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Brad Lambert Sep 2013
It's the skin on skin basics:
You may touch, but please don't look.

I hand him a pinecone,
pale petals,
and some Tulgeywood bark
saying "Feel it out in the dark,"
saying

"Can you tell me what that is?

Can you dab your flesh on those pine needles,
***** your tips in the dark?

Feel it out in the light now.
Can you taste it:

Can you lap it, lick it?
Bite it, mosquito, bite
'til your lips are swollen
and
'til your teeth are blunted
and
'til the thought of one more cigarette
is enough to
make you sick,
make you smile,
make you laugh for a short while or an hour or two...

Spit, *****, spit; you're a jumpy little mare.
If you don't know what a pinecone feels like
I'll break all 13 hands of you.

Can you press petals in your fingers
and call it the skin on the small of my back?

Call the dew in small beads the perspirin' of my lust?

Can you do that for me?
Imagine, for a second?"

I imagine for a second—
I imagine for a second or two.
Mitchell May 2014
We took the back road to the house. The shade from the trees made the road feel like tunnel. Not a shred of light came in. We'd have to drive slow. The road wasn't made of concrete: it was made of dirt, rock, and dead leaves. Sometimes we could see the worms come up out of the dirt in the headlights, their pink stretching bodies like weird little fingers. Carrie never looked. She said it was too scary. The rest of us would look and watch them dance around like that. Sometimes we'd have to run them over. Of course, we'd feel bad about it, but we needed to get back to the house. There were things to be done. Nothing planned, but nonetheless, things to be done.
Englend reversed the car up to the front door. The liquor, the food, and the beer was in the back and would make it easier to get it from there. Patty and Carrie (the one scared of the worms) ran straight to the bathroom. They'd been complaining about how we never stopped at a gas station to ***. Englend said we didn't have the time and I just didn't care. Denny was in the same mindset as me. We usually were. Kat was looking out the window, thinking about something she didn't wish to share when we started to unload. She offered to help after she'd finished her thought, but the three of us said we had it. We didn't really, but we let her have her thought while we carried the bags. There weren't that many to complain about anyway.
When everyone was inside unpacking their things, I hung back and smoked a cigarette. I looked down at the river. It was full and rushing. The trees were full with bright, lime green leaves. The branches were tanned auburn from the sun. They looked the forearms of the Mexican girls at my high school: smooth, everlasting, stretching to a place I was never allowed to touch or look at. I ashed my cigarette into a pile of leaves and immediately worried that I was going to start a fire. I kicked it out, thrusting my boot heel into where I thought the ember had went.
"What the hell are you doing?" Englend screamed from the front porch, a handle of whiskey underneath his arm, a glass with ice in the other.
"Ashed into the leaves," I told him, "Trying to take it out." I kicked the leaves a few more times, then walked towards Englend.
"Let me get a hit of that," I said, pointing at the handle.
He spun the top and it rolled off the tread. The cap rolled off the deck and Englend chased after it, handing me the bottle first.
"Take this. Where'd the hell it go?"
"Down there somewhere," I said, pulling the bottle back. The sweetness of the whiskey hit my nostrils first, then the bite of the liquor. I coughed, feeling my eyes begin to water. The first one was always the hardest. After that, they got easier.
June had just ended. July was just arriving. The third was tomorrow and the next day was the fourth.
I took another pull from the handle. I placed on the decks railing and left Englend with it. He was still looking around for the bottle cap.
"I thought I saw it roll under the deck," I told him.
"*******," he moaned. He looked up at me, "Come and help me. It'll be faster with two."
"Can't. Gotta' check on Carrie and get ourselves a room."
"*******," he moaned again, reaching under the deck.
"Don't get your hand bit by a possum or rat or something!" I yelled behind me, going inside. "Carrie!" I screamed, "Where'd you go?"
"Upstairs getting our room ready!" I heard her scream from the 2nd floor, "Come and help me put the sheets on."
I went into the kitchen. Denny was stocking the fridge with the beer and the meat. I reached over his shoulder and grabbed a Budweiser. He had an open one in between his knees. The light stuff was on the bottom to the far left, the heavy stuff in the middle, and the expensive IPA, hoppy stuff to the far right. The top shelf was for food, mixer, and whatever else the girls had decided to get at the store. Fruit and things. I opened up the freezer. There were two handles of Smirnoff resting on three large bags of ice. We would need more ice. I closed the freezer and ran my fingers of the labels of two more handles of Cazadorés tequila and Bulleit bourbon. Overall, I thought we were fairly stocked for the four day weekend, but one could never be to sure. People came out of the wood work for the 4th of July. No telling who would show up at our front door.
I went upstairs to see what Carrie was doing. She was laying on the bed with the sheets resting on the dresser. The light was off. The room was cast in that light grey pigment that happens when the bedroom light isn't there. It was nice. The sun had been straining my eyes the whole time even though I had been driving in the backseat. Carrie was laying face down on the bed. She was wearing a skirt, so I slowly laid down on the bed and inched her dress up. She didn't flinch or move, so I pulled it up until I saw her burgundy lace *******. They looked pressed or ironed or something they looked so clean.
"What're you doing?" Carrie asked me, her face down into the mattress.
"Just looking," I said.
"At what?"
"At your ****."
"Why?"
"Cause' it's nice."
"Close the door."
I got up, closed the door, and laid back down.
"Lets put the sheets on the bed first."
"OK," I said.
We put the sheets on the bed, but couldn't wait for the pillows and the rest of the blankets. We tried to be quiet, but knew we weren't. After, we took a shower together. I rubbed Carrie's shoulders while the hot water rained down on us. She said it was better to get a massage in the shower because the hot water loosened up the muscles. I didn't know if that was true or not, but I did it anyway. I watched her as she unpacked her bag. Her hair was wet and it swung back and forth, wetting her back. She was wrapped in her favorite pink towel. Water dripped from her body down to the floor. I waited to put my things away. I had brought up very little. Mostly *****. Carrie took up most of the dresser. I had one drawer by the time we were finished.
We took a nap. After we were done sleeping, we looked outside and saw the sun had been replaced with the night. The stars and the light coming from inside of the cabin streaked out into the forest like a splash of golden florescent paint. Carrie and I poked our heads outside to listen to the creaking trees and the rustling of animals through the bush. Someone downstairs was lightly clattering dishes as they cleaned them while the smell of red maple firewood burning in the fireplace came up to our room. I took out my phone from my pocket and looked at the time.
"****," I said, "It's already 10 o'clock."
"I'm starving."
"I'm starving and need a drink."
"Let's go downstairs and see what they made."
I slipped on my 501's while Carrie straightened up her hair. We went downstairs and saw two plates with hamburgers and fries on them. Patty was at the sink cleaning the pots and pans. She was staring down into the soapy froth, humming a song to herself I couldn't understand. She hadn't heard us come down. Denny, Englend, and Kat weren't in the living room.
"Where is everybody?" I asked.
"Oh!" Patty burst. She swung around, a soaped up frying pan in her hands. "You scared the **** out of me!"
I put my hands up, "Gotcha!" I said smiling.
"They went for a walk somewhere and left all the dishes for me."
"Leave'em," Carrie said, taking Patty's hands and wiping the soap away with a rag, "Van and I will take care of them."
"I only have a few more..."
"I insist!" Carrie took Patty's arm and lead her to the couch and laid her down. I took a cup from the pantry, filled it with ice, and poured Bulliet half-way up. I handed the glass to Carrie and she brought it to Patty.
"Look at that," Patty smiled, "Full-service."
"What you get when you come up to the Dangerson cabin."
