Creaks on the green

his knees creak in stooping
bones grind in their joints
mimicking his friend's arms
that groan overhead
in the lively April breeze
he remembers when the boughs
were mere whips when
he sank their roots into the earth
their size a reminder he
hasn't much longer to stay
on this side of the soil
sweaty brows sting in
the afternoon sun
as he toils on the green

blooms have come and gone
as the many winters
have stripped them away
yet some have overgrown
in his small dominion
some may call a backyard
loss is the constant
he has gained from
having his life so long
the dandelions and dog shit
keep him busy as
he toils on the green

Kiss of tulips

the trumpets sound

an enigmatic herald

though Demeter rejoices

of her daughter's return

her children have risen

with different colored 

silks tied in their hair

twas a royal hue

they once waved in

the April glint and glow

but in this rain soaked

early morning hour

they awake in the

stains of battlefields

they stand tall in the

light from brothels

they blush in the 

rouge of maiden cheeks

from deep within

their mother's heart

they have donned the

vibrant rust of the

Earth's molten iron core

Remains

the rot waits
and waited too long
the dismal hangs above
a sky whose cobwebs
haven't been dusted
the leaves loiter
something the worms
have turned their
noses up to
the corpse remains
a stain unmoved
from the fibers of time
tissues overlooked
by beetles and young flies
fluids without flow
for the frost and thaw
and erosion of their banks
an ignorance of passing
an arrogance to linger

Knock knock

they long to speak
in fact that's all they do
or rather scream
into hollow ears
that miss the train
to wherever they
plan on taking you
there's times when
for random spontaneity
a whisper is heard
a word resounds
in the audible cavern
a vibration on the skin
was it just the wind
they catch you there
in a sudden second
a moment removed
from the rest of your life
to shake your soul
to feel their cold
to crack open your shell
to know their hell
and for that moment
that word is greater
than anything you realized
could have ever been
and you remember
that outside your door
there's so much more

Windbag

the clawing tree
snagged the man-made cloud
in one of its lofty snares
as it sits on the sunny
southern slope of the hill
its shadows are its roots
black lines tracing through
the greening blades of grass
they are slithering serpents
under the wind's reigns
the inorganic rustling
of the man-made cloud
mimics the absent leaves
the tree knew before winter
those leaves that blew
and floated and fell
tossed and torn and dined
upon by the warming soil
and unseen meandering roots
those leaves the litter
of the thoughtless trees
that catch the litter of these