Tag Archives: trees

The Maples of Vermont

A spike and hammer,
a bucket
unevenly distributed.
The sun means nothing but light,
A bright pylon amongst the clouds,
but its back is turned all the same;
giving its warmth to anyone else.

The freeze isn’t gone,
merely hiding amongst the shadows.

One tree,
prouder than the others, brighter;
stands tall-
an ambassador to the sky,
speaking for the earth of its roots,
or so it seems. Its arms fanned out
in a skeletal embrace.

The leaves are gone,
but the essence inside thrives.

The metal placed against the bark
causes no response,
not that anything is left to shake free.
What is needed is underneath,
a few blows away,
and then-
                  it slowly seeps,
unable to contain itself.

Later we burn most of it away,
so all that is left of that bitterness
is sweet.

Bill Brody

“It was the drugs,”
              they said,
“the trauma”
“the loneliness,”
loading him up with excuses
              he had no business
              nor inclination to carry.

He was busy,
                    always.

Ideas, drawings, paintings
            inventions, stories
                              political campaigns
                                          music, movies,

             shooting out of him
                              all hours of the day or night.

Leafy green things, alive and vibrant.

      though in the winter he would turn statue outside
                                  naked
                                        cold

                          for hours alone
                                no one to prune the eccentricities
                                      or take him inside

      and he would call me sometimes
            to talk through the night;
screaming at me of
                        decay, darkness, the hollow in himself
                    but never saying any of it out loud

Like a dead tallow tree bursting with life.

Stepping out of the Woods

Trees as thick as grass
bundled together hiding the sky
at night though
stars shine through

One could get lost in there
one could find something profound in there
in the morning
hidden passions
light the canopy like green fire

An untold history crackles beneath feet
crisp with the anxiety of breaking, unresolved
twilight is a pleasant mystery
whispers of color in silent darkness
the fauna changing shifts
timorous insects take flight.

A bright pink cross sanctifies the bark of each tree
some sign of an afterlife that none could imagine
The end is violent and sterile
the ground stripped bare
the canopy pulled back to blue skies
broken by contrails and wires
soon to be hidden in property
too expensive for anyone to live in
just dying slowly,
paycheck to paycheck.

The Mountains are Silver with Winter’s Leavings

  Black pines                         the moon weeps
to see them drag that thing screaming
                           a bundle of noise
             given agency in sound
                           such luxuries are deceiving

                           Red lights│
                                        blue│
                           silver strobes of tinsel

                          The colors slip over the tilled snow
             like a long gown dragged over the stairs
they whisper beneath the fugue of fear
             those concerned cries calling out for a close ear
                           for someone who cares.

But the sound is too loud
             it bludgeons empathy

Pity the trees that must stay
             to witness such horrors
                           ever protesting in the wind
                                        but unable to look away.

On the Other Side of the Trees

Just settling in
quiet calm of the horizon.
Now it’s dark.

Eyes closing never to open again.
Now it’s dark.

Along the edge of the river she stands staring at a point far away across the water. Despite the stillness there is much movement between them; the water carries on, the soul stirs. The wind wanders amidst the turmoil and stalls against the rocks. Beneath the current a big fish is terrified of being caught, but it inside it wants to die.

That in itself is okay we are told
this life is a strange and brutal beast
raging against the thought of growing old
yet wanting some control of its end.

In the trees she sees
movement amongst the shadows
drawing her in.

Her thoughts may travel beyond the threshold
enveloped in that void to the east
that strange space she had failed to comprehend
where light descends and becomes deceased

Now it’s dark.