Desert Eagle

Into the common rooms it flew filling us with feathers,
hollow bones, Indian song of the desert and sun
and our hearts fell into our feet as he looked around.
I think his eyes were gold. He shuffled his feathers
down and looked right at me and I wanted to back
away but he took my hand and lead me to the next
life and while we were flying in the darkness I heard
chanting and songs and I saw my life as a book of
pages and on the way we read his book too.

Colors came back, light poured under the walls
when we hooked our feet to the earth again.
He was a slightly crooked man, tall and lean and he
held a walking stick with the head of a snake. He pointed
to the four walls of the day, to sun climbing ladders,
to the magic pouring from my hands and he
said this is good and flew away.





For the man from the desert who lost part of his brain

and liked to tell his story in photographs.

Saturation

There is no flood. Rain is a dancer
entertaining two eagles hunched in their
half-made nest, limbs, sticks, giant's hair
hanging down from it, rooted in the crook
of a massive tree. When separated,
long, open-throated they sing to each other.

Did I sing to you? I heard you
struck by the thought of losing me.
Like the eagles, unmistakable.
And sitting at the movies
holding hands like strangers,
it washed over me, love.
Unavoidable. No choice left
but to kiss you
and it happened
all over again.

I can feel you thinking of me
here at the farm in the dark
and rain, candles in my eyes
and you, a hundred miles away
put your hand to my heart.
I look down almost seeing it.

The eagles turn their heads
toward each other, shake the rain
off, nudge closer warmed
by the fire behind the prayers
of their chest.





for M.

c2010 T.L. Stokes/Flood Water Photography

(all rights reserved for all content and photos in this blog)

Untitled

A tree torn by its roots
hovers over the neighbor's house.
The wind is long gone.
You prop a ladder under it,
decide what to do next.
The plan grows like a seedling
in your brain, I see a forest,
mysterious spirits in green,
moss and mud colored clothing.
Little stone benches
for sitting and thinking.
A glowing sky high overhead.
Work benches, tools
neatly placed like silverware.
Ladders, all sizes, stacked.
Hobbit doors to secrets.
Windows in the trees.
I could lie all day inside of you,
inside tender thoughts
bright blue like streams.
I duck, when confused,
or angry a storm brews.
I sit on a princess chair
by the largest tree.
Umbrella in my small hand.
Cherry blossoms
come down from nothing.
The air turns rose.

Everything around me
is the sound of a heart.







for M's brain

I-90 at the Snoqualmie Casino Exit

Everywhere rain gathers like smoke.

We become ghosts spreading

like wet feathers over the blacktop.

Yesterday a sports car inhaled its metal

sides resting upside down off the freeway.

Men in colored gear walked with heavy

feet carrying the jaws of life. Witnesses

frozen in poses told the story:

how it happened, what hit when,

what it sounded like. The moment

what we consider normal, stops. Time,

yes that's it, flounders, wobbles away

from where we thought our feet were.

From then on, it's our heartbeat

we listen to.

the rain forest

Here among straight backs,

green shirts and flirting sparks

of light, of feather,

among songs of ancients

the wind, lonely as a stone

tells me something.

It touches the old swing

by the river, begins to push

just enough to capture the eye

and surely there are ghosts

in private conversations

sipping coffee in the earliest sun.

I lost a love here my heart says.

A book of poems, yet unfinished,

traces the path

around and between the giants,

over the moss,

the stone beach.

You tell me, why I was lonely.

And I indeed

was never perfect.

You know where we flew to.

Then I, so tired,

easily frightened in those days,

felt the anchor tear away

from everything.

Touch me, my skin cried.

You were off fighting wars

of your own,

drowning slowly.

I'll tell you a secret, someone

told me the things you were saying

and that

opened the doors

of my going away.

for the past we let go of

Sparklehorse - Tribute to Mark Linkous

Read a new poem titled "Sparklehorse",
no it's not about a horse at all. Well mostly not.
It's about Mark Linkous of the band Sparklehorse
who took his life after a long battle with depression.
I watched two videos of him performing and was
impressed by the simple, poetic and dark music.
You can read the poem at Flood Water Photography:

http://www.floodwaterphotography.blogspot.com/

Encourage and love those near to you, even those a far way off.

Anonymous

Broken Art

Broken Art
by T.L. Stokes



Here in the grass breast of my mother will I lay my head,
sorrowing for seed and stillness. Here among the wet
breath will I whisper an old thought and dream while she
holds me again. Far from the broken thighs, oh heavy
longing. Our children lost in the rubble. Far
from stones and paintings turned to another form
of art and grave, I will leave my family, they sink
from my heart. I will be pretty on what I think stable.
In dreaming I fly, in sleep I awaken. Here, far
from islands and oceans. Here in the grass breast
of my mother, will I lay my head.




for Chile