Under forest canopy:
Hippie kids, Hippie parents,
Hippie grandparents.

Culture of Saskatchewan
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Culture_of_Saskatchewan
.
#hippie   #kid   #forest   #saskatchewan   #creek   #canada   #beryldov   #ness   #wikipedia   #canopy  
My creek has turned to poison
Duke Johnson

Day of days (empty room)
When too weak from bottle
To stand of own accord
Life flashing before eyes
Horror building in gut
Crimson dread and
Visions of square eyed devils
Laughing
They beckon
Lukewarm antimatter void
My creek has turned to poison
No amount of mountain water
Desperately sipped from creek
Will fill me

AVD
AVD
Oct 18, 2013

The wind is pulling my hair as I come to greet you.
The shades of green all around my eyes.
And the chirping noise that gets louder and louder as I come near.
I could lay on your soft ground for ages and that feeling will still be there.
The feeling that I'm going to help you get away from the people that ignore your worries.
And as the leaves fall down
The sun rays open my eye lids
I wake up to your smile.
A smile that shows me kindness
That shows me friendly-ness
After this, I knew I have never seen beauty so pure like this before.

Flowers creek
Meggie D
Meggie D
Jul 3, 2013

Flowers creek
against the pressure from
The wind,
Subtle melody
Erupting in a
Brilliant burst of
Melancholy. Seldom does the
Breeze go
Noticed. These bones
Will soon begin
To rust, laid
Placidly atop the aching
Blades of grass, soothed only
By the
Chanted promises of
A bitter tongue
Safely lodged within the moist mouth of
Godless head
Of
Thick
Tangled
Hair.
Abrupt reconciliation realigns
The spine as the
Soil remains ever
Inviting.

Julia Ann
Apr 26, 2011

Influenced by the Creekology*

The beer cans decorate my dulled land.  I’m jaded by the un-bothered creekers.  Cigarette butts speckle my ground like confetti on New Year’s Eve in NYC.  

I flow rapid as I turn corners, slapping against rocks, carrying the beer cans of those too arrogant to bring back their own trash; allowing my minnows to swim in and out cutting their fins and scales on the aluminum forcing their crimson into my waters.

The tulips and daffodils that have been planted for me try to bud every spring, but are normally stomped down by visitors who stumble their way back missing my trails and making a ruckus waking my flowers from their slumbers.

At least I have my dedicated creekers.  The ones who actually care about me and organize the cleanups, even though they know it was not them who left their old cups to fester in the sun.  Nor were they the group that sharpied my rocks with names and poorly drawn pictures.

I have been here for years to assist the new college kids to finding their batch of friends.  I have seen many come and go but I have always taken the satisfaction of knowing I am helping  young adults when they need a place to be left to their solitude.
I watch the poets drinking their beers jotting down their thoughts it notebooks that will never be read, the photographers that dip around me and take their pictures.  

They hang around and listen as the warm breeze rustles the earth around me until the time comes where they pack up Their trash in their back packs and turn to walk up my paths, just leaving the other filth behind them.

And for that, the ones who appreciate me
are even still

no better 
than anyone else.

That smile that's often hidden
that kidnaps the butterflies in my stomach,
I adore.
That smile that makes my cheeks
blush to match that color of a rose,
I adore.
That smile that makes me trip on my tongue
and spew out grammarless dialect,
I adore.
That smile that whispers "I am going to marry this girl"
when you first saw me on our first date,
I adore.
That smile that promises me that I am perfect
when my smile is often buried,
I adore.
That smile that showed me how to smile back
in the rawest of wounds I may feel,
I adore.
That smile, which is your smile,
the one I am in love with,
I adore.

I was only 9 years old with a mind that cuts like killer shark's teeth
at the smell of a drop of blood dripping off an accident.
And I resented that I could see myself in my mocking mirror
when all I wanted was to see the wall directly behind me.
For days I would wake up and open my eyes to the new hour
but I would still see the dark my closed eye lids rented to me.
Shoulders back, teeth flashing, and hair combed...
Days dragged on as if I was puppy locked up to a leash as I trailed behind just begging to sniff the body buried beneath the ground because I was jealous of the breathless bastard.
No, I will walk beside my owner, the world, and pretend like I enjoy playing fetch and having my stomach scratched.. just as long as they pretend to ignore my hand made zippers that I branded onto my skin that looks like a snapshot of pick up sticks crossing just like we all would play when ignorance was bliss.
So take me to church and tell me to clear my head as holy water filled me up and cleans out my insides.
Please pour some holy oil on my zippers to grease them so the next time I sin, it doesn't hurt all that bad...
Little girls don't play hide and seek while the food hides in the cabinet and I find the zipper in my drawer to open my skin.
I dare someone to tap into my mind and decode the means of my fortitude that lives on the same wavelengths that the fallen angel communicates to the weak on Earth.
And for now, ask me any question and I will respond with the joy that everyone should feel.

The creek stinks;
Hailey P
Hailey P
Feb 25      Feb 26

The river flows,
The creek stinks;
Both are canals,
But a creek is much narrow.
And the river and the sea,
are connected,
The creek?
Most of the time it really,
really stinks.

Pretty little creek,
Marian
Marian
Nov 15, 2012

Pretty little creek,
Thy beauty I always seek,
Sweet creek I love you!

~Marian~

The creek is deep
Vicki
Vicki
Oct 19

The creek is deep
about 100 feet
up the road.
I've swum some
there in my
childhood.
I like turtles
but the mudders
at the creek
are mean,
as if from hell.
They have ugly
long necks
and soft shells.
I lost my glasses
wading when
a flash food
broke through.
Found them
the next morning
3 feet from
where I'd stood.
The creek is deep
about 15 feet
at the bridge.
But that's
where the mean
turtles live.

 
To comment on this poem, please log in or create a free account
Log in or register to comment