"**** right!" I exclaimed through a bite of hamburger, "Only the best here."
Patty leaned her head back after taking a long sip of the whiskey. She exhaled and closed her eyes. I watched her as her chest heaved up and down. She kicked off her shoes and let her hair fall over the armrest of the couch.
"You said they went into the woods, Patty?"
Carrie took her burger and went and sat next to Patty.
"Lift your legs up," Carrie said, "Let me sit with you."
"Yeah. They went into the woods an hour or so ago. Probably a little less."
I opened the fridge and grabbed another beer.
"What were they going out there for?"
"I have no idea."
"Probably to get firewood or something," Carrie said, "Can you grab me one of those."
"Sure," I said, tossing her one.
"Wait," She yelled, throwing her hands in the air. The beer landed right in one of her flailing hands.
"Nice catch," I laughed, opening the fridge and grabbing another.
"You're such a ****!"
I smiled and walked out onto the deck.
"He really is," I heard Carrie tell Patty.
"I heard that!"
"You were meant to!" she called back to me, laughing.
I shook my head and opened the can of beer. Why did they decide to go get firewood now? We had plenty of wood here already. Patty probably didn't know what she was talking about. That happened often. I strained my eyes to see through the darkness, maybe see if I could spot a flashlight or the round end of a lit cigarette, but the forest was just a wash of thick blackness. Even the stars had grown faint.
"Englend!" I shouted.
Nothing. Not a peep. They were far out there.
"Englend!" I shouted again.
"What the hell are you shouting at?" a voice said from the trees. I couldn't tell who it was, but it was someone I knew.
"Who the hell is that?"
"Well who the hell do you think it is?" It was Englend. He came out of the trees like a wild boar. He had a handle of whiskey in one hand with a pile of small twigs and firewood in the other. What came to mind first was a mix between a drunken Brawny guy and a pinecone.
"What's all the screaming about?" Kat asked, trailing behind Englend. Denny followed behind. They all had armfuls of wood. From what I saw, little would be useful, but I kept that to myself.
Englend came up the deck and handed me the handle. I took a long pull. As I drank, I looked up into the stars, which were now out and shining brighter than they were before. A cloud had moved, wavered off somewhere, presenting the gifts that were behind it. I lowered the bottle and watched Denny and Kat walk up the stairs. They were smiling.
"What are you two so happy about?" I asked, handing Denny the whiskey.
"Gimme' that!" Kat snagged it out of my hand, laughing. She took a long pull. Denny, Englend, and I watched, amazed that little hippy Kat could take such a heavy shot.
"Good God," I murmured.
"She drinks like a pirate," said Denny.
"A ****** pirate," added Englend.
Kat was especially small. Not a small person small, but petite. She also had a great *** and could out drink, out party, and out do the rest of us in debaucherous shenanigans. She had never heard of the word or feeling of shame either and did, really, whatever the hell she felt like.
"I heard that you *******," she said, exhaling, blinking her eyes wildly.
"That was a biggun'," Denny said, taking the bottle and pulling it.
"Needed it. Englend had us wandering around the ******* forest for firewood the minute we got here."
"Do we even need any?" I asked.
"Course we do!" Englend exclaimed, "Gotta' keep our ladies warm!"
He put his arm around Kat and shook her.
"Gross..." Kat frowned, her face pickling while she squirmed out of his arms.
"You love it Kat...where's Patty? Where's my babe!?" Englend thundered off into the house.
"I'm right here," Patty squealed. She was still on the couch with Carrie. She kicked her feet crazily as Englend jumped on her. Carrie jumped off just before he cannon balled onto the couch.
"You guys are SICK!" Carrie screamed.
"You love it," they both said in unison. The two of them play wrestled until Patty finally got Englend by the ***** and kissed him.
Denny handed Kat the bottle," You want another?" he asked.
"I'm good, Denny," she said.
"Hank?" He asked me.
"I'll take one, yeah," I said. I pulled it back as Kat went inside. I exhaled and looked at Denny, "So, you and Kat are the only two legitimate single people here. How you feel about that?"
"Hopeful," he said.
"That's good to hear. I'll see what Carrie can do."
"Sweet," he said nervously.
"Let's get inside. Patty made some burgers."
"Thank God," Denny sighed, shaking his head, "I'm ******* starving. Englend had us walking for ******' miles.
"No idea why. We have plenty of wood downstairs."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah. Lots of it. I cut a bunch the last time I was here."
"******," he laughed, "Englend told us were out."
"He doesn't know what he's talking about," I said. We walked into the kitchen. I put the bottle down next to Carrie, who had made her way from the couch back into the kitchen. She looked at the bottle, then at me.
"What you drinking there?" she asked me looking at the bottle.
"Whiskey," I told her.
"Can you not drink so much?" she whispered so no one could hear her.
"I'm good," I said, taking her hand, "I just drank a little bit outside while I was waiting for Englend. They went on a wild goose chase for firewood."
"Good."
"Denny was telling me they went all over for the stuff."
"Why?" she smiled, "We have so much from the last time we were up."
"That's what I was telling Englend, but he didn't care. Guy gets antsy."
"Who's antsy?" Englend called from the couch. Patty was wrapped up in his eyes, looking drunk from the single shot Carrie and I had given her. Kat was on the couch with a beer. Denny was hovering by the door, rocking back and forth on his heels still holding an armful of fire wood.
"Why don't you just leave that by the door?" I told Denny, "Take a seat. Stay a while."
He dropped the firewood by the side of the front door and took a seat on the floor in front of the fireplace by Kat. He looked up at her and smiled, but she didn't notice. She was sipping her beer, rummaging around in her pocket for something.
"What I was saying was that you guys didn't need to get anymore firewood or kindling or whatever the hell you guys got because we have a lot from the last time Carrie and I were up."
"I saw those logs," said Englend, "And they're ******* twigs compared to what we got!"
Everyone laughed.
"Well," I said, opening the fridge for another beer (I wasn't sure where my other one had gone to), "I'm not taking the **** down."
"All good, we'll take it down."
"You'll take it down," said Kat, "We had to walk through half of the ******* forest to get to your secret wood spot, then walk back. I'm finished with wood for now."
"Fine," Englend moaned, "I'll take it down in the morning."
"I'll help you," Denny added.
"Good! We got two big guys to do it. It'll be done in no time."
I turned around and opened up the cabinet that was filled with shot glasses. I took six out, put them on the table, and filled them with whiskey.
"Let's take a group shot before we all start getting snuggly and sleepy."
"Great idea!" Englend shouted, popping up from the couch.
"For America!" Patty giggled, following Englend.
Kat helped Denny from the floor and walked over to the counter. They parted hands when Denny was on his feet, but I could tell he wouldn't mind holding her hand for the duration of the trip.
"I'm glad to have you all here," I said, "Glad we could do this."
Everyone nodded, smiling, holding their golden brown shots in the air.
"For America," I said.
"For America!" the rest of them yelled. We soaked in the glory of fine whiskey and hazy conversation for the rest of the night.
Everyone was moving slow in the morning. Englend seemed to be the most up out of everyone. I walked into the kitchen to him whipping 12 eggs, grating cheese, pan frying potatoes, bubbling coffee, and pouring orange juice into mimosa flutes. The champagne was already out. I thought, a little alcohol will probably do me some good. It did. After my third glass, I kissed Carrie when she groggily walked into the living room. She preceded to slump onto the couch. I brought her a cup coffee and some Advil. She smiled meekly into my glazed over, blood shot eyes. I could tell she was hurting, but she would be right in a couple hours. Once we got into the river, all would be right.
"Jesus," said Carrie, "You guys are already drinking?"
"Of course!" Englend laughed, "It's the fourth and it's already noon. We're behind if anything."
"And Englend made breakfast," I said.
"I can see th
CharlesC Jun 2012
an assembly or
better named
a clump
of multifarious flotsam
presenting its untidy self
on a recent passing
streetcorner..

