little flames and evergreens

ix. for my dad

pine needles crunch
under my dad’s feet
while im on his shoulders.
the coastal wind
hums with my dad
telling me about
north america’s rarest tree.
i want to grab for the prickles,
but he puts me down
setting his cap on top
of my head and eyes.

we are at the golf course
he’s walked hundreds of miles on;
surrounded by torrey pines.
he’s teaching me how to swing a club
imitating the golfer
on the side of his ankle
that’s since bled horribly
but is still decipherable.
he points to one
of the most beautiful holes;
his father is spread
under one of those trees.

i’m not so little anymore.
my dad can’t carry me
like he used to.
i’ve met someone new
who can carry me like
dad did.
i met him under a torrey pine.
but don’t worry, daddy,
i’m still your little girl.
i’ll carry a little bit of you
wherever i go.

x. i refused to believe it, but he was always my comfort zone

i’m eleven
and my head is fogged
like that overcast day.
the path is sandy
and torrey pines
line the walkway.
alone, staring at the sea,
a little blond boy
is standing next to me.
he has a smile
too big for his face
and tells me he has a father
he wishes to erase.

i look in his eyes.

it would take a while
for me to see
the bursting pine needle striations
and what refuge
he’d become for me.
i didn’t know
i was in the presence
of two rarities that day.
i knew all about one,
but the second
was right next to me
at the bay.

although cloudy,
my head becomes clear
just like the salty
summer air.
there is a pause
in the waves
and maybe the sand was soft
because he shows
me that coarse words and threats
isn’t how all boys behave.
i walk with him
beside the torrey pines
and what i would give
to do it again
without these confines.

xi. mediterranean cypress

no matter where i am, i’ve made a home.
from rome to california cemeteries, i stand ever green.
forced to live; never breaking down to old age.
ive been here for centuries planted in cemeteries.
since i sprouted, i’ve been a symbol of mourning.

i will be the last thing standing in this graveyard
when all the workers fall down to rest.
i used to enjoy the company of those who visited tombstones,
sharing the early summer breeze,
but they soon left to become tangled with my roots.
cursed to be an heirloom of loss.

until you came, oh little thing.
you have appeared to me,
not to grieve the cold bodies in the ground,
but to tell me i am the representative
of the graceful figures of those beloved.
those sleeping in caskets and becoming ash,
becoming warm one last time.
god made me fire proof so i could finally know warmth.
i stand alive as you dance off my silhouette.

xii. he's the only one i can feel not so little with

sometimes i feel like a sproutling
no taller than unmown grass.
i am a tree without many rings;
fragile under too strong winds.
i dream of the day i can live
with my head in the clouds but,
i’m low in the atmosphere.
scared of being trampled
under someone's shoe.

he’s the only one i can feel
not so little with.
i thank him for staking me
when i thought i would fall.
he gives me sun
so one day i can repay him with shade.
each passing day
he tells me that no one will remember
when i was this tiny little thing.
i will be strong where i was once weak.
he tells me that one day
i will show them all wrong.

xiii. may 11, 2007 – november 25, 2024

delicate torch,
the candle of life was blown out
that late november day.
when they found you,
delicate torch,
there was no ember for us to wish upon.
it was all a shock to our systems,
a burn on our hearts.
but none of us knew
that the light from your eyes
vanished a long time ago.

i knew fundamentally
we weren’t for each other in the long run.
we fought too much for the space around us,
cutting wicks too short,
stealing the oxygen around the other.
but now im crying wax tears.
the world is a little colder
and my life is a little darker.
delicate torch,
i will never forget the way you shone for others
while no one knew all you wanted to do was suffocate.
im choking on your smoke
that is plagued with your memory.
its my only way to love you now with all my avenues closed.

i always loved you,
delicate torch.
even when you burned me
and i burned you,
it never stopped me loving you.
even now it doesn’t.
i just wish i had the chance to say it again.

Spoiler

a/n: this is my first napo without her. i shared my first napo with her. and i wish she was around to hear this one. i love you, delicate torch, i'll see you in paradise

xiv. he's not deserving of a good title

i don’t believe in hell, but i hope you burn,
you pious freak of the worst sins possible.
make it hot like the remorse absent from your poker face.
let the mirage of oases surround you
and may you never have a day
where you forget you have put this upon yourself.
i hope the screams of your partner never leave you
and the tearful whispers of the ones you wronged
never give you a night’s rest.
i pray the golden rule is your greatest punishment.

Hey fellow tree-buddy! <3333

Spoiler

Love the strong narrative-bent of your work Fire - it feels like there's layers of stories under these poems, and I love that. The poem about father's was sweet and nostalgic and a little sad at the end.

leaves are open palms for worship.

Ah love that!

The rage in poem xiv is palpable! oooh!

