"Everything We Didn't Want to Find"
The world is mute in winter
the cold, penetrating
it burrows into flesh
and settles as frost inside of us
glimmering like worthless diamonds
on all the inner decay we turn a blind eye to.
Up ahead, a cabin
the chimney spits out a warm ghost
it's pummelled by arctic wind
it looks to be screaming as it fights; and the silence is all the more accentuated.
I open my mouth to a similar occurrence
words are lost
but the ghosts still crawl out from inside my belly.
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"Last Breath"
Last we spoke
the trees were still green.
That day
we exhaled as one
for the final time.
And although the world would never receive another breath from us
the trees held on to the last one for a little while longer.
We were stored in the woods
but not immortalized
the trees can't hold on to that burden forever.
Now, our last breath has fallen limp and orange onto the ground.
Nothing is left
we never were
the whole thing
is just dirt
lurking beneath the permafrost
waiting to become
something else.
_____________________________________
"Last Trace"
I meditate on the dock
as the sea's heart skips beats beneath me
each thud
reverberates
through my spine.
I watch a traffic light change colours through the trees
it doesn't know me
no one does
tonight.
For these few sweet moments
I sit on the outskirts of civilization
basking in the feeling
of being forgotten.
No one but the sea knows me
I slip beneath her surface
I am welcomed home
she claws at my skin
she fills my lungs
we become one.
In these pure, thoughtless moments
I realize
I am everything.
_____________________________________
"Church"
Every night
I kneel in a pilgrim's position
and pray to the moss.
My sermon is the wind
it moves me like it moves the pines.
My religion is that of the trees
we are the same
both just disciples
of the stars above.
One hundred breaths in, and the time has come
I collapse, and the moss swallows me
I dive to hell and back
and return
with dirt in my lungs
and a corpse in my arms.
I lug it to a clearing
in the heart of the woods
where only the pines will be my witness.
I stare up at the stars
and ask what little piece of god I know
to accept my burden
as an offering.
The stars glimmer for a moment
as if to nod their heads in somber recognition
and then return to the sky
as statues.
All this unearthing hurts
and so many times I've told myself that it's pointless
that no matter how hard I try, nothing will wash this away.
But recently, I think it's been working.
I think the stars have been stealing pieces of you
atom by atom
every time I preform the ritual.
Last night
when I pulled your corpse from the ground
your fingers were missing.
I'll hold your hand no longer
your grip is gone.
_____________________________________
"Exile"
The oaks are young
but their bodies are withered from the minute they sprout.
Does that sound familiar?
Something being corrupt before it even pokes its head out of the earth?
I smile at their obscenity
at the sight of winter's toil, bringing them to their knees
at the sight of them so close to death.
An exiled oak hobbles over the cliff's edge
it heaves violently in the wind
what a beauty it is
to see my past in you.
_____________________________________
"Crave"
I pulse in and out of the tree line
sporadic and stammering
like a smoker's heart
scrounging for nicotine
in the wild.
I crave that voice
those footprints
not even yours
any
fairy or beast
but this trail's been barren so long
I fear the woods will soon reclaim it.
Standing on the edge
where my trail putters out into the sea
ancient words I wrote to you
beat their paper wings
through the sky
my old poems
are migratory birds
vanishing one by one
and making space.
mid autumn now
I'll ask the sky
what summer sounds like
and will be answered
by a blank page fluttering overhead
and a soft footstep behind me.
_____________________________________
"Nectar"
You left the door open
a gaping hole
to my quiet hovel
from which everything beautiful
flows in.
The sickening sweetness
from the rising sun
and its nectar
spills
all over my shadows
just like that
they are stained!
Ruined!
You knew
exactly what you were doing.
Hopefully one day
I can say thank you.
_____________________________________
"Echos From the Other Side"
I go to the sea
and hear the whispers of a world turning.
They bow down to me:
every word that's been uttered
from the other side.
They crash down to their knees as one:
a single sound.
A medley of all the voices that have been carried across on the backs of waves.
Woosh.
It's calming to think
that within this nonsensical cacophony
could be your voice
serving the role
of a single note
or one fragile thread
holding the thing together.
I don't know you yet
but I'm excited to tell you about
all the time I've already spent
by the ocean
listening to you talk.
