Spring Poems – 2009, 2010
Cherry Tree falls down Celery-Root Cellar Door
If poems are just
something, a test of time,
then the one who judges life
can judge a poem, then a
Chestnut tree is not a tree,
nor a birch, a cherry tree,
then a orange is a grapefruit,
a apple, a brown pear.
Then you or I are
just a something the breeze
blows. A misquote lies dead,
the last of the prehistoric dragons
from long ago.
Laying dead on a plant,
things die same as they lie.
~ ~ ~
Painting, oil – By Sammy Al Mongo
Misquote of Nature
If life has misquoted you
then live the rest of your life
in a final bow to the audience,
who never purchased a ticket for
your live show, some people never
get no ticket, just fell out of
their hands, and they went to a
different show, someone else
can take a bow. We just become
trees that bend and bow by the wind.
Better to speak loudly the first time,
that no way, life will not misquote.
Why bark peels off trees,
dogs bark at night on a yellow moon.
~ ~ ~
Lucia Steel, Painting by Sammy Al Mongo, oil
The Cardinal and his Wife
Same cardinals, husband and wife
flit on this 45-degree angle
across my property, as if the same
leaf blew by the wind.
The end is always the same,
must spring happen each time
for the cardinal’s vector
over the same branches,
where these cardinals sleep
in winter is where a bird’s dream
goes on forever, some night
inside a tree waiting
for my eyes to open each April
~ ~ ~
Painting, oil, by Sammy Al Mongo
In the minds eye
a whisper thought,
then spring is something
unnatural from a misunderstanding
between light and dark,
that space where a baby is
born from, a huff and then
earth just sits still, as if
breathing and birds swooping
means the same thing
~ ~ ~
If only spring could last forever,
then our life perpetual in non-decay
would never notice what happens,
humbles an old tree,
its limbs cut down by
storms, so wind that blows
chimes each night signal.
Another star that died in space,
storms that come from behind
have no barrier to keep things, our lives
in place. Spring comes and goes, so as the winds say so.
~ ~ ~
It’s just me…
It’s just me and the Trees.
There’s never been people, or love,
just still trees standing upwards.
piano notes, wings that sift
murmur come and go.
People come and go outside my
window, stark leafless branches
sway not to wind, just moving
to a murmur of my unconsciousness love
to nature, and the sap that bleeds
from a bulge
It’s just me and the trees
nothing else, no one’s love but
this branch, animals, life
answering like a song and chord,
sung long ago, a blood line cut
so no one listens or looks.
It’s just me and the trees.
Forty-eight years looking, climbing,
dodging falling trees.
There’s a message in every
fallen limb, every branch
cracked by the wind, each
stump flowers and weeds grow
from something someone thought
was dead, a nuisance, where
what only cares is the flower
coming from seeds cracked open.
The old trees shade the younger trees
between this stands me,
ever evolving. When a young tree
snaps a twig, it grows again
each spring. This old tree where a
limb snaps it becomes my
broken finger, always crooked,
never to be stitched back by nature.
Each tree has stumps growing,
a bulge where animals burrow,
leaves in the spring bud, shade for
insects in the summer, firewood for
any cold bones in winter.
Slow growth is a good measurement of time.
below ground level, where roots are just branches
seeking opposite of sunlight,
something for the earth to
hold on when an old
tree lets go.
~ ~ ~
Jamaican Baptist Funeral
Compelled to drink absinthe on a full moon.
Aggravated to take a day of from the world.
We all live in some escape world while in captivity.
At a Jamaican Baptist funereal they laid
the old man in the earth. The brass pole
spun slowly to allow the casket lower.
These brass poles creaks an old spiny
long, endless squeal, same as a lifeboat
being lowered from a ship. We all listened to the rolling noise and allow time that ends
in a slow creaking. It’s always making that noise, we only just hear this
at the end.
The oldest Jamaican man in his 90′s ambled up the burial plot late,
a woman said to him:
“Where is your Johnny Walker cane?”
“Who dat der da oldest man not sitting, where’s your Johnny Walker cane?”
He smiled and stood there knowing he
would not be next.