Last Snow

posted Feb 26, 2017, 1:59 PM by David Storlie

In the shimmering depth 
of new snow 
there is no self. 
Glistening galaxies 
gazing from lawns skyward, 
night's wardrobe 
where all possibilities leaning 
dormant warning 
the next great unexpected 
blizzard of light, 
melting, misting, lifting 
as does a fog. Tasting breath 
chilled like champagne silhouettes, 
cold as the midnight of a century and 
exhaled beyond living memory 
(back behind the ribs.)
Remember when this began 
then is forgotten, and 
now is wrapped in one more 
moment of glamorous snow.

Extending the Metaphor

posted Nov 26, 2014, 7:04 AM by David Storlie   [ updated Feb 17, 2015, 7:27 PM ]

In the bark of a tall tree, I scratch 
my deepest desires, my pen quivers 
like a squirrel's tail. My message 
is timed, yet now's thickest branches 
shed leaves in a harvest of my thoughts.  

I scatter gallons of hope-seeds 
into your necessary wind, and dream
their taking root in the soil 
out of your nearest window.  

If only your breeze would whistle 
through my spreading fingers 
and newly sprung foliage so 
you can hear and touch and 
smell my love replenished.

No extended metaphor can float 
unharmed down the rushing 
courses of our lives, but if one 
can balance for a time on such 
a hope of renewal, he can take 
another breath of forgiveness 
and comfort, which are only to be 
found in the deepest cleaving of 
my lungs to my heart.  

There is no drowning hope in my 
upcoming voyage of reconciliation.  
I will come fully aware that its swim 
or sink, and I will prove to myself 
that my hope is as strong as I am.

Only a description of the ever-changing 
seasons of our earth can compare to the call 
I feel to roar my love to you, even 
in the darkness where no one is listening.

Freedom becomes you and me, and it reminds me 
of how important each moment we live is.  
I am feeling such a strong pull to know 
exactly what you mean to me.  
Take your time to find your roots, 
I am as sturdy as a tree to a squirrel.

These words are special magic of the tree fairies.  
They disappear even as they are read.  
If I could speak them to your sleeping ear, 
they would be most holy.
Excuse the profane fingers with which I write, 
they are only truly expressive with the touch of your skin.


posted Jan 21, 2010, 4:12 PM by David Storlie   [ updated Feb 17, 2015, 7:29 PM ]

Last night I hung 
my sleep out a sill 

till dawn 
I eloped 
the primordial 

of my 4-door

And walked by 
the light of gravel 
and the grin 

of the Moon.
Three stars led 

(Mars was its
closest of all
recorded time.) 

The clearest
I lost

7 hours of my life
of leisure 
I walk with difficulty

As I passed your house 
or his and hers 

The dogs would howl 
one’s wet maw, my wrist 
I feared. 

Otherwise alone, and 
long deer legs cracking 
twigs somewhere unknown. 

The forest was impenetrable 
I could not think 

my way through it 
even to enter an inch. 
I stayed firmly 

Planted on gravel heels 
sometimes running, always 

Walking faster 
and water was 
my greatest desire. 

I’ve never wanted 
woman more. 

Once though, I heard 
voices, saw people, a fire 
a circle, all standing 

Happy ritual,
I passed unnoticed. 

There is something spiritual 
in a campfire circle 
some magic that must

Not be tapped 
if you can’t equally replenish it. 

And when bodies of 
drunken men are 
elongated by fire 

The look ominous 
unfriendly, and you think 

Over the next hill I 
could be home, though
you know you are more 

Lost than you were 
when you set off from 

The wreck of your 
totalled park avenue 
with electric everything

which nobody would
ever drive again after you
hung it up last night.

a kiss

posted May 20, 2009, 11:26 AM by David Storlie   [ updated Feb 17, 2015, 7:35 PM ]

was expected
from somewhere, but surprise,
here it comes
now, you thought it would
but it's still
fast and frantic
ever after, each
open mouth
breath seems to be

to soften
against the close


American Gothic

posted May 20, 2009, 11:26 AM by David Storlie

Like pipes
we coupled
in the backlot


you leaned over
a rusty diswasher
and I pried
locked hinges off.

Bath Beads

posted May 20, 2009, 11:25 AM by David Storlie   [ updated Feb 17, 2015, 7:39 PM ]

Bubbles bracelet
her limbs
emerging from the bath
the sequins
of her lather vest
shyly scooping
arms full of bubbles and
wrapping them over
like a present
in iridescent foil.


posted May 20, 2009, 11:24 AM by David Storlie   [ updated Feb 1, 2010, 11:11 PM ]

My love's a canary
while at her nest
lurk cuckoos 
she's mothering
but upon my request
she'll turn them loose 
when I'm the cuckoo
at her breast
between two smooth eggs 
attempting to pursue
a secret quest
(to climb the longest legs) 
often tried and fell
without rest
to reach those eggs again 
(and even cracked my shell)
but now I'll test
my beak against them 
the tips of which
I find the hardest
points of their ellipse 
those shapes amaze
one with interest
(like watching an eclipse) 
I am a spy
at her behest
to watch them overnight 
with eagle's eyes
(for I've the best
of all views in sight) 
until the sun awakes
rising from her rest
she flutters up again 
to bathe in lakes
she always protests
as I follow her in
for her love's a snake,
her one (and only) sin.


posted May 20, 2009, 11:23 AM by David Storlie   [ updated Jul 27, 2009, 8:36 AM ]

None of us
have any business
understanding each others'
references, in truth
blank stares are all we give

I used to go
for a coffee now
and then, irregularly
the nights weren't
altogether so long. 
Now people don't talk
I listen

Someone said near me,
"what am I saying...hmm..."
rhetorically, of course, but why
think the tips of our tongues
should always have
answers on them

One milks her coffee
spread out the moments
our conversations consisted of
spreading out
each drink, meal,
day, year, you name it

She's there again someday
in the chair that's usually
mine, she has come
and is sitting in it
casually "Hello", You "Oh my"
and "what a surprise" for both
but I leave for
a sofa, coffee so close
to spilling

Neither one looks
directly at
the other, conversations
live within us
not between.  I never saw
when she left
nor, I suppose, she me.


posted May 20, 2009, 11:22 AM by David Storlie   [ updated Aug 31, 2012, 2:07 PM ]

rheumatic gray
fingers of birches
brush strokes
into pearl skies

dark birds
leaping branches
like ladders
not touching ground

foot prints
through the snow over
buried roots

hibernating fists
in a stand
of oak


posted May 20, 2009, 11:22 AM by David Storlie   [ updated Feb 17, 2015, 7:47 PM ]

in the unending
of complete darkness

lips move quickly
because they aren't
putting on shows

because the way
I watch tongues
like cracking fire

hydrant seals
anxious blasts

blow hoses
and holders
right over

in those emergencies
happen to be poems

because as we
are striving
you can't sit

still staring up at
me like lonely dogs
and angry kittens.

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