a hesitating photo records
a drifting pinecone
centering a stained
and shredding newspaper
a broken sharp stick
red rocks of scales and shadings
flecking dried green leaves..

order imposed by
framing and shaping of
the sidewalk corner..
might other forms emerge
with a focused patience?

a partial headline reads
...sound without the wires..
news of expanding connections
outside a material realm?
headline seemed embedded
in thick advertising bulk
announcing a continuing
culture of material weight..
much else of red and green..

the centering pinecone
occasional pineal symbol of
higher dimension entry..
somehow rightly here
in the dark center
of this mess

this a brief experiment
not yet for most an answer
a question now of mining
finding patterned varieties
in large nature's trove..
patient visions residing in
gathered fragments
if gathered they be..
expectations of more
in what persists
of this and that in
time...  :)
Stephen E Yocum Oct 2014
Pinecone, to seed, to sapling, to tree.
Egg, to chick, to bird of wing,
Seeks to mate and all repeat.
Pinecone, to seed, to sapling, to tree.

All living things on Earth it seems,
Do propagate in a continuous cycle of life.
Beyond our human ability to over think
everything, are we really any different?
Does thought merely confuse the issue?

Perhaps we be, too smart for our own good.
Brycical Dec 2013
Scraggly curl hair bounces in the air
wagging with whisky eyes breezy pleasing the eclectic electric hectic now mind
like finding a papaya inside an oyster
battery powered like a pomegranate passionfruit flower growing and glowing
around my trinity heart with the noise of a sphere's galactic ******!

Crystal Citrine Mountains provide water fountains of sunlight
as so tye-dye t-shirt hip-cat hippos smokin' coconut shisha bathe in barrels
of bourbon.
Lion snakes spit words of worlds hurling nebulous timeline's spiraling
and crashing and splashing baptism ripples together painting Pollack Splatters
with the aroma of Byrd Jazz Jam on rye-whisky bread.

