It’s clever, pure love;
like a rare bloom, plucked
pale blue roots and all
from a jungle, where
it always rains.
And you pot it—
on your windowsill,
ring stains marking
where you watered last,
in New York City.
(c)2015 by Sanguine woods
#mypoetry #poemsilove #love #human
——
That’s like a poem.
About pink.
And warm.
And ending.
And ice cream, peach.
And laughter dying out
Slowly from every summertime
Get-together everyone
In the whole wide world
Ever had on a holiday
With family and pinwheels
And little red white and blue flags
Sticking out of the short green grass.
Its peachfuzz voice says:
We’re still free, People.
And then it goes to bed.
And we’re tired, too—
After all the talking and children
Playing and ladies laying
Out for the first suntan
Of the season…
Where you fall asleep
Right there
In that cocktail light
With or without
A reason.
—(c)2021 by Sanguine Woods
A coal-black tar
and feathered clinging
to your soul—it croons the sigil
ouroboros gnawing
at the moon—aghast and
punctured, full—a rotting
gibbous rune—an end
of opalescence—
a stylus tipped
too soon—
(c)2021 by Sanguine Woods
Flowers belong
In vases some people
Claim, but that
Only shames
Them. A stem is
Alive and its petals
Feed the
Universe.
(c)2021 by Sanguine Woods
This playlist is very
much like coming home
for the first time
waits for no one turn turn turn
map after endless
fucking map—
bitch map, bastard
son—deliberate
as fuck, never even heard
of the goddam G-spot
or Ventura Highway
sunshine on my shoulders—jet
planes leaving high above us
every second clouds
from both sides now closing in
California wet dream—and
the sky is no longer grey
but tinsel color and you
beat-off—on a dark desert
highway—rain on 1965
glass one wiperblade and a
prayer fucking exit to Todos Santos
hard as woodstock for
your sister’s golden hair—
daughter of the devil
himself an angel in white—
tied up in a hotel basement
(such a lovely face)
such a lovely place
ready a room for the
grateful dead and
Casey Jones—don’t be a prick
I bought that cocaine
and a ticket
to an aeroplane—
one foot stuck in 1967 like a
wasted fuck wilted
flowers in her sunset
hair—these things
I forgot to do for you—
and I had a lover once—
his long middle finger
teasing Joplin to come
out today and
put the rain away
and that music starts
to play—and oh
What’s that you say?
Mrs Robinson?
Jesus loves you more
than you could know…
whoa
whoa
whoa
(C)2021 by Sanguine Woods
*https://www.loudersound.com/features/the-story-behind-the-eagles-hotel-california-album-artwork-interview
What hope do you have?
he asked the man
holding the sacrificial lamb—it was
spotless not a
mark, virgin fleece
white as god-damned
snow. I know.
You’ve
heard
it all
before.
It curled at the corners,
pirate map—not Where to
pillage, loot, and rape—
subscriptio, titulus—those kinds of
things (there may have been an exchange of
old coins)—and
ink, not blood,
something darker, licked
the page—pitch or
tar, acrid smoking a mile
underneath the
dead forest
floor
where things grew
once,
but not
anymore.
(c)2020 by Sanguine Woods
(Photo: Pinterest)
One voice, speaking out in the darkness can be a small, yet potent source of light and healing. No fear. One at a time. That is my wish for us. Beaucoup d’amour pour tout le monde…pour tout les temps.
Nice nature walk today. And yesterday was snow all day long. Now this golden day. Colorado is like this in April. Listened to The Eagles. Witchy Woman. One of These Nights. Heartache Tonight. Already Gone. Thought about how earbuds have revolutionized heartbreak. Or something like that. Kicked a lot of roadside wishes goodbye. Loved sidewalks. Hated sidewalks. Made peace with some things. Like wildflowers. The memory of John Denver. And young me. Absorbed the ☀️ ‘s energy on my shoulders and was happy. Thought about living on a beach and getting old in Key West. Margaritas make great lovers … and sunsets. Thought about doing the same in the woods somewhere. But winter wind blows cold. And it’s hard to lose anything in the early part of Autumn. Loved my dad some. Lifted thanks to the sky. Thought about how much we want to be known by others. How very little any of us is known by others. Thought about whether that should feel lonely. Thought about that path, the road to that journey, fraught with unknowns. Nobody likes unknowns. Thought about distance from the drama in my life. Wondered how much of it I cause. Thought: life is a gift but not one we asked for and gifts we don’t ask for aren’t always gifts we want, expect, come equipped to manage well. And so it goes. Thought: If the sun could crystallize and fall from the blue stratosphere today like gold diamonds would I be able to gather up enough of them in my pockets to make the day worthwhile.
Scraped change for a refreshing citrusy drink.
Maybe, I’ll read that 1971 history of the Celts. Maybe start Malerman’s horror novel, Bird Box.
And there’s this collection of stories by Jeffrey Ford.
Books are gold drops.
I think I’ll make someone happy today.🦎
Photo: aukjevanderwal.nl
Bequeath me sight not as it seems—
A sphere of light to capture breath;
Come, toll the word of moons and beams—
Exhume the heft of youth-felt schemes.
Purvey the slice that leaves no scar—
A sliver of bewitchèd glass;
A drop to stir; enflame the pall—
Un bâton rouge pour faire l’étoile.
Encerclez! thou thornèd crown—
Each pented point a waning sun;
Le sang va embrasser le sol—
And name the circle ‘done’.
(C)2018 Sanguine Woods
INSOMNIAC
O, the blood-encrusted thoughts!
whirring like blades, wheeling
and whining through
the ambushed mind—unhinged,
unheeded—how
does one pray to be emptied?
Sly half-truths; those
brazen whole-truths, eyes
like coals
low to the burning.
“‘Tis the hooded chill cloaks the fever!”
Old Wives’—
you know—
smoldering blue at the gums;
tooth and blade
chew, then whirrr,
whirrr,
then chew—
through the indigo watches
of the night.
___________________________________________________________________________________
(C)2018 Sanguine Woods
INSOMNIAC is a poem I am especially fond of. I think it’s because the poem is so honest and raw and painful–three of the spectres which haunt the real insomniac, among others (I’m not so sure I want to ever see those Old Housewives who “smolder blue at the gums”!). I have for the past year off and on been a slave to the vilest insomnia. One evening when I was at the end of my rope, I called out to the darkness of my midnight bedroom. I can’t explain it any further than that–I am not one to be superstitious. But I asked it why I couldn’t fucking sleep. This poem was its response.
(Image credit unknown. Source: Pinterest)
The Sanguine Woods 