Tag Archives: nature

terraria

autumn leaves

and nothingness

seasonal escapade

ache more for less

.

hills that whisper

junipers without whim

love without living

wounds without skin

.

mental imposter

corrupted serenity

flimsy enclosures

where art humanity

.

mountains that shake

hellebores without bloom

live without loving

oxygen unconsumed.

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Impossible Year: Petrichor

It had been hours since Ryan Ross began staring down the mustard-yellow walls of his living room, and since then he hadn’t stirred from his position but once to take a sip from his mug—only to realise in quiet disdain that his chai tea had already gone cold.

It was drizzling lightly and he was lazily lounging on the couch, wearing an embarrassingly fluffy blue jumper and sweatpants, having a nice warm (well, not so nice and warm now) drink, and hearing nothing but the comforting sounds of rain falling from the gloomy sky and gently kissing the rooftop and windows.

It was the perfect sweater weather, the one Ryan adored and wrote about more than any other season, more than he ever even cared to admit…but now, it just didn’t feel right. He didn’t really know why, exactly, but something felt anxiously off somehow.

Just what is it about today?

On most times like these, he would already be full-on dramatic poet mode, with his intent musings flowing past his relaxed mind and onto his chewed-up pen like…filthy drainpipe water flowing onto the open sewers? Seriously, out of all the beautiful ways to have possibly worded it, that’s the best metaphor he could come up with? Disgusting.

Ryan sighed, running a hand through his messy auburn hair in frustration. The situation was getting more dire by the minute, and nothing else he seemed to try was working.

Mental block is a bitch.

Maybe he was just forcing it too much. Maybe he’d been cooped up inside his suffocating house for too long. Maybe he needed to take a break.

He snorted derisively at the last thought. He definitely needed to take a break.

“George Ryan Ross III, you need to get the hell out of this damning place and pull yourself together!” He proclaimed to himself, his soft voice echoing throughout the empty rooms of his house.

Filled with a new fervour, Ryan resolutely headed to the door, but not before making sure to grab a heavy parka from his closet and a badly-bent umbrella leaning by his shoe rack. As soon as he stepped outside, the scene that greeted Ryan completely took his breath away.

It was a whole lot prettier than he imagined.

Careful not to trample on the newly-blossoming flowers, Ryan giddily spun and traipsed about for a bit before finally standing still in the middle of his front yard. He then breathed in deeply, taking in the fresh scent of lemongrass and rainwater painting the air in that sluggish April afternoon.

The initial rush of wind that blew by was rather strong, rustling the tree branches madly and making him lose his umbrella. The latter was sent careening out of his grasp and ended up tumbling away onto the puddle-soaked street, creating an awful screech as it went along, metal scraping against pavement until the abrasive sound slowly faded away into nothing.

But surprisingly, Ryan found that he didn’t mind it at all. The umbrella’s already old and half-broken, anyway. And the weather never gave a damn about me.

Hey, that kind of sounds like a good line…ladies and gentlemen, we finally have a breakthrough! A voice at the back of Ryan’s head announced victoriously. It was such a silly thought…but suddenly, he didn’t feel so exhausted anymore.

And for the very first time that day, Ryan smiled.

Ryan stayed out in the rain for a rather long time, shivering madly and humming melodies to himself until he was numb from the cold and drenched to the bone. He laughed until he cried, he cried until he laughed; until the tears were indistinguishable from the cloudburst, until the childish laughter was intertwined with the sweet reveries of spring.

And there he stayed, until the rainfall finally ceased and the drowsy sun slowly sank under the scarlet horizon; still cheering and singing along to the march of the clouds.

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flourish

there’s no

cruel in sunrise

no judgment

in nature

.

there’s no

pains in starlight

only longing

in rainfall.

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Postcards From Crystal River

you are the open window in an elsewhere, rustic, countryside summer

where drowsy bumblebees rest contentedly by the pollen-speckled glass

and little emerald drops of shy foliage sometimes dare to cautiously peek in

before the shooing breeze languidly billows them all out to heaven knows where

.

luminous sunshine glows ardent on tan skins and pales against cotton curtains

a curious puppy might loll its head lazily about and bark at scampering squirrels

and the sticky rose vanilla soda gives way to the thawing rivulets down my blouse

perhaps i’ll rise from my wicker chair and have a nap soon—or perhaps just five more minutes.

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Hanging Gardens of Babylon

It’s the dead of the morning, and I just wish you would come out of

The woodwork, where you’ve been pushing pinecones and daisies

From under my skin. I let the seeds blossom into suffocating weeds,

When you once fervently promised me beautiful flowers and verdant

Foliage like no other kind—but only weak envy thrived within this

Nature, and we both craved the dirt like simpleminded earthworms

Crawling by the railroads just to get trampled on and ran over by

Speeding trains. Perhaps we could finally separate and grovel away

In different directions; maybe I can search for my greener pastures, as

You make your way back to the cemetery fields where you belong,

Wilting and decaying with your apologies in the dead of the night.