Fractal Berries served by the Far Out Faerrie Ferryman Skeletan with bejeweled emerald eyes
winks while I read in the reeds panting in pan-flutes while water rabbits scamper
into clay enclaves to bathe in pinecone designed sand-tubs.

The hieroglyphic phoenix twists and skip-scats neon green vinyl
turning the wind inside out to x-ray flames of fireworks.
A Mareship Oct 2013
Dinner table,
Bowls of light,
Stage fright, lilies,
No appetite,
Dark absences nibbling
Right through my eyes
Like black rabbits pulled
Out of Truman Show skies,
Provoking the question
From those sat up front –
Is this a trick you’re pulling -
Is this one of your stunts?
But no amount of smiling
Will do –
Nod all you like.
They’re onto you.

Christmas Eve,
Sister’s house,
Black eye,
Ulcerated mouth.
Divinely tickled-
By Miss World!
A pinecone and mistletoe
Christmas hurled
Down en suite toilets
Porcelain pink,
My face makes love
To the bathroom sink.

The most squalid Little Lord
In the county, me,
Summer blooms hold
No charms for me,
So I try to apply my
Favourite smile
And travel a few more
Country miles
To a chemist that doesn’t
Know my face.
I browse a bit
(Condoms, spectacles case)
Then I try to
Convince the pharmacist
That I need two
Bottles of
Gee’s Linctus.

The cruelest boyfriend
I ever had
Gives head to a toilet roll
And his fingerpads
Are bordello yellow
From greased nicotine,
This ******* in Primrose
Exhales smoke in a stream,
And I try to remember what
Buttercup said,
His baby’s breath whispers
Wilt in my head,
Something about purity
Something about loss
Something about cleanliness
Something about God
Something about something
That I should tick off as regrettable,
But one flower can make everything
So *******
Forgettable.
( drugs are bad etc, ***** based ones in particular. Alcohol is also bad, and cigarettes, and bacon, and chocolate truffles if you eat a lot of them.
No, seriously, try not to do drugs)
Flatfielder Jan 2021
Three pine trees moving gently
In the new years morning breeze
I feel renewal sitting quiet
An old friend placed a call
We chatted laughed remembered
Old friends the younger years
Many passed others clinging
Stories never seized
I see the magic pinecones
Attached to the 100 foot pines
My neck stiffens when I look up
Dizzy focus towards the ground
A lone pinecone landed
On the fallen fluffy snow
My thoughts now interrupted
Joys and glory times
Stepping back with dimming memories
Placed with the pinecone in the snow
(c)near_lane7
Last winter on the farm
R W Sep 2013
Remember the time
I thought I liked you
But it only lasted a week.
Remember the time
I cursed for the first time;
And it was at you.

Remember the time
I liked you for an entire year
And obsessed over you.
Remember the time
You teased me everyday.

Remember the time
We used to take piano from the same woman
And I saw you at a lesson one day.
Remember the time
You told me about the night
The black thing came to you,
Up your arm.

Remember the time
We spent backstage
Goofing off.
Remember the time
I wrote about how much I hated you
In my diary,
Everyday.

Remember the time
I dated your best friend
And you were the obligatory third wheel.
Remember the time
You threatened to punch me
Because I made fun of the girl you liked.

Remember the time
We spent during choir practice
Looking at squirrels through the window.
Remember the time
You told me
"I don't care what homeroom I have,
As long as you're not in it."

Remember the time
The stinkbug kept following your shoes
In Spanish class.
Remember the time
You threw a pinecone at me
Because I deserved it.

Remember the time
We sat together in all our classes.
Remember the time
I dreamed about you
Dying
In my front room.

Remember the time
We Skyped for three hours.
Remember the time
I beat you up
Because I was angry.

Remember the time
My two best friends started dating
Because you finally got up the courage and asked her.
Remember the time
You told me you wanted to break up with her.

Remember the time
You stole my Sharpies
Until I asked him out.
Remember the time
You broke up with her
And avoided me for a week.

Remember the time
We spent after school,
Studying for Spanish.
Remember the time
I was scared of you
But walked with you,
In silence.

Remember the time
You had a rave in class
And asked me to tape it.
Remember the time
I cut myself
And you got mad at me
And we spoke even less.

Remember the time
The algebra teacher threatened to separate us
Because we talked too much in class.
Remember the time
I messaged you
And messaged you
And you wouldn't answer.

Remember the time
You and your mum invited me to dinner.
Remember the time
I saw you for the first time
In two months
And, despite the same clothes
And hair,
You looked like a stranger.

Remember the time
You asked him out for me.
Remember the time
We Skyped for five minutes
And had nothing to say.

Remember the time
You held my hand all period
Because you were cold.
Remember the time
You told me you were insane
And we couldn't be like we used to.

Remember the time
You told me not to worry,
That we were still the same, relationship-wise.

Remember the time
You told me not to cry
But I did.

Remember the time
You held me while I sobbed,
The first time you'd ever seen me cry.

Remember the time
You assured me you'd be fine.

Remember the time
I shook while you held my hands.

Remember the time
You hugged me after class,
A week later
And I nearly cried of happiness.

Remember the times.

Do you remember the times?
Because it seems all I'm doing these days
Is remembering you.
To Austin. I miss you, bro.
Carson Bell Sep 2011
his Eyes are the leafy root of a carrot,
Portals to the sustenance underground.
his Feet are bare but determined to go far.
his mouth is a canopy to a dense forest
Hiding from the world, what lays inside.

his flyaway hair, like a fallen piece of bark,
an imperfection that's part of a perfect picture.
his Thoughts are raindrops pouring off of an elephant leaf,
Small indentations flowing from a vast expanse.
his Voice is the wind, carrying me away to a better place.

his Charisma is Grandfather Mountain who holds old wisdom,
ever durable through the storm.
his Past, a collection of sand,
is molding into a seashell that will take a lifetime to form.
his Soul is a pinecone,
Guarded on the outside but holds something precious to me.
B D Caissie Sep 2019
Lying
colours fading
Dying
needles fraying
Rotten
times decaying
Forgotten
Cone of silence...


