The Cherry Tree

I found a treasure buried
beneath the dying tree
In that backyard orchard
that still haunts me

I was too young to know
what deciduous was
and I was ignorant to what
cutting the roots does

But I dug around them
and I cut into them
Those difficult roots
that fed the stem—

The stem of a beauty
I’m determined to know
I dug up that treasure
that was buried below

I held on to that treasure
and I hid its display
From everyone I knew
who would take it away.

I hoarded the thing
long after the tree died
And kept what someone else
was determined to hide

But I gave it away
and committed my life
To a darling young belle
who became my wife

She prized it like me
but she didn’t understand
The incredible value
of something so grand

I loved her in excess
but I loved it as well
So I changed my mind
about the darling young belle

Now a cherry tree grows
in the same fertile ground
Where the old tree died
and the treasure was found

So I buried her there
where the cherry tree stands
And she became the treasure
I once held in my hands

The Girl on the Bridge

The girl on the bridge never looks at me:
her eyes always watch that canvas place
where city light reflections waver down
like tears in the eyes of Dali’s face.

Her hair blows towards the river’s edge
on the western side that bends around
the ebbing tide of the cityscape
where the setting sun has drowned.

The Daisy Garden (The Silent Garden)

I sometimes think of returning to the silent garden
where my final view of beauty was tarred on that summer night—
my sanctuary became possessed by other men
who unknowingly plucked each flower of my delight.

Each night I wallowed in the loss of this place
And each day I danced behind the farce of glee,
My daisy has been taken away from me—

I later strayed by the rosy path which bore the daisy lass,
and sat alone amidst the thorns and wild unkempt grass—

"Then nightly sings the staring owl"

I seek just like the clod of clay
to memorize true love's dossier
and put outside my mind
this lewd and lurky madrigal
that feigns itself as sweet and musical.

Then together we, in flames went down,
I lost my soul, he lost his crown
that calm summer night
when I resolved to never be
entrapped by love's philosophy.

I will survive into the sadness though
looking to the skies from my bright borough,
and whatever it is I know of love,
I've learned through the loss of it,
and it appears to be inadequate.

With hair that flows like Babylon
and Blake's fly's Grecian urn
the Cherubim make spectacles
announcing Her return

Their music plays on Keats' shore
where blossoms rooted lie
alone where two horizons meet
while fish swim in the sky

And two ships sail away at night
as one returns at dawn
by inverse wind within the shell
and sirens calling, drawn