Rings of roses and laurel boughs, I send off to you and to you too, for the Love in that learning that’s now in the offing, to be free of nooses and ties, these are wreaths of blessings to crown ourselves in.
An update from seven to ten meant from heaven to done as far as HP printer 4500 is concerned, but this is meant not to be dated, and definitely not another poem about what has broken, but one to bring back in maps of wholes. Yes, out under wires, but these littered with birds and that black and white dog on West Lexington that charged up to me, smelled my crotch and decided I was just the right old,
mom-woman to go for a walk.
The smoking girl, sitting whistling rings on the stoop, called, to no avail.
I stopped and waited, the dog beckoning me on. Her man-owner came out next, barefooted and pinched eyed, and yelled his commands, and still she wanted me most because I’d left, like she also begged to, the rooms of screens, Edvard’s shrieking-dream orange passion ignited, cold glow of pixelated pictures, broken and re-sewn, fed through optical illusion of what our eyes and ears were never meant to practice, all that clears a world, of clean--
fake skies, keys to the hell of lethargy and isolation.
A Valentine wish, pink and blue ribbons from birds beaks to frame a secret garden of hearts just after one follows up the hollow of cave at the root of hemlock, journeys to a swirl of smells, Jasmin, cinnamon and a bit of cumin. Three kinds of kings stand there in the ravine towering together in united triangle, creating beneath them a bed of soft and dark where I once ran into a white-collared owl on the ground.
Today, I saw Squirrel Nutkin two blocks up from the deified woods, running for cover under the shrubs, and the first vanity plate of the day, another two on, just past the patch of daffodil buds,
read: Magic Link,
fixed to a silver-Suburban backed up to a house, not long constructed to look old, only occupied on holiday, (winter breaks and so forth).
Photo Credit: Annie Spratt/unsplash
Thought Id drop in and give your blog some love! Feel free to ghost this comment since this place is becoming a ghost town
Thanks :) Maybe, talk of ghosts brings a live one?
Lol well it worked for Bruce Willis for a while in the 6th sense i dont see why we cant apply jt here, the Steemth sense
The ghost of Squirrel Nutkin
I was once in a park in A. with a Poet from New Jersey. Two exiles, just like souls always are. Little did I know he was playing at being a five-year old trapped inside a man; I was delirious to have found a soul mate of old.
He had brought a tarpaulin along hoping to relive his youth and do secret shrub-hidden things to me. He ended up reading A.E. Housman's A Shropshire Lad to me - so that brought me a lot closer to my old home than his debasing grasp at his virility did for him. (The stunning rose above, by the way, is named "a Shropshire Lad").
At that time, I was, in effect, cheating - on my wife -with him. She had wooed me in B. with a mix tape of KD Lang and Joan Armatrading and such, but Jane Sibery was her greatest gift to me (she would revive my Maria mood in 2000 to see everything that is still now here, in for example you and me discovering the truth about our men, children and women). I must have heard her song: "The Squirrel Crossed The Road" in about 1990, but in 1993 I was in that park, at high noon, and a squirrel shot across a very crowded bit of lawn to brand its message into my brain until I might be able to read it. (A red squirrel mind, not your common cheeky grey one).
And eventhough I never had listened to that Sibery song closely (I can save such packets for decades if I must) and only unwrap it today, in response to your post, I knew with all my magical heart that I had to remember this "ribbon on the fence" until I was able to understand why it had crossed my path, lying there in the (quick sand) grass;
to decode the secret to laying a spell over the land and dispelling the searching never stops till you are in a foreign land (smelling like man but not "walking like a man" - oh cruel truth that is knowing what there is to know....)- preferably with a mega raging overdrive that makes you feel alive. But in you I have greatest faith that the nuts we gathered in May ("knots" - of flowers - of course: the song is confused) are what make us sip coke and secretly wish for rain in September.
My mouth is dropped at the magic of our reading :O For, I posted my baby friends in sand and another I/nut tell poem from decades ago only to come here and find you've already spread out the same before I've even come to read!?
So, the squirrels have, and continue to, run their ribbons!