©
Glen Brunson Feb 2013
they packed a patchy satchel
with enough snacks
to feed a child army
of two,
trekked though
green-blue forest
spackled with firefly flecks
and second hand moss.

came to a resting spot
on the shores of Mirror Lake
the one place
picnic tables were not

and they ate

in the jagged reflection
of solemn pine trees
he mumbled 12 years of secrets
through a confession booth
of nougat
spat out the seeds
winced at black jelly beans
and she
rested on his knobby knees
sighing with the breeze
face upturned to catch
downward droplets of moonbeam

he was a half-formed pinecone
dangling in the quiet dark
she was some kind of meadow lark
whistling the dawn

no one forgot love after that
no one could remember
what lonely tasted like
anymore.
Half-inspired by the film "Moonrise Kingdom"
chachi Sep 2010
With special thanks to George Ella Lyon*

I am from crumbling brick
(red, dusty, smelling of musk).
I am from aluminum siding
and triple-deckers,
tall, strong, unmovable.

Hailing from the city on about seventy hills.
From Grandfathers and photo albums,
cigar ash salad and pinecone wars.
From "use your imagination" and "go play in the street".

I am from a whirlwind of faith,
belief from non-believers.

From schoolyards, playgrounds, and crawlspaces
come these faces, and these memories
are worth more to me, than anything.
CharlesC Jun 2013
A minute gland
pinecone resemblance
a mid-brain singularity..
perhaps dimensional
transition..
Secretions of fluid
some call sacred..
New realities revealed
emotional reports exclaim:
more real than real..!
New century questions:
a final frontier..?
is this contact
of extra dimensions..?
a liquid light
of prophecies
our identities
our futures now
in sight...?
See Rick Strassman, M. D.
DMT
The Spirit Molecule
harlon rivers Aug 2016
Daybreak brushes pink clad
hovering skies
beyond back lit mountains of Cascadia

Sunrise peaks through
the dawning nimbus
a variegated rosy
glowing consonance

The passing marine endowed sky,
framed by pinecone adorned
old growth timber stand,
near and far

Red sky some mornings,
awakens heart on sleeve
without warning


a lone mourning dove calls out --
unanswered
drowning out the drone
a lonely heart's throb

Harbingers of seasons change
cast nebulous shadows
over mountain
greenery meadows

imminent reminders
-- ready or not --
what’s come and gone
a moment passed


Though hearts may shine brightly
carefree summer's lazy days,
prevailing currents portend
the ever-present
winds of change

Someday heaven's healing rain
is going to fall softly
on this restless solitude;

cleansing a weary soul,
renewed once again,

mostly whole


© H.  Rivers ... today
all rights reserved
...it's nature's way of telling you
listen to her ubiquitous psalms...

note: Cascadia --  the Pacific Northwest of North America
http://www.cascadianow.org
harlon rivers Sep 2017
The fleeing clouds have cleansed the tawny earthen meadows
Migrating sun doth steal away waning light of summer’s glee
High atop fir boughs bow in wind whispered homage
To the sapience the coloured leaves hath gleaned

The sweet scent of auburn brindled pinecone clusters
Ooze of  glistening pitchy resinous fruit
Sticky figured squirrels chatter while they gather,
Stashing a survival cache of acorns and spinner seeds,
For another moment in sleepy winter tide dreams

A swirling eddy of spiraling leaves whirl beneath the tall timber
Fluttering gracefully with a gravity only falling leaves embolden
Enchanting like the evanescent timbre poignant piano notes decay
Writhing silent as summer Jasmine’s fragrant final bloom

Dandelion wishes soaring higher to kiss the fleeting winged skies
Lazily adrift up and over Cascade Mountain Crest
Fuzzy treetop flyers ascending far beyond darting dragonflies below

The sliver of golden harvest moon’s blossom aglow ,…
While wishing upon a shooting star's paling gleams
Serendipity sown about whimsically in the blustery wind
For to sow the will of untamed heart’s desires                                    

A festive troop of Chickadees clinging like tiny acrobats
Foraging on ripened ginger hued fir-cone seeds
Wings to the sky wave goodbye to the deciduous cadence
Softly wafting with a pungent Lavender potion scented breeze

There is a secret place where memories go to hide deeply alive
Amongst the wild wood and impending leafless trees,
The only place on earth I've ever understood a sense of belonging

Where Autumn coloured leaves whisper in the gentle breeze ,…
                  “I would do it all over again”

Come September ,..when the leaves come falling down


                      © ... September 15th, 2016
if … we will be remembered by our poetry;
It would be my hope to be recollected
for an intimately personal love and respect of all creation
Although there has not always been an emboldened sense of belonging with others, I have come to understand I've always belonged to the untamed wilderness of myself, still understanding that love is the eternal purpose I'll strive ―

Sometimes we sense that we feel too much
Being highly sensitive is not an imperfection but a gift - -
not a misunderstood, stigmatized, dark &  broken star
befallen a Sky  full of  Stars

always believe a poem can make a difference -- even if it is only a difference within you-- rivers

Come September ,..when the leaves come falling down
Written by:  h.a. rivers
Cyril Blythe Feb 2014
Around December 14th I realize the worth of a callous because of the shedding that inevitably ensues, starting late November. My feet, less commonly bare or clad in Chacos in the winter months as an adult, shed the opaque layers of time that Alabama red-clay and North Carolina pine needles form. Vivid, is the time needed to create a callous and vivid is the sting of a February pinecone on a bare foot, innocent, though learned, yearning for warmer days.
times like this, the plenary moon
  tonight wearing many faces,

the white-washed truant at bay
    white-hulled still, the brim of the sky
to a full, on such a bright night leaving a trace
   of say, prongs of fire on the kiln

the skin the soft breeze molests with a chill
flung from pinecone – the blackened spires of the
very heart of flame and the mullioned wood that understands
  what the heat of placeness mints underneath
  our skin – what silence remains a translation when the smoldering
  remains are bitten repeatedly, aureoled in the moment of vital meaning.

we hear its threat, retained in clock-whirs
like a primordial word or the fluting of  light’s bendable
   rondure harnessing a truth we let in.

