do poems only flourish when they are rooted in the soil of emotions?
shall i water them with my tears?
do they sprout from the anger that weeds itself through my soul?
are they the seeds that i planted in my garden and only grow when the sky flashes and thunder sounds?
will you pluck them and use them as decoration for your dinner table?
do they bloom in the moonlight?
are they the trees that sway in the wind yet stand tall in the face of a hurricane?
are poems only full of emotion when we are?
or can i truly write whatever i want?

small logging towns aren’t a place for acorns
the clay soil can only hold pine
acorns get lost here
covered under mud
stepped over and on by steel toed boots
watered by only the rain
no nurturing hand to help
not a place for an acorn at all

escape is a crow
snatching the nut in its beak
flying over mountains and rivers
eventually dropping the nut
descending down to a city park

here the soil is just right
mulch and compost
water comes once a day
like clockwork
feet step around
a good place to take root

in this nurturing place
a few years down the road
branches grew sturdy
bark is thick
leaves block out the sun
birds make nest here
children climb
picnics take place below

to the acorns delight
they've grown into a place
where others can thrive

Reflections once blossomed
                   but ideals were cadavers
                                             entombed
in thorns of serrated ethics
                                     now void less.

But streams had dried up
                              leaving echoes
                of rouge images
showing like imperfections emaciated.

Even though a collection once
                           blossoming now vacant.
                   Nothing fades but leaves
seeds of contemplation, to grow again.

I took the seeds from an unknown
to plant one day, near the lake
And now they sit in the darkness
of my jewelry box
worthy of more

I take the seeds and follow gravity's pull
to the shore
Birds and insects moan
as the sun sets into the acid black
Colors entwined with the moon
burn in pink fury

I wait twelve minutes for the sunlight to disappear
the curve of the moon's crescent glowing
Heavy perfumed winds tickle
my naked arms are prey to the icy spring chill

In the dark I bury my old dried seeds
deep in the soils of earth
I chant a timid song to the moon.
surrounded by magic patterns

I spell the seeds to mingle
root in oblivion, rolled in earth
I give them hope, a potent magic
and perhaps, they will grow
into something more.

By Arcassin Burnham


Slo-
Ly,
In this,
Life,
Right here,
To break you.
I,
Could,
Be,
An Angel,
Planting secrets.
Just,
Can not,
Remove,
You like a tattoo,
You know,
That's not what you want me to be.
Not stressful,
Uncontrollable,
Bursting from the seams,
So comfortable,
Given the circumstances,  like more
Durable,
A passion,
Like an inspiration,
If we're still friends , I'll give you an
Invitation.