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sanch kay  Jan 2016
pinecones.
sanch kay Jan 2016
pinecones are
childhood summers spent tripping over the syllables of dense forests
folded somewhere between real world Europe and my very real imagination,
nestled against each other on bookshelves made of pinewood -
a childhood game of hide and go seek pressed in photo albums
where a version of me lived;
a version of me who delighted my mother and father,
a version who to me remains a stranger -
smiling gap toothed, shoes in snow boots,
sticky fingers pressing pine cones against her nose -

the present, a fragrance;
the future, a rolling pine forest.

pinecones are what the years between 17 and 19 felt like
in perennial wanderlust,
soul spliced into shards trying to make sense of
everything I felt and everything I thought;
everything I needed and everything I still want.
pine cones perfume the edges of a dream
dipped in the streams and stories of far-off lands,
pine cones are the crutches of a crippled mind
still building a new home for itself
in the basements of other people’s hearts.

pinecones are
platforms which I danced from,
leaping limber, slaying fear, the win always near;
pine cones are a reminder that while
a man can break his shoulder trying to tear one from the tree,
the true mark of bravery lies in how well you can break free.

pine cones are
the skeletons upon which hang the colourless drapes of my future
before stepping into galactic puddles that splash colour
all over every unmade plan,
memories’ strands shining technicolour through translucent skin -
the touch of your fingers no longer feel like sins.

pine cones are young green and supple,
seeds of love lust and chance encounters
that blaze into fiery shades of yellows and oranges,
every colour turning a tinge darker, a daily time marker;
pine cones are what remain, dark and unyielding
after a lifecycle of fires starting
and dying
within the embers of consciousness.
hello, memory.
Entheogens, such as:
Tetrahydrocannabinol, Lysergic Acid, Dimethyltryptamine, Mescaline and Psilocybin,
(of Cannabis, LSD, DMT, Peyote and Mushrooms, respectively)
(None of which Firefox thinks are spelled correctly, including 'Entheogen'..)
have many unfounded and illogical taboos about them
for the seemingly sole reasons that those who;
do not know themselves well enough,
and/or
do not realize the magnitude of what they are getting themselves into,
make themselves seem crazy or otherwise endangered or dangerous while having Revelations.

Heed not the Fear-Mongers:
(they generally fear for their own sake)

An Entheogen is a psychoactive substance that brings forth the Divine within one's self;
it is a temporary death of Ego
a temporary glimpse of Heaven
a brief window of Enlightenment.

An Entheogen is the basis for each major Religion on this planet.
Many established Religions have in turn proceeded to attempt to stamp them out
as if to eliminate healthy competition for their precious power hungry Dogmas
(similar to Wal-Mart, but in terms of Religion as opposed to Business, which is eerily similar)

Vines with DMT in them inspired early philosophers in Southeast Asia and South and Middle America.
Mushrooms crammed with Psilocybin were the basis of the monotheisms of the Middle East.
LSD has been a major pivotal factor in many mediums of art since it's 'accidental' synthesis in the 1930s.
Peyote has been a staple for North American shamen and mystics for thousands of years.
Cannabis, as well, has many mystical applications and medicinal properties used worldwide.

And yet,
all of these things are a massive no-no in commonplace Law worldwide
which is a detrimentally terrible turn
for the Spirituality, interconnectivity and thus Enlightenment
of Humanity.

The lack of unbiased, scientific, accurate and up-to-date information about Entheogens
is a tragedy paralleled only by the unnecessary loss of Rights, Freedom and Life,
not to mention the forgone personal lessons one can gain from Entheogens,
as a result of the censorship of sensible, reliable, consistent, fact-based Information.


Entheogens are only an inherently bad idea
if an individual is so ignorant of themselves as well as the nature of their Reality
that they wouldn't be able to handle the aspects of either
brought forth so abruptly by the Entheogens.


Entheogen: To make manifest the Inner Divine
Psychedelic: To make manifest the Mind


These two things are one in the same; yet one is far more stigmatized:

Entheogens/Psychedelics are vital
if we are ever to learn about the parts of ourselves and our Reality
which are too obscure to recognize in everyday life.

Entheogens make apparent the interconnectedness of the Universe;
They break down the superficial and illusory barriers 'twixt Self and Godself:

They are Death of Ego,
which is frightening to Egoslaves;
They are disillusionment,
temporary Enlightenment;
Mystic Teachers.
Shamen in Botanical form.

