landing in mind fields
grow like weeds
Water swaying turmoil
Harvesting our love
holding up shields
wanting to give our souls freely
Tending to wounds
The memoirs of agonizing gullibility
Like razor blades to my brain
You take away the pain
Mere words could not explain.
Laughter holds all meaning
To this love lust never fleeting
Repaired damage thriving surely
Through the plains of time
If you choose the seeds carefully you can reap a rich harvest;
Someone choosing the seeds for you may yield nothing but a barren land
Living off your love and care to create a future unstable
Till you realize that you are left with nothing
But till then it’s too late, as your territory has been breached
Wait till you replenish your emotions, your tears to water the land
Another year will usher a land ready to plant a rich harvest
I tripped over a BBQ brush
We exchanged a nod
Then I thanked him for getting the gristle out
Above me a plane flew into the harvest moon
And bled diamonds into the sky
I found a broken pipeline marker
And wrote your name in the sand
Then blew it across the cityscape
I saw the light catch the grains
And hoped that the wind might carry it
To a lamp near you
Night air, so tranquil,
accompanied by you and me,
and an ever gentle breeze
soothing our decree.
Words so soft,
spoken like raindrops
making love to a puddle;
majestic discretion revealed
to the only two willing souls
savoring the sky.
Nineteen hours away,
you still manage to sink
into my welcomed chest
as our synched eyes caress
a harvest moon at its finest,
the royal glow ascertaining
a profound truth heavier than
the radiant Venus hanging below
on its translucent string,
swinging with the stars,
swinging in our arms,
in our hearts;
Thirty- four hundred feet above the sea
In Appalachian hills Blue Ridge
An eighty year family tradition
Lives a story rich and unabridged
Harvest time fills the mountain air
Vines line rows with trained precision
Both European and French American
Varieties produce a delectable collision.
Hummingbirds light on Miss Ruby's pink petals
Oak branches sway vessels of Riesling and Merlot
Kaleidoscoping spheres of cobalt, crimson,and gold
Beguile all into tranquility with fruit's flow.
Miss Ruby butterfly bushes were being
entertained by dancing butterflies.
Hundreds of empty wine bottles were suspended
from tree branches as the sun shined through them
casting beams, a kaleidoscope of colors, to stain our skin.
I seek a harvest of hope and bliss
You reap what you sow, it is said
But sow as you may, hope and bliss requires
A willful soul and mindful heart where
Malicious spirits abound
Making the ground fallow and unworkable
A vermin called dogmatism and self-righteousness
Seek to emasculate a once fertile land
How do we reverse this pestilence?
I say hope should not despair
Our union with the universe
Guides our way
Our reward is bliss
In the old days, there was a plentiful harvest of words, but only a few heard them - truly heard them. These words fell from the sky like manna, only to be trampled upon, tossed away, and quickly forgotten. At high noon, a rising murmur not unlike the rumbling of thunder burrowed itself into the earth and festered, intensifying even as the colors of nature intertwined and coagulated into a mottled brown-grey. The people covered their ears to block out the horrible shrieks, but to no avail. For what seemed like an eternity, the whole world engaged in a frenzied danse macabre.
And then there was silence.
can i go higher?
farther than this love of mine?
when i burn this heart,
remember what i promised i would be.
i would continue
teach them malicious ideas.
while balancing on the edge of truth
and the precipice of thought.
where are you my dear?
buried in the garden
Amongst forgotten flowers and the ever present weeds.
i need you now.
not down that musical road of past lick. touch. screw.
i need you right here
the battlefield of love is unrelenting. painful. undeniable.
a field of rotten vegetable induced death.
whorish in action
horrid in creation.
A passerby might wander,
casting admirable eyes,
stopping for a moment before
plucking until dry;
where wild berries in youth,
quickly round to full promising
piqued bulbs (lustful cores),
which stain fingers as
pulped juice pulsates out;
seedless and pointed, brown
crowns stand proud on twigs,
lifeless they may seem.