is a closed temple;
i cannot ascend
up the slow-formed, fountain of limbs
like carved pillars
or pay homage to its self-made existence
with my own short life and death;
nor any physical act
of worship, to praise
something which an inner tree in me
is looking up to;
reaching out through these leafy words.
my mind tries to follow its routes;
drink it in; explore such a spectacle.
but i cannot go up
except with crude tools, or from this shade
watching like a long-legged pirate
eyeing up its treasures —
since all its deeper magic; high, nautical thrills
sway, locked to us all now;
hidden in thick time
behind walls of its
mute and towering,
true, elemental house.
or is it I
stricken blind and deaf
interpret correctly its great umbrella art
creating some sanctuary on display -
in which i stand —
against the cruel sky.
noises come down;
my eyes are overwhelmed by
light and shadow.
it fills the space massively
with its thin solar panels
fueling a patience and growth
so maternal and alive
with tiny things
invisible to my slow,
simply over-awed by its presence.
i almost merge, in longing
to be more embedded and entranced;
by its myriad processes,
and generating my very air.
why and how
did we abandon them…
they may encroach upon our houses but
they have new inhabitants now
refuge, food, freshness,
the sudden rush of
height and danger
their lives and quicker deaths
all part of the deal; a cycle
owned and possessed by them all.
monkeys share this secret
without question — it’s irrelevant;
looking down upon us
distant cousins we simply
never knew; never grew up with.
besides, they’re busy, being alive;
serving their quiet gods — keyed-in
to the buzz of each other.
who am I? My inner tree speaks.
not a complete imposter
but removed from this great home now
not welcome — welcomed.
it doesn’t matter
we poorer, earth-bound lives
still spread seeds; jumping and traversing
other, stranger kinds of tree.
we ride horses, drawing up,
hushed as ranchers before an ancient Indian chief;
i’ve no idea
what I’m doing here
i occupy space too — but none up there.
one of its winged dwellers — afraid -
casts upward into its network of arms
suspecting me of ill intent,
indeed, I have burned other, whole villages
i can’t remember why.
this is summer
its creatures play
the ultimate video game;
roaming an open world to be truly
one of instant need; no planning —
just to forage and be risky, frisky
on the edge of everything
since everything really does
exist on a keen edge.
yet I only know this.
i cannot feel it here, or now.
i walk away; retreat
to carve my own dry sounds
to my lost comrades
clicking on and off
costing time and money;
lost upon this other,
more encompassing world
we imitate; celebrate
in so many ways…
this secretive tree
still summoning, overlooks
a garden corner with long grass
bending, flexing in the winds’ blasts
but is not overlooked, by me at least,
or — you — it seems
still following? — looking upwards too -
until the very end
of this tree verse
all now spread out; run through
with roots put down into a cultured soil
though they may not go as deep
or go deep enough…
..not if either this life, or this art
hopes it can outlast
our doomsday secret, hidden in the ruins in that wind
whispering something more
about some rising, retaliatory plan
to either cut us back, or bring us crashing down…
for other, fresh things to grow and fill
the dark space
where everything rests and stands.
and i tell myself again…
to burn the last of this written, treelike art
to mint and serve new life;
to simply nurture trees which open eyes
and fill up time and space — far better — in its stead.
Note: the poem on this page, is collectible as an NFT (along with the original version as text file) on my Opensea writing+art collection.
Collectors will support this page and any further updates.