I'm like a kid
straining to hear an old phonograph
enthralled in the idea
of listening to someone
so far away.
_____________________________________
"Below Dark Pines"
Everyone's mouth
is a portal to their own forest.
We follow trails laid out by their tongues
each word is a step forward.
Carefully we're woven around the thickets and dark pines
that even they, as god, no longer set foot in.
Darling, my curiosity tugs at my as you speak.
I've had a fascination with those impassible places
ever since I became the wolf of my own.
And darling, within those dark patches, something is glowing.
I will not rush you
but promise me
that one day you'll take me there.
I say it even through your disbelief:
that I think your whole mess
is a beautiful magic.
_____________________________________
"Forest in Mourning"
Moth wings shatter
and spray down as shrapnel
over a world infinitely smaller than my own.
I don't even consider it:
a life ended
as extinct beasts roar beneath my feet
not even in death can they sleep
for I've woken them
to tear me through a home
I'll pretend is mine
prying open the boards
that hold the thing together
every second rolling
in my recklessness.
And yes, it's just a moth
but is it not also
our forests?
Our seas?
Our lungs?
Our people?
Does it not represent the gift of life, and how we treat the little things, the glue and the nails and the boards that hold it all together?
The moth's shrapnel settles on the asphalt
and I've rolled on
unimaginably far
into the distance and into my time
completely indifferent
but the trees on the borderline
will mourn a brother
alone
and in silence.
_____________________________________
"Hibernating"
i know my spring hibernates beneath the surface
as i tread on blank dirt
across a valley of unborn flowers.
i go lightly, not daring to disturb their rest.
My feet are so gentle nowadays
i don't even leave footprints in the snow
there is no trace of me
there is no "I".
i am one with it all
and thus as gentle with the ground
as i would be my own skin.
These hills are an expansion of me
wind gives voice to their ridges
and they whisper about the necessity of cold.
i will not rush the winter.
_____________________________________
"Familiar Novelty"
You don't need to stray far
nor travel frequently
to find novelty.
Each day, Earth is reborn
a new dusting of elements is sprawled across her face
a new set of eyes opens in the morning.
I find new stories
every time
that I revisit my backyard.
New parts of myself are hung up in the trees
brought there by the night winds
I have no need
to pretend I'm a migratory bird.
This life is my wings.
_____________________________________
"The Fruitful Darkness"
Flicking off the noise:
the unhinged thoughts that rise like mist
at the sunlight touch of my fingers.
The sun won't rise today
let the dew remain as liquid.
Everything else is permeating now.
Old boots on the asphalt, bewildered seeds in the cracks, words leaking in through the window - blind and knocking over my flower pots.
They grab my arms and shake me
"where are we"
they melt into the floor.
I'm disturbed and inspired.
The sun rose without the mist
and while it sleeps
everything else wanders, dazed
poems waiting to be written.
_____________________________________
"Strive"
I'm flitting through the pages
of the few thoughts that are left
from the lost world of Epicurus.
Glancing up from my fortress of paper
I see a man
in his 70's, at least
trembling up the hill
briefcase in hand
hat over his eyes
emanating an "it's never too late" kind of attitude.
Behind him
storm clouds lap in an ocean of light
paints spew from gaps in the Heavens
all that human eyes were ever designed to receive
sprawls across the common sky
completely naked.
Behind him,
always behind him.
_____________________________________
"Soil of the Hell's Wood"
I strike pen on paper
like a miner strikers the soil.
Both searching for more than gold:
searching for something
that will quench that endless lust to feel worthy.
We dig holes
in hopes that from within them
will come a voice
saying
"you've earned your place."
And in the same way that mined soil will yield no crops
my own soul becomes cursed and infertile.
Don't waste your time digging
worth is not found inside the ground
in fact, it's not found at all
darling, to exist is to be worthy.
_____________________________________
"Eden"
Those who search for Eden never find it
it's not something that is found.
Seek and it's gone
grab and it's tarnished.
Look not at the map
nor for a destination
Eden is not a place.
Look at the everyday
the mundane
the blades of grass and chirping birds.
Eden is everything
everywhere
everyone.
Available here
in endless supply
is your oasis, your holy place
just waiting to reveal itself.
Yet, what a tragedy it is
that most of us foolish creatures
will continue to run from Eden
in search of it.
