Words From Graeme

John McCain looks like a shiny, albino turtle who's just eaten a botox salad.


Summer by Graeme


Across the parking lot there's an overgrown field, a vacant lot;
but it is anything but empty. Each morning as I get out of my car,
I can hear the insects whirring and clicking, the rustle of leaves
and thrum of woody limbs vibrating in the wind.

Each evening as dusk comes,
birds call to each other and busy themselves before dark;
the field purrs and stretches before sleep.

I'm wearing my work clothes: button-down shirt and silk tie, dress
shoes, pressed khaki pants. Dry-cleaning is expensive, and grass
stains? I can see the look of suspicion on the elderly lady's face as
I drop off my clothes, burrs and dirt and green tendrils everywhere.

"What have you been doing?" her look says, speaking volumes about
what is acceptable, appropriate, proper. And my co-workers think
I have gone mad. Tittering behind their gray cubicle walls, they
exchange glances as I walk by, eyeing an errant leaf stuck to
my sleeve, a feather in my hair…

They don't suspect that
I have become a Creature of the Field.

I grip the thick muscle of Summer
as it heaves and wakes from slumber.

I hear the streets crackle
with vines of green fire as Nature feasts

blossoms boom like cannons
milkweed pods burst seams
mercenary oak roots march

I am watered and alive again
satiated
full of sap and light.


-more from Wickerkid at: http://www.angelfire.com/blog/wicker_chronicles/esoterica/