belle2007–2002 |
dada2002–1999 |
sundance1999–1997 |
frere1997–1995 |
julian1995–1994 |
stone1994–1993 |
30 March 1995
why must they leave so soon i ask.
because they grow on trees
the sky tells me
and must fade with Time.
i clutch the green ones to my heart --
as if by holding them tighter they will live forever.
a burgundy tear drips to the brown,
staining forever the crumbling fibers.
the one so recently preserved in glass
is gently nudged by a giraffe and falls
shattering on a turtle's shell.
in aching fear i rush outside
to pick more.
but No
the clouds say
only jokes grow near the ground;
the Living -- the Healing --
are found deep above
and must be offered.
Copyright © 1995 Charles Fry
Here's one for ya. go find yourself. late again skys passing wave raining clouds and offer healing sun où es-tu dim Mornings in the underground memories squirming on the bath room ceiling open the faces on the side walk pass me by life and living Song of Peace from Time the Mountain My Father so i painted a red cross on my chest my living eulogy my plastic house alone again frustrating the Song of my heart as it grows and changes In Dark Brick Dungeons clanteba mortillia Lonely is my call to this Omnipotent generation: friend (and, by now, even brother) my PCC Our Garden Cognoscente The Home careFree the Children full moon if I were a Painter For You Caterpillar March Prison As I Went Walking Norwegian Cockatrice Lampposts Departure or The Falling Apple Peace