Another Twig

No true image exists for this true story.

When a poet decides to take a step, and walk, poetry pops out much later, and the direction is often of no consequence. Left may be a dead-end, right may be some other kind of hell, forward may look like death, and backward is almost impossible. There are no wings to fly up, but if there are some stairs, it is something. The same applies to going down, but nobody wants to go to the basement where the possibilities are darker like a moonless night, even if there is some artificial light. There are six possibilities to choose from at most.

Wait a second, said the tree to the twig that was about to fall to the ground on account of an unkind wind, not a human just yet. There is a seventh possibility.

I am only a twig and I know that we are limited to six. Every tree knows it.

Well, this tree knows a little more. You see, my dear twig, you will not know it when it happens, but when you fall to the ground or fly off to some other resting place, you will be dead, and that is one direction that most of those who are aware pretend that it does not exist. Yet, I have seen it with my own leaves, every autumn, and also when my fellow trees were axed for no good reason that I could fathom. When we die, my dear twig, we touch upon the seventh direction some also call oblivion. I think that it is a nice place where nothing exists, not even the wind.

Am I going to oblivion, my tree?

We are all going there at one time or another, no matter if we find it unfair. Oblivion is everything in the scheme of things. Life is just an illusion.

The poet decided to sit down instead and type a few meaningless words.

Another Twig

Another tree

It was time to look for an appropriate image.

What about an image of oblivion? But how does it look? No one has a clear idea. It does not look like anything. It is the lack of everything. The image has to be empty and even more so than deep space where there are subatomic particles at some unknown play. Oblivion is undefined. There is no image for that.

...

Dedicated to oblivion. Now, smile! You are still alive.

...

Woodpecker: Where Are the Trees?

I was pecking at some good wood

When I noticed there was less wood

Where’s the wood I thought where’s the wood

I couldn’t have pecked all the wood

I only peck I don’t chop wood

It surely hurts I know the wood

...

I was watching a woodpecker

Pecking at a tall tree nearby

It was the tree I was planning

To cut down first thing tomorrow

Woodpecker built its house in it

I can’t have my wood now damn it

...

I was being pecked at nonstop

What in my hell was going on

It must be a freaking flyer

At least it’s not those tree killers

I can live with birds and their nests

Axes and their humans murder

...

Hearts: A Woody Thought

She might have melted a heart of stone, but nothing can melt a heart of wood. Victor Hugo

Yes, a heart of wood can only burn to embers

Or even better be broken into small lumps

How do I know this, you may ask your four members

They may have touched wood before it turned to goose bumps

If greed is good, wood is indeed murdering trees

Which fall like civilians who never mastered war

If love is good, wood could be better in the breeze

Leaves moving to a green music playing each spore

When I look at trees, I only witness life hushed

But only to my ears since my heart can hear it

Being also wooden in experience, crushed

Every time a tree beseeched someone’s axe to quit

I hereby remind you again that trees are not

Wood, timber, and fire-worthy should be a long shot