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Pacific Transit

Spare a few seconds to bring my soul back to life

I’ll take the time to grasp onto your slippery thoughts

Go cry me a river, we’ll save it for next summer

For now, we’ll sleep in hazy hemispheres that skies forgot

.

Will this be more than a yawning afternoon soapbox love?

There’s no reason to believe if the whole world’s watching

I guess there’s something in your face, the way your smiles fall short

Beneath your callused fingertips, no such thing as a happy ending

.

Will a quiet embrace convince you to settle down and breathe?

Facsimiles of youth painted on dewdrops and plastic evergreen

If I really tried, can I find an oasis beneath the muddy puddles?

Should we pick up where we left off, or leave nothing but a dream?

.

Take a moment to set the scene; oh it’s fine, we’ll be here all night

From basement lights to firework flights, time’s shrinking with the tides

That touched our gentle skins and left bruises for strangers to count

For now, we’ll laugh like nothing matters, we have the weather on our side.

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Danielle’s Falling October

Oh yes, she’s my redhead darling

The rarest kind that makes autumn feel so jealous

From her button freckles to her pumpkin-spice skin

She dances vivaciously in a riot of fireplace colours

.

Oh yes, she’s my redhead darling

The rarest kind that always makes my vintage heart feel new

When the pages are torn to cliffhangers and wishful nothings

Her camera smile captures every quaint blush of my pale hue.

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sulk

influences

on the red of

her lips, and

her cornflower

hair glowing,

an autumn moon

sulking by a

riverside bank

as pastel waves

kissed out the

drought of spring

and i remembered

how to forget…

bruised knuckles,

twisted hallways

filled with ghosts

that no one can chase

but her all alone,

and a room which

held my dark fears

but never let them out.

and left nothing but

silent discontent,

wrong phone calls,

her umber eyes under

the influence of tears

until they turned red

and drifted off into

a sleepless dream.

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Don’t Turn The Tables Sweetheart, You’re Gonna Dizzy Yourself Sick

Well, she’s not bleeding on the ballroom floor
Just for the attention, ‘cause that’s just ridiculously odd
Well, she sure is going to get it, here’s the setting
Fashion magazines line the walls now, the walls line the bullet holes
Have some composure and where is your posture? Oh, no, no!
You’re pulling the trigger, pulling the trigger all wrong…

~*~

You act like you’ve got a pretty laugh stuck in your ragged throat

Proud of the way you dirty your skin, proud of the way you gloat

About the veins, they’re just veins, they’re just another empty sea

I don’t want to swim, I don’t want to sink, I don’t want to censor me

.

Can you see the way I twist my hair into a noose that I’ll never hang?

Well the knots have hurt my fingers and for a moment my hands stung

All this beauty left to be romantic about, but sometimes nature is a bore

The bayside’s wayside in screaming trees, sometimes nature is a whore

.

When we did it, it was funny, it was temporary, it was just a tragedy

Coming from the cheap seats and you clapped for the longest irony

Now it’s your turn, it’s not funny, it’s forever, it’s a bruised symphony

We paid the balcony scene just to watch a charcoal sob for a penny

.

And your lips spill with attention and gush that you don’t want any

Paint the crooked crucifix on your pallid cheeks with bitter and honey

Now all the hypocrites adore you, blood-type A of sycophantic rude

Play a victim with a rifle to their shoulders, act as if it’s how you should

.

Now the trigger smiles so happy, does that bullet taste like sweet candy?

Do the fucking polaroids show off the best sides of your broken inhumanity?

Make us sorry that this reality didn’t fit your peach-twill dress and sanity

Was it your idea to put the slit in your throat so you can pretend that it’s originality?

~*~

Give me envy, give me malice, give me your attention!
Give me envy, give me malice, baby, give me a break!
When I say shotgun, you say wedding: shotgun, wedding, shotgun, wedding!
She didn’t choose this role, but she’ll play it and make it sincere
So you cry, you cry (give me a break) but they believe it from the tears
And the teeth right down to the blood at her feet…

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afterwords

rain and quiet conversations

with the shadow of a stranger

warmth of coffee, cold of night

mishaps fleet, transient danger

stresses, messes, second guesses

caught in breezes, puzzle pieces

chicken soup spilled on the soul

artworks of silver and charcoal

daylight saving, wasting evenings

under trees and benches, petrichor

desolation wrapped around blue bones

waiting for the time when it feels like home.

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