Deadfall

Weird Poetry

In the woods

There is always the deadfall —

The trees that have fallen into their end —

A silent Winter death on the edge of the chirping Spring.

Deadwood,

Decomposing,

Returning to earth,

Demise in soil and dry moss,

A soft and sweet falling into eversleep —

[Only if you’re not around to hear it]

Back into the biomass —

Its place of birth.

You’ll always find one,

And you don’t even have to look very far.

Its death is now life.

~~~

❤👽

~~~

*** Lighten up, Doll Face. It’s just a season. ***

*** Ugh…. ***

The brook is always changing

Weird Poetry

Yesterday

The icy edges weren’t kissing

Like they are

Today.

Now the water runs under shimmering sheets of crystal,

And the light,

Dappling through snow-hugged tree arms,

Is blinding my glacial eyes.

I didn’t have to squint as much

The day before.

But it doesn’t bother me —

Because what I can no longer see,

I can hear clear as quartz,

And the brook makes this bubbling bumping sound

Beneath the merging ice blankets,

And it might be

My favourite sound of the season

So far.

~~~

❤👽

~~~

*** Kissing ice sheets over bubbling brook. ***

Photo & gif by moi ❤👽

My Watery Muse

Uncategorized

December 26, 2020 ~ The sound that the jingling icicles made was just so pleasing.

December 28, 2020

Close-up of ice formations found on December 28

January 9, 2021

January 10, 2021

January 16, 2021 ~ If you peer down that little hole in the snow behind the animal tracks, you can see the ever-flowing water of the little brook. If you’re quiet, you will hear it too.

Mud frogs need the rain to be true mud frogs

Weird Poetry

Mud frogs

Go into a state of brumation

In the winter.

They bury themselves

Deep

Deep

Deep

Beneath the ground,

Beneath the muck and mire and mud —

Sleeping

Still as slow

Barely breathing

Blood flow on near pause.

Then

The rains come,

And the frogs begin to re-awaken

And leave their hibernaculum

To resume their living

And their breathing.

Some of us

Are the mud frogs,

While some of us

Are just the mud.

But there are others

Who are neither;

They are the rain.

The world can be so

Arid

Dessicated

Dry as dead bone

Void of moisture

Void of sustenance

Void of the voidless.

But every once in a while,

In the right season,

At the right latitude and longitude,

The rain comes in torrents and sheets,

And the little frogs

Climb and pull their way

Out of their state of

Suspended life

From deep deeper deepest mud.

Without the rain to signal them,

They might brumate indefinitely…

But they have to wake up

Eventually.

~~~

❤👽

~~~

*** Inspired by “Stargirl” by Jerry Spinelli… such a sweet and touching story. ***

*** Also… “brumation” is my new favourite word. ***

*** Also… my mud frog research might be faulty. Do allow for creative license but correct me if I am wrong. ***

White Moth

Weird Poetry

I was extinguishing a spent joint

In a rusty can of ashes and butts on the front stoop

As a cold wind nipped at my bare feet.

I always walk around outside with bare feet on the frost and ice-cold dew because I like being reminded of my nerve-endings. They are even as far down as one’s feet, you know?

As the final plume of smoke escaped the lip of the metal container,

A beautiful little white moth crawled out from under the dead cinders.

She had a fancy mane of fur about her thorax, beady black eyes, feathery antennae, and subtle orange markings on her downy wings.

I felt bad for stubbing out the joint, and smoking her out of her diurnal hiding place,

But she only seemed minimally inconvenienced.

When the smoke ceased, she disappeared back over the lip

And back into her ashes, not bothered by the fact that she was pristine, and the ashes were not.

~~~

❤👽

~~~

*** Oooo! A pristine white moth crawls out of dirty ashes…. Real original metaphor there, Sugar Lips! ***

*** Actually, there are no metaphors or allusions here. I literally saw the most darling little white moth crawl out of a rusty coffee can I use as an ash tray for my joints. I even said, “Awwww” when I saw her. ***