Entheogens are Divine gifts:
Terrestrial Shepherds for the Soul, Prisms of Divinity;
Ignored, excommunicated, exiled and squandered by Societies
in the supposed name of 'safety';

Safety for those wrongfully in Power, perhaps

We have truly crucified the Prophets.
It didn't just happen in Mythological history;
it has never stopped happening,
it's still happening right here and now.


What personal freedoms are we willing forgo in the name of totalitarianism?
None, I would hope.

To further illustrate the blinding absurdity:

Should we trade in our legs just so we wouldn't need to worry about stepping on pinecones?
I sure wouldn't.
Should we trade in our eyes to preclude seeing things we find uncomfortable?
I sure wouldn't
Should we trade in our voices in fear that we won't be heard?
I sure wouldn't
Should we lay down and accept Authoritarianism?
I sure won't

Would you, were it law?
though I would sure hope not,
many have
;

Law of this sort is an appeal to both Fear and Authority,
all of which are arbitrary
yet all of which mutually and relatively define each other.


Thus I implore of thee to heed these words:

*Civil Disobedience is a Virtue.
Reflections of cultural Biases are everywhere.
Culture like this tends to suffocate Humanity.
Culture is a Cult that 'ure' (you're) in.
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/psychedelia-1/
Emelia Ruth Dec 2012
It was the winter of 2009,
14 inches of snow had fallen overnight.
It was the most I had seen in years,
since when I was 3 years old living in Kalama.

My siblings and I
as soon as we saw the snow
rushed into our
heavy winter coats
and overall snow pants
with mittens and caps
to cover the gaps.
Then we raced outside
moving like marshmellows
with our golden labrador with us.

Determined.
we laid the first angels of the snow
and created the first snowman of the season.
The snow man didn't have buttons for eyes
or a carrot nose.
He had stones for eyes
and a smile and ears made of granola bars
and peanut butter pinecones for hair.

Our mom named it the birdfeeder snowman.
But our fat old goldfinch labrador ate him
before the birds could ever get to snack.
This was a class assignment, I had to write something holidayish so this is what I whipped up. Hope you enjoyed.
Nira Dec 2017
If I collected my tears in a bottle, left it to the sea's mercy
Would you search for my tears among all that water?
Or would you just laugh with your liquid eyes
And lend me some milk and honey, milk and honey
The constellation of freckles mapped on your nose
Remind me of our milky way galaxy, of milk and honey

My eyes are leaking milk
My lips are drooling honey
Me eyes and lips leave behind
Milk and honey, milk and honey

Sometimes my words seem as empty as your promises
And that tears me apart worse than your love ever did
Limb by limb, ***** by *****, kiss by kiss
you dissected my love till I had nothing left to prove
Now I'm left wondering who made mistakes
Who sent me this bottle of milk and honey, milk and honey?

My eyes are watered by milk
My lips are touched by honey
My eyes and lips are flavored with
Milk and honey, milk and honey

Why do your cuss words sound like milk and honey?
You might be pathetic but oh what a pretty liar
Promises dripping with the water from your liquid eyes
If the symphony of my love ever touches your heart
Send me some milk and honey, milk and honey
Till then, I will l lie among the fallen pinecones

My eyes are turning into milk
My lips are turning into honey
My eyes and lips are now simply
Milk and honey, milk and honey

~If I ever wrote about milk and honey
I would write about you~

- n.g. // my fingers are sticky with your milk and honey //
belaboring hurt-bells
of twilight

outside there is a furious wind
sweeping the sour-faced pavement.
the helm of the morning
fits through the pinecones.
through the dandelion,
the diadem of some mystic flower,
the flurry of children
and the fury of the populace.

i know whence the wind stirs
cold flame from the many a dead
stones, sequined floor and the
dreary stillicide of night.
our bodies rise to the sun
that is a full woman
or a ripe apple
or a half-bitten moon in glare
and when her lips purse
there is pang in the wind that blows austere beneath the foot
of hills in ruin.

let the night come later than
a bird's secret sojourn,
or the cicada's enigma.
let the cathedral of my heart
quiver later than the unsheathing
of the night's bone
but in the twilight,
when the skies are bruised with
silence and somnolent without voice
my hands shall leap into the wind
and make do, the belaboring
hurt-bells of twilight.
no more than a crepuscular twining
of a sad vine on a melancholy hymn
that makes fuller with its tender
maneuvers, the trundling in
love's wearisome vessel.
He smelt like smoke
as he leaned away from me,
texting himself with my phone.