These lines really hit me in xiii ->

we weren’t for each other in the long run.
we fought too much for the space around us,
cutting wicks too short,

"we fought too much for the space around us" --- the multiple ways that that can be taken in good / harsh / difficult connotations and then as fire light or people or personalities is really interesting and then the rest of the poem carries on that torch metaphor so well too. These all have been good reads. I'm enjoying following along!

xv. i would choose this man every time (man vs. bear)

the viridian sea of trees
gets taller and denser at the heart,
mirroring the way i love you.
a walk in the forest smelling of whimsy
as you hold me closer than you ever have.
everything i love all around me,
yet for once i am not distracted.
how could i when my greatest love
(the sight of your tender smile)
is right next to me?
if only you knew how easy it is
for me to love you.

laying in the midnight forest,
the speckled moon light caresses you gently
like the way you say my name.
i love your moonlit profile,
the slightly uneven shave of your submentum,
the pinkness of your chin.
no one has it like you.
you look into the beautiful void you like to get lost in,
the midnight sky with scattered leaves,
and look back to me.
your own personal universe
in my eyes.

the forest exhales in comfort
with us in it.
you glow like the fireflies
when your hand is in mine.
i can’t wait to be safe with you.
to be alone together in the forest,
the only eyes on us are the stars and animals
emerging from the tree trunks.
to hold your hand as it keeps mine warm
as the night breathes cold into my fingertips.

xvi. a stroke of a match and a draw of breath

people say to keep watch of candles,
to never leave them unattended like toddlers.
i knew this from the day i was lit alive,
i can’t walk away from the fire by your bedside.
keep it as a nightlight to keep you company
as the night etches into day while conscious and unconscious are blurred.
you still can’t decipher if its your pillow or me that you’re clutching.
i’ll stay beside you waiting to blow out the candle
when you’ve dimmed as well.
sleep well, my north star, i’ll visit you in your dreams.

xvii. the only thing around me that glitters is gold

i must be taken care of
to remain beautiful,
trimmed, neat, and graceful.
god forbid i am forgotten on the shelf
to become ugly, unkempt, and overgrown.
i do not glitter on my own.

with enough care and time,
i can bend and not break
(it hurts, but i can do it).
but if fortune is not on my side,
unlike the kintsugi fractals on my pot,
gold can’t heal me.
i wish to absorb that regeneration
through the soil padded between pot and root,
but nothing will make me shimmer again
after i dimmed just once.
they love to see me grow
for the opportunity to manipulate my trunk
and prune my pain into beauty.
but i can’t grow too big.
i can’t outgrow the pot that is more valuable
than i am.

they look at me and call me bonsai:
planted in a container.
there is no acknowledgement to what is planted
in that potted prison. no care
to what wanted to grow
yet stayed this little thing.

xviii. being cut off like the end of a cigar

the smoke room’s door is locked
with the cigar of trust being passed around
in my absence.
behind that decorated wall,
i wonder what the taste of companionship is.
is it sweet and innocent?
smokey and mature?
i’m asked if i need an escort,
but i let myself out and away
from the jazz club.
they’re laughing as i leave.

against a dirty wall,
i light a cigarette alone and cold,
tasting the disgusting char in my lungs.
my insecurity is nicotine in disguise.
i want what they have, but camaraderie
in this world scares me.
yet, i am here, leaning against
the jazz club wall
facing the alley
grasping for it.
i continue to hold on so tenaciously
to your hand which once lit my smokes
that i might be the first person
to ever hold a shadow.
i guess in the back of my mind i’m fearful
we will age poorly,
so might as well not age at all.

but maybe one day
i’ll be allowed in the jazz club.

xix. "zacchaeus, hurry and get down..."

gather, you sinners, and take the example
of zacchaeus. a repentant tax collector.
rich by schemes; his sins
concentrated in his short body.
the same body that climbed a sycamore
to see the great teacher.

jesus looked up to his father in the heavens
only to lay eyes on this tax collector’s heart
and he saw fine soil with which to plant.
zacchaeus showed the fruitage of his repentance,
dropping from the tree, understanding
the forgiveness he received from the top of the tree.

the start to his salvation was climbing a sycamore.

xx. adorer est essayer et je te remercie pour essayer si fortement (to love is to try and i thank you for trying so hard)

i think about the giant february magnolia tree
standing gracefully in my glammie’s neighborhood.
the blue-smelling shade cast on my fourteen year-old face,
but not blocking the muggy smell of nearby swamps
where the alligators lay in the sun
for college students to walk by on their way to class.
enveloped in cajun beauty the french-canadians
found in the bayou, i try to touch the magnolias
that were originally pollinated by beetles
(for they existed before bees).
her ancient stability and gentleness are just out of reach,
yet i didn’t see the beauty in the house where the kitchen smelled
of gumbo and shrimp stirs.
i didn’t find the ancient stability of my glammie going strong at 82
never knowing a complete break (as she’d say
i’m flap flap flapping my wings).

when asked what my favorite flower is,
it would take me a few years to recall
the humidity and serenity of louisiana
and readily answer magnolia.
a piece of my blood i could finally embrace,
finally loving a well aged woman with a southern drawl
as much as she loved me.
if i could teleport the 1,675 miles between us
i would stick one of those ancient fragrant flowers in her hair
and tell her she looks 18 again.

Spoiler

thank you @theromanticchemist for translating the title to french for me <3

xxi. the squirrel is trying to survive the hellscape of my brain

in my head lives a squirrel in a tree.
she made a home in the hole of a trunk
and counts nuts and leaves.
the branches are connected;
one thought becomes another.
the wind rustles leaves together
from the warm incoming souther.
the squirrel has no trouble
making her way through the sky,
but every so often she has to flee
or else she will surely die.
the destruction of flames is persistent
always on her tail.
she runs and runs as fast as she can
because she cannot fail.
the squelching hot is nearing,
and now she starts to sweat
the forest is now burning down
to things i will forget.
i don’t want my friend to worry
where she will or will not live,
yet i cannot put out the fire,
and my friend cannot forgive.
there will always be another forest
growing in my head,
but i wish i had a brain without
a forest fire instead.