The landscape is colourless, featureless
Helios Rietberg
Helios Rietberg
Apr 18, 2010

The landscape is colourless, featureless
What defines it is the sky
The crashing clouds and circulating wind
That flies beyond our human sight and
Cuts the horizon beyond its borders.

Sometimes it changes like the flow of
Time, the universe and everything
Can you see it morphing?
In your deep eyes, those flashes of light
Mean nothing but colour.

What is colour to us?
What is colour to me?
Colour is nothing
For colour only decorates and
Says nothing substantial
Giving it life while
Taking ours away
Like blinking specks of diminishing light.

You are colourless in my eyes.

© Helios Rietberg, February 2009

The land has not escaped
Scraped capered and shorn
Wild and unruly
Shaped by sapien fantasy

In state like a funeral procession
Delayed by man's hand
The noble way of nature

Be free
Sequoia pine and verdant brush
Be free
Flowers fern and ancient ivy

Be free
Not as I am nominally free
Be free
Unbounded and unrestrained
Be free
As you were meant to be

Distinctive landscape encompassing,
Haden Chua
Jan 5, 2013

Chirping sound of insects echoing,
Resonance of such is ever so soothing,
Enhancing the beauty of the surrounding.
Distinctive landscape encompassing,
Illuminating loving-kindness so calming,
Totally immersed in such a surrounding.

Passing clouds fade along the horizon,
Alluring sunset radiates a mystic neon.
Swirling waves crafted a forsaken cave,
Superb scenery of such is indeed a rave.
Expectation of beauty is well surpassed,
Defying Aristotle's logic and his glory past.

Your hands gently tend my landscape with their caress
Neva Flores Smith

To one who’s name is written in the faint perfume upon my neck
Your hands gently tend my landscape with their caress
Each and every flower, you gracefully bedeck
In the richest warmth of your undress

You move your morning breezes into the darkness of my night
Until I no longer know the season or present year
Time is of no essence within my sight
Of warmth or cold, I have no fear

To one who’s name is written on every single line of my heart
In your ink flowing from the radiance of our eternal sun
Your hands tend my landscape in a world apart
Marked on a calendar of none

The cares of life, waft into silent pieces as they come to light
When your morning breeze moves upon my flowers
Each one you tend with your hand’s sight
Forgets these cares of ours

To one who’s name is written in my eyes as my master gardener
My flowers will always seek the ink flowing from our sun
My landscape will be your garden harbor
From your breezes, I will never run

A reading of this poem can be found at:
Copyright *Neva Flores @2010
Dec 24, 2013

The red sky bleeds softly across the endless plane
Bursting radiant golden rays, peeking only through her gaps
Intensely, the misty cold waters engulf the Ocean

Stare at the landscape, observe the situation,
Apr 23

Stare at the landscape, observe the situation,
men and women feeding off each others frustration,
filling their day outta procrastination,
we're all fucking around with no real destination.

No deal out of it, our mind dying of starvation,
waiting for a lucky shot, location, location.
nothing to balance the weight of the equation,
new city, new job, just another bus station.

The landscape brings me back, makes me feel alive,
nothing feels more real than escaping a lie,
remember your roots, look at the other side,
wanna breathe on fresh air till the day I die.

Nothing worth caring - your ego, your pride,
try to get from the world what you can't find inside
clash with the people - love, hate, melt, collide
have the best shot at it, feel the breeze on your ride.

Nothing makes sense on its own that is true,
try to trace the footprints of the ones before you,
our roots are inside us, our trajectory due,
so come through, even if you ain't got a clue.

Yo! You only get on if you try to improve,
you get hurt the worse way when you don't make a move,
we're just blown by the wind - our main choice is to choose
your life ain't worth living with nothing to prove.

Life comes with movement, stick to the groove,
you can shape matter since its concept is loose,
the real power is being whatever you do,
we're all in charge of what's what and who's who.

It's the joy of the hunt not the pain of the kill
it's the run for your freedom not the catch nor the steal,
it's the contraddiction, it's movement being still,
there's nothing to lose so come in for the thrill.

The battle in the dog will be winning the fight,
always something to battle for a man with good sight,
it's not about ideas, there's no left and no right,
it's about living life always ready to bite.

For the deserted landscape that surrounds me
Ryan Galloway

This is where I find myself
In a place completely new to me
And it seemed to happen
in a mere blink
I am lost
Dropped off
In a foreign land
With no means to find myself again
It's actually fairly tiring stumbling around like this
And I don't really have the hope
To maintain this illusion anymore
To seem like I know what I'm doing
To perform confidence
For the deserted landscape that surrounds me
That is why I must rest in the shadow of the cross
For there is no longer any lasting shade
All other landmarks have long ago faded away
Leaving me to bear the blunt force
Of the ever burning Sun
That is the last bit of hope I have left
A little mustard seed
But soon it will be replaced by a magnificent tree.

The field
of olive trees
opens and closes
like a fan.
Above the olive grove
there is a sunken sky
and a dark shower
of cold stars.
Bulrush and twilight tremble
at the edge of the river.
The grey air ripples.
The olive trees
are charged
with cries.
A flock
of captive birds,
shaking their very long
tail feathers in the gloom.

lost in red
delusional labyrinths,
her bulbous eyes depict an
undiscovered fear

walls built
to be impenetrable,
soundproof, stand
permanently - forming
a psychotic structure
preventing communication,
     the trans-
             la  tion
of drows rutsegse guothhst
(words, gestures, thoughts)

and she pushes with anorexic
     fingers against
             the cinder
          blocks, as the
   at    mos     fear
           h e r...

does escape exist?

This poem was partially inspired by the painting "Landscape with Figures," by George Tooker.
#fear   #depression   #eyes   #sadness   #alone   #paranoia  
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