We left the campfire outside,
in our shoes by the door
our socks overlapped in a tangle of limbs.

In that leftover guest room,
on the bottom bunk of the microwaved bed,
I remembered why I thought I knew what love was.

He was tired and needed a nap,
I was restless and cold.
Trapped inside because of violent temperate rainstorms.

This boy owed me stubbed toes,
thorn ****** through my jeans,
nicknames and rubber soles.




This was the boy who had always smelt of smoke,
who knocked over dead trees for me,
who lied about being able to rock climb.

This was the boy who went swimming in the ocean
before summer had properly began
when it was still much too chilly.

I taught him a new card game,
he beat me at badminton.
We played capture the flag and threw pinecones.

We sold cookies on the side of the road,
ate dusty blackberries,
traded innuendos and bad jokes.

This was sea-urchin boy,
slug boy,
the boy with the bird's nest hair.




This boy grew taller,
dropped his voice like a used bus pass,
looked past the top of my head.

He laughed when i stepped in a mud puddle,
dared me to walk in bare feet.
This boy suddenly went mountain biking.

I talked extra loud, in hopes that he would overhear me,
offered him rootbeer straight from the can.
Ate pretzels and learned to read his mind.

We shared our childhoods like penny candies,
switching all the peach ones for strawberry.
we agreed these are the best years of our lives.

He layed beside me, underneath as many covers as we could find,
taking up too much space and he knew it.
my cartoon boy.




My hand-drawn boy,
With smoke coming out of his ears
moved away.

We didn't talk again
Autumn Rose Sep 2016
Upon a cold
winter's night, on
the snowy path they
wandered.
Deep in the forbidden forest.
The wise old owl that lived
in the tall oak was watching
as he sat on a branch.
Old pine,remain hollow.
He hooted to the
indifferent wind: Who?Who?
But it did not reply,
only whistling was heard
while the pinecones shivered.
The first was dressed in silver,
and her sister dressed in gold.
He stared into the moon,
seeking the truth.
So he discovered the stars
twinkling down upon them,
through the pine needles.
Brown wings of once lost light,
wisdom spoken by the night's silence.
And into the darkness they went,
The wise and the beautiful...
Ovidiu Marinescu Apr 2013
This branch, this life, the tongue to taste
the bitter of the pinecones.  Best  
to request permission for my heart to skip a beat,
dare me in February from here to west.

Woodstove fire - ash and flying ambers -
dries the musty grain of cedar essence.
Dancing smoked perfume is rising
Slowly - an inverted lava river.
Its sharp soft teeth the alphabet dismantle
back-taking life to its primordial matter
as history became the final institution.
Why did the idol have to burn, its thorns devoured,
Knotty eyes of wood in mind imprinted -
starry firmament on my sub-conscious?
Maia Chisholm Oct 2011
Remnants
  of a plastic world
    haphazardly dropped
      in the duff of pinecones and bracken
        litter this redwood path.

Our thoughtless leavings -
  shiny mylar strings
    and red straws -
      must sadden the bluejays
         watching from hidden branches.
Santa Cruz Mountain walk, May, 2011
punk rock hippy Nov 2014
I'm getting desperate cuz I'm getting distant.
The royal coachmen is the trailer park I used to live in.
Pinecones, stray cats and the candy man.
In the kitchen I dug a hole for a mouse to live in.  
For God's sake momma, could you puke a little quieter, don't let dad know you're sick cuz this house isn't a home when you're gone.
Cold mornings ****** doo blankets and hospital beds.
Dad tells me mom is sick again.
The hospital is no place to live in.
God ****** dad step up, make this a place to live in.

At 5 years old, my momma asks her momma to move in.

I'm getting distant cuz I'm getting desperate.
A little town named Charleston.

When you walk up the side walk and you see the willow, just know it's weeping because it's heard everything.  

Just to let you know there's a piece of glass in the side walk, not diamond.
I know that cuz I bent too many butter knives trying to make a fortune.

Yellow walls, barn cats and god.

It took me 12 years to find somewhere to believe in.
Home challenge

I forced myself to write this
I hate writers block

— The End —