Haunting the Trees

Haunting the Trees

Making the sky look pink under the gray clouds. — Anonymous

Every spectacle flits itself upon some podium.
Hear the word pablum spew from despotic veins.
Vines tangle in the wind.
Rain beats against the tin roof of sorrow.

Making truth is not making blather.
Dogs grunt, run, and die.
Over the hill go trains of thought.
We look, learn, like, but fail to listen.

In the glow of day, the rocks whiten.
Lights go on at dusk in the starry afterthought.
Saving time is not saving love.
There is no “I” in “lost.”

I confess to confession for the sake of
Professing whatever is necessary.
Each sentence completes itself
Even in a tempest.

Later is sooner than never,
And I tell myself to wait and be patient.
But I never listen, unless I feel bothered
By other lies that scold me.

You may paint your ceiling black
And seek solace in some pretty face
But you will never straighten your crooked
Brain by faking the words of the ancients.

Turn away, I keep saying to the wind—
The wind that remains ghostly
Keeping memory at bay
While haunting the trees.