built.

 

Not because trees were tall, but because

leaves are too casual,

 

too incidental an assortment of offerings.

Better that they be rustled by

 

winged angels in strapless corsets,

those who pick fruits and flowers

 

and bet wildly on oxygen; and all else

is beautiful that falls from the sky.

 

I have felt this way for some time, father.

Long before you found the lipstick in my purse.

 

Before the generations (who thought me insane)

came making beehives out of bricks with no straw.

 

That growing older means that you dream things

of an uncertain nature. That brown twigs are long,

 

low lying herbivore's covered dorsally with bony plates.

As you can see, I was bullied before writing this. I

 

dried specimens, mounted and systematically arranged

for reference. Tended the conniption,

forgave. I was perfect.

 

 To know that brains and veins on lovely

mornings aren't the only things that rupture.

 

Since we held hands last, the red maple disguised as memory, has given

all it's seeds away.

 

In other parts of the withered world

it might be autumn.

Reviews

[Corset]

lol, I love it when I find my name "Corset" in peoples poems, Then I can pretend that this kind of genius was written just for me...even if it was disparaging, I would still think it brilliant, or like when they use my common given name Robin in the spring, it's just so cool to see it, that might have stemmed from childhood. Maple trees have dropped seeds since the beginning of time, turning colors dropping everything to wither and be reborn, but how we loved them best in Autumn. I love all the autumn poems rolling in now with the closing of summer. The trees don't change where I live, so I love to read the autumn poems, This was so beautiful Dana in a sad end to another season sort of way.

[K. Louis]

I like your way with words. The couples here seem fitting. Too many places I liked. Tread on.

sticky- third to last line should be its*

[Lydia Shutter]

Monumentally poignant words. You have expressed raw emotion throughout this poem and used appropriae metaphors. It's a shame human beings have not learned to be more accepting. I hope writing in this vein helps you deal with the pain you have been caused. Very well written. Lydi**