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Cole Mar 31
Raw. Vulnerable. Honest.

You remind me to exhale the crumbling pieces.

It doesn't matter the canyon width of longing

Or the tumultuous curve of bending roads.

No matter for ego or dreams to come to fruition

You are messy art work, the fun, soul ablazing kind.

And I hate how angry you get at times

Or worse, that I actually think your anger is justified.

I want days to soar for you, to have soft, chuckling eyes

To decipher your deep hurts as patches of frost and nothing more.

And I hate how lonely I can feel your bones rustle with some cold truths.

But you could never be

Cold to me.

You help this crazy, babbling soul

Remember what its like to thrive

In a relentlessly, dying

Winter.
Cam Mar 22
I read that The Colorado River
is pinned down like a snake
used to be that
(before the one-armed-man was king)[1]

the feet of the river
would pick up and move
across the Sonoran dessert
they’d trample laundry lines

and capitalist enterprise
now the snake is still
breathes still it is captive
under 15 concrete collars

the next time it sheds its skin
is geologic time. beyond generational
in geological time the flooding
of the Glen Canyon is a frame

skip, but a ski boat’s wake is forever.
a vast inland sea, even
castles in the sky need moats.
impenetrable as the air

the whole shebang un-erodes,
it becomes nothing
squeezed between ghosts
and immaculate parking lots
LC Mar 2
a little simile here,
a splash of metaphor there,
all carefully folded and mixed
to form a delicious souffle.

it goes into the oven
at the perfect temperature.
the souffle begins to rise,
the sweet aroma engulfs the room.

but the timer chimes early.
they take the souffle out,
and it sinks within itself,
forming a deep, large canyon.

but this souffle is different.
they put it back in the oven.
it bakes longer and longer
until it finally rises again.
Sometimes it takes time to find the right words. Take all the time you need. :)
Michael Luciano Dec 2020
This is the Canyon lands Can you feel it man?
Dawn's early promise to lend you her hand.
Awake from the cave from the rubble you climb.
Down the lonely path to the river of time.

This is the Canyon lands far from the thought Plateau.
Deep down in that crevasse where the warming fires glow.
Where the canyon walls climb to the cheeks of the sky.
The sun she peaks in from time to time.

This is the canyon land Where the River she winds.
Cut down deep by her flowing design.
Through the valley she runs away from the caves.
On a long from our shelter to a place that we crave.

This is the Canyon Land but all we want is more.
To travel the river of time set sail from our Shores.
Slide along the river to where the canyon meets the sea.
Float on from that crevasse to Eternity.

This is the canyon land from where we took the plunge.
In to her cooling hands flowing toward the sun.
To divide and conquer explore the high seas.
Gain, grab, and get more than we can dream.

This Is The Place To Where the River Flows and the canyon meets the sea.
Plastered form our being until eternity.
Something Beyond this miserable cage that we live in.
and the sky opens up to give all she has to give
Where the sky opens up to give all she has to give.
Pockets Aug 2020
Those who don't go with the wind
Will be shaped by it
Their blood will be waves
Their minds will be canyons
They will be shaped to a fertile and forgiving landscape
So that those who get carried by the wind
Will have a safe place to land
Robert C Howard Sep 2019
Over untallied millennia,
    roiling Gunnison waters
sliced through southern Colorado
    schist and gneiss like a sabre -
carving tower walls of black rock
    ribboned with tableaus of
pegmatite and mica flakes
    flickering in the mid-day sun.

2,000 feet below, meandering
    through its stark canyon walls
like some legendary serpent,
    the Gunnison murmurs softly -
resting on its laurels.

Robert Charles Howard
September 2019
Ma side-cariste,
comme un  cerf-volant flotte
Rattaché à un fil,
Tu roules dans ta caisse sur chassis Tomahawk
Attelée à ton prototype, moi sur ma Cheftaine Indienne
D'origine,
Moi ta prothèse, ton calumet de la paix.

Et rallye après rallye,
Cascade après cascade,
Escale après escale,
Notre route à deux
Emprunte les chemins escarpés
Les canyons
au sens propre
comme au figuré
J'enfile mon casque coloré rouge blanc et bleu,
Je me signe d'un shot de Wild Turkey
Je me sens des ailes d'aigle,
Je me sens Evel Knievel ex machina
Ford Davidson et Harley Mustang
Je m'élance sur la rampe
Je franchis  le mur de ton  son en flammes
au dessus d'une rangée de quatorze comètes écrasées et amassées
Dans les eaux de ton Grand Canyon sidéral
D'où saillit la fontaine de Caesar Palace
Saturée de mille requins affamés qui crient :
"Color me lucky !
Dakota J Dawson Apr 2019
Has
God been here
Before

With Jack
Rocks
Impassable walls

Stains of yellow
Petals
Falling down

Washing down
Acidic joints
Painting
Prettier beginnings

Along
False roads
Gold with
Total fog
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