the Keeper

A keeper for many

A place to put their hearts

their souls

their walking shoes.

What draws someone near?

What draws me to witness the organics…of which I cannot control?

Ice jams that fluctuate and pause.

Buoyant waters that tug at devastation, as if knowing something…

I had only wished to understand.

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Nature by Bianca Stone

Maybe humans are the failed A.I. of Nature.

Maybe Nature made something it thought would tend the garden.

Maybe Nature made something sexy, to watch clean the pools with long butterfly nets

and a sunburn-the retainers of Nature.

Now, mirror of mercury and Hell, that hot-red bomb in your mouth, that sweet battleground on your tongue-

it is the catastrophe of your mission.

The wealthy, with their outstanding educations and custom shoes, and empty apartments floating above like Glinda; the ballad of media, the intellectuals, almost shepherding evolution, falling asleep in their haunted paintings and unattainable poetry-all the dimensions of each person’s being, punk, restless in a loop.

Sometimes I want to be taken into nothingness.

I want to be burned with the gypsy moths and blindweed.

Run to exhaustion with the wildebeest.

I don’t want this phone, I want to kill God.

Maybe humans are the complex systems of a natural order that must build and destroy itself in perpetuity.

Blue chicory on the road saying, the end of summer in a sandstorm of our passing-they gyrate and smile-what of our little duties to the architect?

Our deep-red blood our lush tech-

Archangels limping into paradise.

rubbish

right now, red on green

soon to be, red on whitejunk 1

such is, simplicity’s plight

indistinguishable from every other day

that is until life among the wind…begins to sway

nature, a wonder, as I blow like rubbish from here to there

all the junk knowledge I have received…

none of it of this earth

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an Age Difference

The severance of a nerve

The leftover scarsimageedit_3_6632606200

Have I ‘arrived too late?’

Must ache be my fate?

There is a static to the air…while I put aware my cares.

A great sense of having visited a temple built without brick.

A presence of ‘having heart’ in the changing of colors that loom ahead.

Watching as the fields grow…and, wane.

I hear nothing from the sheltering woods…they do not complain.

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Hermit Pond

Two wheels, and you can smell fresh mulch…

you can detect new creosote.

Two wheels, and freedom becomes less elusive,

less noticeable in a harried world.

Two wheels, and you can hear all that needs to be heard.

Two wheels, and you can go places…

never remember the names

never remember the drifting.

Two wheels, and no remembering the reason for going.

Always understanding why you came.