My Poetry

Writer, Novelist, Poet, Musician, Public Speaker

Someone lived in an everywhere way;
as more he went, the less he stayed;
and little by little, by much, by small,
Someone began to go nowhere at all.

Somehow, somewhere, he’d misplaced his why;
as Who and When went where-ing by;
and wonder by ponder, at last, by how,
Someone decided to stop off at now.

He let go of then, he took hold of yet,
tried to recall, never forget;
he opened to maybe, to might, to true;
as olding became renewing his youth.

Now Someone lives in a Where-He-Is way,
as more he discovers, the more he stays;
by loving, and giving, in all, to try,
Someone has (grateful) discovered his Why.

we are the…

luckiest little dandelions
in all the meadow wide;

with ticklish, tiny tootsies
bare, we tiptoe, dreamy-eyed;

in cool, green grassy,
flower beds, we hide;

the luckiest little dandelions
when we love side-by-side.

green gloss of wax unfolds
from (clenched) within fur-capped
mollusks; the sunlight touches all
things - like a child in a candy shop -
raining wrappers of consumed
and discarded through a pale,
powdery sky; how bashful beauty
is, when coaxed from safe haven;
how searing the light of exposed;

fists relent, letting fall
the grains of hopeful harvest;
enraptured servants ferry far
to find a mate for every bloom;
(but do they travel half as far
as i for love of you?)
these blossoms brook
not an early spring;
for feeble are the shoots
of seeds too hastily sewn;

listening, i hear the trees
lengthening, toes to twigs,
and trunk to tawny limbs;
they stretch the timbers
of their winter stiffness,
feel sap run thick as glue
within paper veins; their trembling
fingertips tickle tiny wings at work
sanding the corners of the wind;

i train my lens upon a blade;
a solitary sentry stands,
rash as a straight razor
in a nursery of innocence;
upon its point, a crimson bead,
a pinprick of speckled black
and bloodied, a prehistoric
pygmy poses for the shutter’s eye;
i hold my breath to steady my hand,
and draw my focus on his wing;
while, in the trees, a single leaf
unfurls the flag of spring.

infinite in reach, beyond knowing
and lifespan; a subtle avalanche
of one sees rounded peaks level
to valleys wide; momentum
makes waves in their wake;

nearer than conscience, they began;
pebbles dropped through glassy skin
disturb the status quo, unseat
the stale stagnant; still waters
breed only decay;

what multiplies quite so much,
so many, so magnificent a factor
as virtue? what multiplier, but love,
could hope to yield
such products as these?

where obstacles arise, they part,
then passing, reengage, unmoved;
not even the encircling shore
can long withstand its rhythmic surge;
but, ceding something of itself,
returns all waves from whence they came;

and, what of the pebble?
and, what of the hand?
content, they sink into slow
obscurity; buried beneath the crushing
weight of ages; time presses onward,
downward, and in on all things,
forming diamonds from common
and memories from men -
from whose small stones of kindness
eternal ripples begin.

the nighttime stains my bare feet
red with smudged iniquities;
the best of me lingers still
among the brutal daylight;
a tardy reminder of
a month of mondays
spent naming raindrops —
once plumes of evanescence —
as they razed their liquid souls
against a skin of moon and skylight;

(warm your feet against me, love,
what good is this fire, if not
to fashion your sanguine smile?)

watch as the day turns,
discreet as a maiden’s sigh;
how shrewdly tomorrow comes,
collecting payment
on a lifetime deferred;
only such would presume
to place a price on ruin;
only such as these would
make it their delight;
i cannot; i lack the heart;
i lost it, once, among the trees;

(do you recall
when first i fell?
so lost in love of
your shadow’s
in the snow?

you didn’t know;
how could you,
i ever feared,
too much,
to show).

under the cover of darkness,
the storm arrived in the night,
held cruelly by the frozen claws
of lifeless and gripping,
dull-eyed, aching winds;

over and around, above,
and below, whipping through
the wires, hung taut and bouncing,
as they spanned the naked, vulnerable field,
the fiendish wind danced like a troupe
of lost souls, howling, as they streaked
through an eternity of grim despair;

an unending screech of tires
on wet asphalt, a tooth dragged
over the slow, grooved skin of a record,
the wind was wild with wanton hatred;

a demoniac possessed of self-injurious
pleasure; a wart-nosed, wailing hag
being pulled into saltwater taffy, uttering
incantations in the godforsaken void
between despair and springtime;

each feathery snowflake drawn
across the blue, braided strands
as a rosined bow simpers along
the sinews of a violin string; i awoke;

half-asleep and muttering; cursing
the careless discourtesy of (my God,
is that the wind?!)

i trained my ear in the morning’s
most fruitless hours; listening, thrilling;
alive with the passions of living!

greedily coveting each fear;
each annoyance; each stifled breath
of wonder caught captive, and rattling
loose in the cavern of my chest;

i awoke;
let me never
fall asleep again.