I fail behind the walled-up lip of laughter
because the weight of passing
is heavy on my back – like a bough dragged
  by rainwater, or sound elected to drown:
the smell of poinsettia assaults,
lifting its slaughter against Kiltepan and Ambuklao,
  past mountains lulled to sleep: the moon sleuthing
  like a well-oiled machine.  what do you hear?

  we are aware of its full absence,
like that of our undulation after a fall,
  or the wild sibilance of breath trying  to  utter something,
  going back home with a song in between teeth,
    without words.
After Baguio.
Chris Jun 2015
~

“Upon this moss of emerald haze, into this lilac beauty gaze”

In fern leaf wishes of songlike verse, shadows drift as banners flowing
‘pon pinecone promises of starlit dreams, where lavender voices echo melodic harmonies above foot print mosaics laced of soft green grasses. Enchantment comes in silhouettes of euphoric dreams on a periwinkle canvas… as brush strokes of nature gather in this twilight solitude, where your love is forever my tranquility
Good night Beautiful
TC Nov 2014
there is a broken thing
reformed in amber
disarranging the spectrum
of sensical causal motion
nail biting following
migration patterns of neural
activity and we bless the few
who cut clean and learn early
those bespectacled masses
cannot intuit the limited scope
of aversion to blurry pink clouds
gussied up in peripheral vision the
pineal gland controls circadian
rhythms gushes dmt when
we die i wonder i
wonder what that (vestigial)
little pinecone knows
that we don’t
cased in spongy
grey matter and i don’t think
much of time as metaphor but
my watch strap broke
yesterday i hope
that is
important i do

nothing so simple or complex
as love but(i carry it in my heart)
Arcassin B Aug 2018
By Arcassin Burnham


Future Muchers , Mass shooters,
***** to be a sad loser,
Once a upon a time I use to think it was a real confuser,
If It was me and her and not you,
When it comes to love , what is a truther ?
Pinecone the brain , what is a minimum wage? A pity reducer,
The words that say leave you ****** like Medusa,
Mythical , Mystical put a spell on ya,
The brightest of being aware , super nova,
Astral , Astral , a self healing coma.

All Seeing,
Want To Be All Seeing.
©abpoetry2018

http://arcassin.blogspot.com/2018/08/seeing-eye.html
the Sandman Jun 2016
I have had ideas, many times;
I have had anger at all the world
And its plates and cups and knives and forks
And pots and pans.

I have used coffee scrub, up
To my elbows
And sugar scrub on my face.

I have stood over rose beds
With my legs far apart
And bled colour to the world below,
Trailing my hell along behind me.

I have had bitter blandness
Blanch the back
Of my throat and the roof of my mouth
Until all that was left was bleach.

I have held glass bottles to the sky
Waiting for thunderstorms.

I have whispered my love to the palm of your hand,
Then watched it drain out through the cracks into sand.

But still I will eat
All my meals out of teacups/
I will let my blemished body be/
I will smell every flower
Growing along the side of a drain/
I will gargle before bed
With pinecone and cherry grain/
I will watch
Outside my window for hail/
I will whisper other things to you
Until the end
Of time
Or tomorrow --
Whichever comes first
-- and hope that inspiration strikes.
I remember when I found her in porcelain
cracked. she shivered the shell until she pierced
out a tiny foot – a baby’s foot.
five fingers and toes were revealed at a time,
but then came bursting out her head: all-black
eyes, large and quaking. skin as pale as the
egg she split from. but instead of wafty locks,
she had soft brown feathers, flowing from her
widow’s peak to the small of her back.
besides that she was a perfectly normal
child.

i grew her up in town, with the other kids.
i fed her what i knew: seeds and corn and the
occasional peanut butter pinecone.
I made her a nest of blankets every night,
and she sang me songs goodnight and
we always slept soundly and unthinkingly.

she grew up quick though, and soon came the days
when you send your daughter off alone
to school. she was five and I was thirty eight,
and I was the one terrified. most other girls
don’t have feathers, especially this young.
I offered to shave her spine, but she refused.
she crooned that she was born in an egg,
and she didn’t care who knew it.
I was frightened for my beautiful bird-child.

schoolday came, and off she went, dancing her way
to the moaning old bus. it puttered off
in a smoggy wheeze. the sun sulked some miles
before she slowly staggered home, without a
backpack, shirt torn, blood rubbed on her knees.
I asked her what happened, and she never told,
saying it would only make me dark and bitter.
but every morning she still hopped her way
onto that bus, with her bright smile and ******* eyes.

