Trees And Dandelions Collection


The chirping of sorrow in the shadows of broken wings
let’s too many birds of loneliness
fall prey to predators
who pounce on despair.

She is uncertain in the forest
if she should
sing or hide

Newly grown camouflage
seems to blossom and branch;
winds on tree tops tear off
a few deciduous victims
still green but detached
before the fall approaching

She has taped plastic sheeting
and cardboard
on her broken window, not letting
green leaves of happiness
fall in through her window,
not letting the fog drift in
that looks out onto the ocean
where his boat struggles
to land on her beach, but
is adrift in the fog, and
his horn seems
to not carry beyond where
she left her
beach blanket long ago.

Melancholy is the cry of the shipwrecked,
not knowing where the treasure lies,
mast lowered. Exquisite is

the flutter of pretty lashes
when he sails onto land
beyond the seagull’s cry
tacking into her breezes.

Guided only by a random leaf,
he sees her broken window
and tears apart the plastic

A sad maple is she,
syrup exploited
never allowed
to taste her own sweetness

Her leaves could have
absorbed the love
of the Sun
of the passing Prince,
had she not played
her lute too softly to be heard

Never should such a lonely string,
such a flower
be cut on a slant,
dying, put
in a vase
for a decorative purpose

Because of such sorrow,
never let winter ever come again
without a prayer implanted
in the bosom of justice

The angels have fallen
if they would honor wine
more than the dangle of
the maiden’s dew, more
worthy than any untested virgin
in a nunnery who
has never cried for love
and only knits diversions

She is so worthy of forgiveness
as are you, when your
morning mourning pancake
has God’s rainbow syrup
on a reawakening breakfast
saved at last
for eternal joy

You are an inner voice
a trilling tone in my head;
though tart the prelude, a lick,
orchestration’s so sweet
it deeds me strolls
in muscle tone
by forests
by trees,
extending concepts
calf-fully guided by
a note
a step
a song —
groves revealed
escaping fruit

getting a leg up on bliss
inner saunters drift
in gait to gates of mind
in wound up dilemmas
citrus revealed
completed lemonade
healing squeezes
stirring tastes
sweet dreams running wild to
walk me on water
float over to you, a
serenade splash
to pucker by

I am so cold in August
trying to be a puff ball like a Dandelion,
wishing you’d look
at the seed ball as you blow:
each seed on little parachute
to carry onto
lawns of possibility.

Weeds wish to land,
embed and grow. But no,
no one will let the weed speak.

I am hot to plant an idea
even in winter.

Where is your greenhouse —
I am not merely fuzz: look closer
I am a soul on a parachute
hoping to land on a soulmate and
not to snag on a
telephone pole or power line.

Lawns are too pretty plain;
let me be a flower in the lapel of love
deserving a puff piece in the journal of fulfillment.
—- Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)