Now let me pause and set aside the evening
drawing a breath to blow the clouds away,
the moon away,
the stars, the earth and the sky away,
‘til all that remains are the trees and the wind

- and your eyes, my love, and mine

With no rain to stain your cheeks
and no moon to clothe your silhouette
only the trees
(to lend their leaves)

and the wind
(to play its song)

- and your eyes, my love, and mine

I love the whats and hows of you,
the wheres that you once knew;
and as I learn the many whys,
I love your reasons, too.

i’ve grown old;
as old as
all others my age;
though younger, still,
than those
who came before;
there is thin comfort in youth,
thinner than the waist,
but, less so, the hair;
for, all is relative;
and even they
have grown old,

The Yeah-buts, I-Know-buts, the Can’ts and the Couldn’ts
Are not quite the same as the Oughtn’ts or Shouldn’ts
They lead to I-Didn’t, but could’ve and should’ve
If only the Yeah-buts had let me, I would’ve

One day I decided to try it
I’d been thinking about it so long

By now I was perfectly certain
That it couldn’t be naughty or wrong
I needed to know where it all went
To the sea or a tank in the ground

I took a deep breath, then I jumped in
And I flushed myself all the way down!

I stood in the rain
from morning ’til night.
I started to shrink
and my skin grew tight.

My shoes got flooded;
my fingers, wrinkly.
My arms and legs
were all cold and tingly

My mom said, “Child,
come in out of the rain!
You will catch your death!”

I had to explain
that, at last, I knew
what it’s like to be
a great and wonderful
towering tree.

I remember how it was…
(so like the faceless stirring of an autumn moon carefully making its way through colored leaves to kiss you on the forehead of your drowsy smile)

I remember how it was…
(to touch your softness with my clumsy eyes and hold you in the gaze of my frail-sighted heart as the autumn breeze ran her fingers through my mind)

I remember how it was…
(so long ago, you and I; and time was younger then; love more pure in her stride; and autumn but a child of an early spring’s summer lover)

And I remember how it was…
(that you so soon had forgotten
and love has grown old)
and I, too, have aged into winter.

I wish I had a box of zeros
I’d spend them liberally
I’d share them with my friends and family
Hold nothing back for me

I’d add them to the end of numbers
These useful, helpful nils
I’d add one each to stacks of hundreds
And two to dollar bills

I’d multiply them by the sadness
Which hides in human hearts
Reducing all to fresh new zeros
And hopeful, fresh new starts

For, if I kept my zeros for me
And, kindness failed to show
The world would be a much lesser place
And nothing’s all I’d own

Step lightly, child
the ground is tired
with memory, deep and wide
of every lifetime ever lived,
of every life that's died.

Be silent, child,
for they still hear
our trembling through the ground;
the flick'ring of eternal flames;
each soft and subtle sound.

Be still, my child,
embrace with awe
the truth of every man:
he walks but once upon this earth
and ne'er is seen again.

Wormester Wormerly
and Grumpkin Demure

Were never, assuredly
Certainly sure

Of who, what or wheredly
Either one went

Or, when they were wordy,
What either one meant

But somehow, apparently,
Wormester knew,

(despite her demurring,
the Grumpkin did, too)

that who, what and where
weren’t nearly as fair

as when Grumpkin
and Wormester
both could be there.

If I were the smallest bird
on the highest branch
of the tallest tree,
would you sit with me?
would you sing with me?

If we could see sun and clouds
and the bluest sky
and below us, leaves,
would you stay with me?
spend the day with me?

If life were a pleasant dream,
or a flower, fair,
by rippling stream,
would you dream with me?
dream this dream with me?

“Why is it called Spring?” she asked,
with a certain something in her step.

I’d marry merry Mary, now
If only I were Abel
‘Cause Abel would be able, now
If not for his girl, Mabel
For Mabel had been dating Ben
But Ben was too contrary
And I am so unAbel, now
And Abel’s dating Mabel, now
And Ben is too unstable, now
I guess I’ll stay unMaryed

I didn’t lose my hair
It’s still the same amount, up there
My head just got too large for it
to cover all the bare.