I couldn’t take it. one day I followed
the bus on my bicycle, and visited
her school for the first time. it was large and grey,
like a cynical stone with bunch of windows.
I roared in, asking where she was, attendants
voicelessly pointing in any direction
but the right one. I saw her on the playground,
lanky kids pushing her, bony fingers grabbing,
trying to rip off her telling birthmarks.
she screamed, shouting that she was a child, too.
they asked if children came from eggs, if children
ate only seeds, if children had those things down their back.
she said that this one did. they all laughed.

an angry boy pinched a long chestnut feather
and pulled; she wailed a song of aching.
I jumped in to rip him off but he wouldn’t let go.
the feather stretched longer and longer,
four feet, five! her body bucked and we fell over.
her feathers spread from her spine, wingspan huge
and she glowed a stunning yellow-pink.
her black eyes shimmered, looking at me, apologizing.
I ran to hold her, tears on my cheeks, and she
held out her hand, no. I asked why and she said
goodbyes are too hard this way.
before I could ask what she meant, she sang
I love you
and exploded upwards. her wings stroked lightrays as she
burst higher. she went straight to heavens, and just
when I thought she was out of sight, she spread her feathers
and her silhouette erupted on the sun.
I waved, and saw her white smile glow from her grand shadow.
and off she danced, feet playfully poking at clouds,
with regular birds gliding beside her
and regular children watching below,
her boundless black eyes unjudgingly
gazing at the world running beneath her.

she was my bird-child, and I was her father
for a brief period. I wonder where she is nowadays.
whether she found others like herself,
others who didn’t care. or whether she’s still in the skies,
dancing with the stars, her ten fingers and ten toes
wiggling in the blue, feathers proudly spread, singing.
© David Clifford Turner, 2010

For more scrawls, head to: www.ramblingbastard.blogspot.com
kaylene- mary Feb 2015
I knew what love looked like in my first year of high school.
Love had dark hair.
And darker eyes.
Love knew all the words to my favourite Metalica songs.
Love always knows where he belongs.
Love read me Peter Pan.
Over,
And over,
And over again.
Love was a fool.
Love spat when he spoke.
He hated the smell of pinecone smoke.
And he never washed his hands.
Love hated strawberries.
And he hated my favourite poet.
But sometimes love moves far away.
Sometimes love can stay.
Maybe love can't.
Maybe love shouldn't.
Then I found it again,
Sitting on a bar stool.
Love just didn't care.
Love had dark hair.
But bright eyes.
Love hated Metalica.
Love had hands as soft as a babies.
Love never told me I was beautiful.
No words were ever suitable.
Love hated the taste of my mouth.
Brandy and coke.
Love drove a ****** car.
And love bought me roses.
Love could never keep his hands still.
Love was always in it for the thrill.
He hated my cigarettes.
And he never spoke his mind.
Love left.
Convicted of theft.
And love disappeared.
Slowly.
Like baby teeth.
Losing parts of me I thought I needed.
Sometimes love isn't ready for you.
Sometimes you aren't ready for love.
Sometimes it's all of the above.
Sometime you find love again.
Thirteen years after graduation.
Still as beautiful as you remember.
Like on that day in mid December.
once
it
          has snowed—

  helm of pines

whiter      than
      doves,        wind-flumine,
   trapeze of
       boughs ache the

                                   lark, bowed—

  inward, curve of  Earth,
      gentle ray     of light
   lifts
        like hands     holding
    
     the sky above, birds roared

   through
               the interstices,
  strophe       by strophe
                homes thwart fires in     hearths,
                 no warmness

                   gilded the vertigo of pinecone.
Baguio,
eileen Aug 2021
you say my name
when I'm not around

oversharing, overbearing
don't act like you're so special
you're like everyone else

she's so nice
it's suspicious

I don't want to hear it
you're not my friend

keep my name
out of your mouth
Welcome to the snow globe world where happy faces are bundled up with heavy Winter coats and red scarves , Snowmen with pinecone buttons wave to passersby touring the town in Model-T cars ! Country air filled with magical , old world chapter scenery , frosted gingerbread homes and gum drop bridges ...
You and I are most certainly one of a kind , individual snowflakes , our sails filled with welcoming air , gliding through picture perfect settings without a care , excited with the promise of each gleeful morning , sipping on hot chocolate , eating sugar biscuits and raspberry tarts ...
Counting our blessings and learning our lessons , climbing tall trees ,
buzzing like honeybees , playing with friends , praying for sweet days to never end ...
Copyright February 16 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Sarah Nov 2015
It's fine by me,
   I told you

for you to come
and follow by the
Spring
beneath the
Ash Grove trees,
droopy
Madrones that
cannot bear
the weight
of memory

I told you it
was fine as the
piano
continued
    to play
and the tension built
between the chords
and you and
I

being so close
to you
and feeling your breath
and your song
your pinecone
burdened
forest floor-
walking on
egg-shells

I told you it's fine,
so I'll stand beside
you,
but I'll also
be running
away.
is it too much of an onomatopoeic dissonance that this is synonymous to
   regret dubbed as slouched nirvana. Across the bonfire, there’s volition
   as glare, light as judgment. Why they call her
Luningning, I know not.
      Take excess for jaunts and flesh, and pay no heed to illusions. The mirage
  on the wall is but fire-dance on the bitten lip of true company.
                    heady static pierces pinecone. Soon the moon will sink like **** to ****. Or felled star as tripled glaze of salted lip. Or the ****** of the butterfly.
     Are we here to metamorphose these tiny susurrations into a commune?
                     Dank and stale as ****-laced pavement, the whole world now
    spires in uneven strobes. The last song on the karaoke as memory. The knead
      of temperamental air on the scalp. Take pork rind for bread, intemperance
    as tribute. The night dons its silken robe and shows her pair: two moony eyes
               piercing the noise.
loisa fenichell Jan 2015
In a picture of me at my parents’ house I am cradling my rib
and it looks bruised and boyish and apartment-like. In another:
I am sitting on kneecaps, praying to the first boy I see, a boy with
simple body, body like pinecone. When I was younger I listened
to radio stations with a snake in my lap. Looked out windows at
tops of buildings. Watched the tree branches falling onto concrete
ground when it stormed, my legs from top to bottom naked like smoke.
Cigarette smoke in my mouth but I never inhaled. My father and I
were the same in that we didn’t have lungs and both liked alcohol.
Every Saturday him taking me out and us drinking sake and my stomach
churning like a bathroom sink. My face like large sky always changing color,
always blushing. The first boy I kissed smelled like french fries
and in his mouth I licked heavy broken heart. The first boy I kissed
always wore white t-shirts so that whenever you saw him you could see
when it rained. Kissing him my stomach turned upside down like
a weighted storm. He touched my ribs and my stomach even when
I cried. Parents are a lot like a childhood boy. Parents and boy all standing
on my childhood porch. My childhood porch looks like a giant rib,
or squid in the sky. The first time I smoked I thought I saw a squid
or whale in the sky.
Aseh Dec 2014
When I think of those nights we spent together,
damp with sweat on your unmade bed,
I shudder in disgust.
You are a stranger to me,
as is the person I was when I was with you.

