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There is no perfume on earth -
that can equal the smell of fresh cut
grass
A June gardenia or morning wisteria
A Cherokee rose or July honeysuckle
rows
There's never been a scent bottled that could equal -
Mothers Tea garden in full summer throttle
No aromatic elixir available could ever-
compete with the 'tickle of the nose' from a -
homegrown tomato
Try to entice this southerner with a fragrance of such monumental -
power that it could pull him away from the lure of magnolia -
flowers
O how I envy the masonry soldier
A permanent sentry at the flower bed entry ...
Copyright April 17 , 2-18 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
 Apr 2018
She Writes
You are as blinding as the sun
But that doesn’t stop me from staring
You are as unreachable as the stars
But that doesn’t stop me from wishing
Keep distance, the Snail said,
I don't feel safe with humans around
and my pace makes me so vulnerable.

He took a deep breath and added,
do you ever feel my toil
to move from place to place
while the winds blow in gusts
and the world passes by like a storm?

My minutes tick like your hours
and hours days
as I climb the mountains of walls
cover furlongs of ground
rest and restart
never really knowing
where the path ends.

And you only add to my woes.

Your prank of a kick
rolls me back and down
all the way
to beyond from where I began.

A teardrop gathered in his opal eyes.

But it really doesn't matter,
a smile broke through the tears,

I see with all your pace
you're so far from happiness.
 Mar 2017
nivek
What voice has the Earth
but yours.
 Mar 2017
nivek
Having swam the oceans for millennia
washed up upon the shore
Mankind clawed its way out the dirt
with a ravenous appetite
unchecked began to ravage Mother Earth
cutting themselves off from nature
with tarmac and concrete
burning fossil ancestors polluting the air they breathe
to feed the machine
of greed.
 Feb 2017
Michael Blonski
I can't afford the mansion you crave,
but I can visit the forest from where
it's made

And laugh as birds put holes in timbers
that you've spent a lifetime
chasing after
Birds turn white in the morning light
The riddle of sunrise exposed
The unchecked infirmity of age continues on
as we slowly succumb to the cold , as we
quietly move along
Fall bush appears set afire
Silver Maples quiver in desire
Earths Lamp calls on tea stained wild grass
doused in dawn wine , in living brine
Copyright October 22 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
 Oct 2016
Jonathan Witte
We counted seventeen that morning,
driving in circles around Greenbelt Park.
Biding time before preschool drop-off,
we moved in measured paces beneath
a verdant canopy of oak and Virginia pine,
crossing diminutive rivulets repeatedly,
revisiting the same downed tree limbs
and tired park signs, disappearing and
reappearing in mist, our languorous
revolutions seemingly interminable,
each lap lost behind our slipstream.

It was a game we played together,
my daughter and I, circumnavigating
that slight road and counting the deer.
We tallied the bucks, does, and fawns
in plain sight, either ignorant or bold.
Vigilant, we watched for minuscule
movements beyond the windshield,
subtle stirrings in the understory:
a foreleg caught in a confusion of ferns;
a white tail, brazen, above the blueberries
or hovering, a clump of cotton atop holly;
caramel eyes cupped in mountain laurel—
ephemeral proof, woodland intimations.

Most days, we saw nothing
but familiar creatures as we
circled, spinning our wheels.
If we parked on the shoulder,
the black ribbon of bitumen
seemed to move beneath us still,
a vinyl track playing under tires,
daughter and I locked in place—
two diamonds at the tip of a needle,
skipping across prosaic grooves.

But the morning of the seventeen!
The moon hung dilatory in the sky,
a winking crescent eye, opaline.
And with each loop, the number grew.

-------------------------------------

Two years later, I circle back,
my daughter and I walking
toward a black fishing pier,
gulls etching invisible lines
into an aquamarine sky.

I ask her if she remembers
those rides before preschool,
if she remembers the morning
we saw those seventeen deer.
We pause, waves washing
white sea foam over our feet.  
She looks beyond the breakers,
taking in the horizon’s hard line,
a crisp indigo seam that appears
to stitch the round world straight.
One hand rests on her bony hip;
the other grips a shell-filled pail.
She turns, sizing me up with the
cold skepticism of a six year old,
and shakes her head in disbelief.
She tells me I’ve got it all wrong:
It couldn’t have been that many.

I’m tempted to argue. Instead,
I ask her, why does that number
(seventeen!) seem too high.

She looks at me, incredulous.
What am I trying to prove?
She speaks in small measures,
makes herself perfectly clear:

We were driving
in circles, Daddy,
and the deer,
the deer,
they move.


At once the horizon bends,
azure arc in space and time;
gulls stall in midair, snapshots
above suspended breakers. Silence.
Suddenly I’m back in Greenbelt Park,
treading nimbly, veiled by ivy screens,
leaping broken dogwoods cantilevered
over precious shallow streams,
muscles, ears, and eyes electrified.
I see as the unseen eighteenth deer
would have seen us—two creatures
harnessed in a restless death machine,
recumbent gods marking territory.

Around again. Wait.
Another close orbit.
Scrutinize red taillights
fading to distance and
then explode, vaulting
across alien asphalt,
hard halo of misery:
unnumbered,
exalted,
infinite.
 Oct 2016
Keith Wilson
Water  rushing  down  the  drains.
And  through  windswept  country  lanes.

Trees  brushing  water  away  with  their  leaves.
Birds  sheltering  under  the  eaves.

Pools  on  the  lawn  appear.
It,s  a  dreadful  night  I  fear.

Pitch  black  little  to  see.
A  new  day  may  set  us  free.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.
 Sep 2016
SøułSurvivør
~~<○>~~

shadows shed by moonlight
through the plants entwined
creating their own patterns
weaving their designs

blues and purples shimmering
the subtle shades of grey
the lovely dearth of color
unmatched by light of day!

they create a tapestry
of mystery on their looms
the woof and warp of dreamers

the shadows of the moon

~~<○>~~


SoulSurvivor
(C) 9/11/2016
I had a lovely time reading tonight. I wish I could read longer... My time is so limited and precious! I want to read you all! But it is almost midnight here, and I must be going to sleep soon.

HAVE A BEAUTIFUL NIGHT!
HAVE A BEAUTIFUL DAY!
Wherever you are in the world!

~~<○>~~
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