If the blue sky turned green
And the green grass turned blue
Would you walk upside down
And pretend nothing’s new?

Would the flowers be birds
And the trees, thunderclouds
And the forest, a storm
Made of leaves upping down?

Would the sunrise bring night
And the sunset, new day
’Til we made up our minds
Things were normal this way?

I refuse to live
In a world without love
In an ocean of sorrows
Overflowing, thereof

In an age of ungiving
In a time of unknowns
Where a neighbor’s a stranger
Living sadly alone

Where a life has no meaning
And a soul has no worth
But to live in the shadows
From the moment of birth

I refuse and reject it
And so clearly, I see
That to reshape the world
Must begin here with me

I hear the language of the trees
Wooden echoes of creaking words
Leafily lilting on a blossom breeze
I hear the language of the trees

I’ve heard the secrets of the wood
Sung to me from the beaks of birds
I’d gladly share them, if only I could
I’ve heard the secrets of the wood

I’ve seen where shades and shadows dance
To rhythmic chords of fifths and thirds
Exquisitely staged, leaving naught to chance
I’ve seen where shades and shadows dance

In Faerie Fields and Killoughee
Far north of the wild Goughlin Grugh
From the Perigoh to the Great Sault Sea
They all whisper their rhymes to you

I heard it on the telephone
and thought, how curious it is
that “this call may be recorded
for training porpoises.”

I always try to be helpful
and speak as clearly as I can.
I made sounds I was sure that a
porpoise would understand.

The porpoise on the telephone
didn’t seem to understand me.
I guess that I was talking to
a new porpoise trainee.

Speak in silent actions
Cast aside imperfect words
Show me what I need to hear
And let your silence be heard
Love me if your love be true
And love be all I need
Let me only follow you
And you alone shall lead

Thou hast eyes, my love,
(‘Tis no surprise to thee)

But thine eyes, my love,
Are a raging storm at sea

        Black with the might of
        dark thundering skies
        and azure
        (the shade that is only your eyes)

Yes, thou hast eyes, my love,
(You, too, can plainly see)

But thine eyes, my love,
are eyes just for me.

Leave the trees, please
Leave the forests
Let the bees be
For the florists
Let the leaves peep
For the tourists
Leave the trees, please
Leave the forests

Keep the seas clean
For the fishes
All that gleams green
All that squishes
All the dreams dreamed
All their wishes
Keep the seas clean
For the fishes

Of all we see
Be not users
Be a trustee
Be a steward
Soon we’ll just need
Less and fewer
Then we’ll all be
Caring doers

O possum, O possum
All dead on de road
What was it done hit you?
Ain’t nobody knowed

Might been a green tractor
Or maybe a car
Whatever done hit you
Done hit you real har’

O possum, O possum
Struck down in de night
I hope d'it was painless
And brought you no fright

I hope dat de headlights
They blinded yo’ eyes
I hope dat de engine
Done muffled your cries

O possum, O possum
All dead on de road
I wished’d dat driver
Had drivered more slow

I fell when I tripped;
when I slid when I slipped;
and I flew when I flipped,
then I landed.

Embarrassed, I stumbled;
I tipped, and I tumbled;
I looked around, humbled
and frantic.

The people around me,
they laughed when they found me.
But, I exclaimed, proudly,
“I meant it!”

If there’s no such place as Away,
it might be a mistake to throw things there.

It’s hard to rip off a paper towel using just one hand.
The same is true of toilet tissue, much more in demand.

I’ve seen attempts that tried and failed.
You know you’ve tried before.

You pulled too fast,
You spun the roll,
It unrolled on the floor.

I slipped on my sock
and my big toe popped out
through a hole in the worn-out wool weave

And, wouldn’t you know it,
I’ve no thread to sew it,
but it makes such a comfortable sleeve.

I drew a dot, and no one noticed it at all.
I drew a circle, and I ended up where I began.
I drew a line, and it went on forever.

Oh, to be
the highest leaf
on the tallest tree.
What dreams my eyes would see.

iKeep my nose inside my phone
iLive within a screen

iWalk through crowded streets, alone
iUsed to laugh and dream

iOnce read books, instead of Nooks
iOnce rejoiced to know

the friends outside my selfie lens
iAm, at last, iPhone

Get in Touch

Writer, Novelist, Poet, Musician, Public Speaker

  Send Me A Message -

  Join the Mailing List -

Copyright © by Matt Pelicano. Powered by DigitalCloudWare, LLC