I’m not sure why you’ve come here.
I am staring at the patterns on the ceiling.
You ask me what I’m looking at.
I feel irrationally angry
and I snap at you to just shut up
because I know you don’t see what I see.

Suddenly I feel heavier.
I turn to face the vents on the wall to my left.
The menacing sharp horizontal lines droop down slightly at both ends.
I don’t like the way they are looking at me.

You are nineteen,
and I am watching you deteriorate.
Your eyes are a shadowed mockery
of themselves.

I tell you,
There is fire in my head.
My hands are turning to ice,
and that pinecone is green and furry.
I think it lives.
But you don't believe me.

And we walk among speeding cars,
trying to figure out how to cross streets and how to
close spaces that never stay glued shut
like silver elevators stuck.

It used to be that your heart
beat so hard against my back
that I couldn’t sleep,
but I didn’t mind.
I liked the way the scruff of your chin felt
against my shoulder blades.

And I’m sorry for all those times I kissed you and never meant it.
And I’m sorry for all those times I did.

So why is my shadow lying there on wet grass
if I’ve already left and gone home?
Ben Jul 2016
I never realized
How many birds
There really are

They seem to melt
Into the landscape
As they hop
To and fro
In the manicured
Suburban shrubs
And pepper the sky
Floating in place
Against some unfelt
Wind current

While walking
I locked gazes with
A slate colored dove
And we stared
I don't know how
He felt about me
Or what he felt
About me

I thought he was
Elegant
Even though he was
The color of fresh tar
While it bakes
In the Pennsylvania sun
In some hazy culdesac
In the corner of some
Replaceable
Reproducible
Childhood

He hopped off his perch
A rusty sign post
That had been bifurcated
By some unknown
Bolt or hand

And skittered behind some
Sickly looking ferns
In a dirt patch of an
Unknown neighbors yard

A gang of Robins
Flittered over my head
Landing down the street
Passing a pinecone
Between them
Pecking and tearing at it

I looked behind
The sickly ferns
And found the
Unknown neighbors cat
Doing the same thing
To my slate colored dove

I shooed it away
It dropped the dove
Hastily
In the loose dirt
And retreated

I looked down at the dove
And it laid there
Its breast heaving
Silent
One eye cast into the dirt
The other looking up
Watching the same Robins
Fly back to where
They had come from


And the slate slowly
Turned sanguine
As its down became
Saturated with the
Run off from the
Puncture wounds

The cat sat off
A few yards away
Flicking its tail
Calico and smug

And I stood by
The dove as
The heaving slowly
Stopped
Ground to a
Halt really
And then the eyes
Weren't looking
At the sky or the dirt

I finally felt
That unseen
Wind
And continued
On my way
I regret not walking as much as I could
judy smith Jan 2017
Maybe it was strength, speed and endurance. Maybe it was the cape.

But while flipping a wine barrel end to end down Main Street in Jordan as spectators cheered, Yvonne Irvine knew she was on a roll.

The assistant winemaker at Creekside Estate Winery clocked under 19 seconds in the annual barrel race, a crowd favourite at Twenty Valley Winter Winefest.

“The hardest part is getting around the corner,” said Irvine, who won the coveted Golden Boot on Saturday.

“When I made the corner and I was coming back, I felt I had some good speed.”

Competitors from wineries charged down the course flipping the barrels that weighed more than 45 kilograms.

It was one of several events, including a fashion show, celebrity chef dinner with David Rocco, after party and live music, that drew large numbers to this year’s three-day festival.

Irvine said icewine is unique and it’s great to have an event that celebrates it.

“It’s really fun. Most people hate winter. It’s so nice to get out, do some winter activities … Beat the winter blues.”

Kris Smith, executive director of Twenty Valley Tourism, said she expected the festival would hit its goal of 10,000 visitors this year, if not exceed it. It had about 9,400 visitors in 2016.

“We’re pretty jam-packed right now.”

While the festival draws local Niagara residents, it also saw visitors from as far away as Pennsylvania, Ohio, New York, Tennessee, Texas and Alberta this year.

Smith said people are hearing about it through social media and on the Internet.

“A lot of it is returning or families or word of mouth. We don’t advertise that deep into the U.S. but people are finding out about us. It’s exciting.”

She said the festival has added a lot of diverse programming over the past couple of years, such as an icewine puck challenge and chef’s one-*** challenge in an effort to have something for everyone. That’s proving to be successful, she said.

It also introduced a European market theme last year, ditching larger tents for smaller ones around the perimeter featuring wine and food. More heaters were dotted throughout the area and included large steel pinecone fire pits that visitors could cosy up to.

“We just opened it up and embraced the great outdoors,” Smith said. “We’re Canadians. We should be embracing winter so that’s part of it.”

Sue-Ann Staff, president of the tourism association, owner of Sue-Ann Staff Estate Winery and barrel-rolling competitor, said the festival had a larger footprint than ever before and more vendors.

“It’s fantastic,” she said. “I’m really proud of our organizers, our volunteers, the board, the directors. We just keep fine-tuning this event every year. It looks better. There’s more entertainment, more energy. It’s awesome.”Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses

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