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Leone Lamp Apr 23
Once upon a time,
we lived in Shangri-log
It was hollow and cozy
and safe from the fog
We built us a kitchen,
out of sticks and stuff
We built benches and shelter
and swept away the duff

We were working on the hill,
early that spring
Away from our log,
when the bear gave a ring
He raided all of our salty snacks,
and even some of our liquor stash!
And all he left was a big bear mess,
and a pile of.. I'll let you guess...

So we learned our lesson, no more storing food
We cleaned up camp and life was good

But we had to return to our toil
Spreading horse ****,
amending soil
The next time we returned
to our big round squat
Something was wrong,
but we didn't know what..

We decided not to worry
and we had a party
We were lit up all night
and the sky was starry...
As the sun was coming up,
the time for sleep rolled around
But as we laid down to rest,
we heard a startling sound...
Beep! Beep! Beep! Filled the air!
And a churning of trees!
They were clearing the area,
We needed to flee!

We snatched up some things,
hid the rest in a stump
Our buddy was collapsing
his tent on the run
We got to the commune,
but no sleep would be found...
We all were uneasy about
bulldozers on ground

At the end of the day,
When the workers were gone
We dashed up the hill,
to check on our zone
Our camp was untouched,
Our things were all fine
But the brush had been cleared
all under the power lines...
And since our log was exposed, it was time to go
(I think we can take a hint, dontcha know...)

We cleaned everything up,
Tore everything down
Well almost everything,
Our old bed's still around
The years have gone by,
The brush has regrown..

It's hard not to wish we could live in our old home...
Just reminiscing about some of the good ole daze. Before I'd ever paid any rent or bills or auto expenses. I'm glad to know it's possible, but these days we're in so deep I don't think we could ever go back.
Zach Blackmer Feb 25
The demos of France rise to light,
To silence the cavernous glut of king.

Paris glows a bright hot white,
As the echoes of torment sing.

The people gather all their might,
To snap the golden chain.

The masters of the people’s plight,
Claw back to save their reign.

As thunder cracks to end the slight,
Paris glows a deep dark red.

The fall of this great sight,
Fills our hearts with dread.
Duke Thompson Aug 2014
a commune back home not hippie
buy 300, no 500 acres great land
in Codroy or misty high hilled Avalon
built great big house wraparound porch
beset by rocking chair by the sea yet
in the woods at end of road all brown dirt

growing gardens, herb and vegetable
pulling weeds but keeping good green ****
brewing beer by own hand
group work but not always group think

friends lovers writers growers givers
all come to stay
making great pots of stew and strange brews
awakening brought far from Peruvian Torch homeland
telling stories all somehow great fables and anecdotes for life and living and love and everything that's good in the long run

at night over bottles on beaches by fires
we worry these are funeral pyres
for our great little social experiment
fear of leaving loving womb
of isolated salt fish by sea commune

real world so crass&brash; an unctuous affair
where here instead guitars, ukes
silly screaming little buddhas recite poems
by gleaming eye fireside

— The End —