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Zywa Dec 2018
Outside the village is the bridge
without a road, at the cemetery

are sometimes city people
painting it

Occasionally children play there
To me, it is an image

of life and this morning
I came across a woman there

lying on the abutment
She was scared, did not dare

to come with me, because of me
her no man's land was lost to her

For the rest, little happens here
there is never any news

and that is official
Collection "Slow circles"
Stark Nov 2018
All but still
Wheat wavering in the distance, shivering in anticipation
Animals hide away, tucked in the safety of hideaways, holes, and orifices
Humans crouch underground, waiting
Hours pass
A lone alarm shouts across the land
"This is an emergency. I repeat, an emergency warning"
So loud that those below, closer to **** than ever before, clutch their ears
For they are ringing from the vibrant sound waves stretching across the fields
A slight change in wind directions
A little bit of motion
Begins the devastation

A lone inverted triangle appears
Seemingly hovering, inches above the ground
Circling its prey, before it gorges itself
Endless cyclic motions, vacuuming everything in its path
Houses, barns, plants fly
Tugged from the attraction to the ground to the sky
Engulfed by the tornado
That winds down a path of destruction

On a whirlwind high
Drunk off of its power
Invoking pain for no reason, except that it can
Land ripped to shreds
Houses taken and tossed miles and miles away
Barns slingshotted across the American countryside
And the deaths
Oh the deaths

Those who thought they could wait it out
Survive again once more
Those who tried to chase the twister
Mesmerized by its hypnotic dance
Those who were in the wrong place at the wrong time
Oblivious to their preventable fate

When the humans emerged
From their underground bunker
They found a land left ruined
Wiped blank of human development
With that they shed tears
Watering the fertile lands
As the tornado wrecked havoc
It brought a rebirth
A chance to start again fresh
tornadoes and their destructive power.
Struggling to write the world with words,
my eyes stumble upon the poplar's first
of many coming yellow leaves,
reassuring me that nature's hiding
a trick or two up her seasonal sleeves.
Jonathan Oct 2018
I

Pitch black dark, full of wonder
I step outside to leave warm light
The cold air stings my city skin
Silence permeates the night.

In the countryside I stay
Where stars shine their brightest
I look up, full of expectation
It's not fulfilled, not the slightest.

I will not lie, I did see stars
But it was underwhelming, I thought.
6 hours drive away from home
It was all for nought!

In that single moment I aged many years.
I was Disappointed.
Discouraged.
Disheartened.
I went back inside
I was Defeated.



II

Next night, just as black,
just as cold, just as still
I leave the light and creep outside
The dark gives quite a thrill.

I can barely see but I still walk
Soon my eyes adjust
Shadows, treelines, unlit pathways
With time, become robust.

And then I see them.

Stars like tiny pinpricks, materialise
Thousands upon thousands appear
I stand and watch as they arrive
Frozen in awe, not fear.

Yesterday
I was wrong.
I was impatient.
I was naive.
And that's ok.

In that single moment, I aged many more years.
I wasn't Disappointed.
Discouraged.
Disheartened.
I went back inside.
I had Discovered.
My personal discovery when I went on a family trip to the countryside, where stars are said to be brightest.
Vince Victoria Aug 2018
I grew up in the country
Where greens and blues reign supreme
Where the stars shine bright at night
And the air smells like the air

I grew up in the country
Where your friends are really friends
Where animals run amok
And I relish the warm sun

Now I live in the city
Where it's grey as far as sight
Where the sky is just a haze
And now I cant even breathe

Now I live in the city
Where most your friends are strangers
Where horns and smoke rule the road
And I lock myself at home

I want to go home
Where the grass touches the sky
Where the clouds are white
And I can take a deep breath

I want to go home
Where I can trust peers freely
Where I can hear myself think
And I be free once more
Emily Jul 2018
I take out a newspaper
And I read it on my porch
My porch consists of a deck chair and a paddock
My back to my slanting house

I read articles on the yellowing page
And I read about how the world
Has gone to the dogs
It seems that all hath lost their minds

In my solace, without companionship,
I wonder if I have lost my mind too
Its been so very long since I have had
To make tea for someone

I believe the last had been my brother
Now I am the youngest sole
Of brothers three
Here on my farm,
I am free

By they near
And they are dear
To me their baby brother
That’s why I keep them
Near and dear
To me

Old stories turned to dust and ash
Not even a legend, not even a myth
After all, dead men tell no tales
Especially not about Inglewood convicts
Especially not when you put poison numb
In their tea
If my Uncle won't tell me the story of the three brothers, I shall make my own
Shofi Ahmed Apr 2017
One in the know drops a line,
there was no A B C to spell,
yet it keeps spreading.
An animated lingua
wraps round the eyeline.
All those that get wind of it
arise and keep counting.
Without a beginning or an end,
For it has no 1 or 9,
not a mark nor a sign.
Speechless, breathless me,
turn to mine, the one,
superior turned-on mind.
And it appeared true,
true to that credible nature
that identifies indeed
the 'name' of the composer!

Meanwhile, a bird of time.
A giant spell takes no time,
eases off in a blink of eye.
I start to breathe,
begin to revive, again in my
native countryside:  
some clay-bumps on the river.
I can cry, smile, now I
can shed tears.
Rhyme on the river.
What's in a river?
'Lores of time immemorial,
an open heart on the move!'

Is there anyone out there
'tapped into the running cycle of water,
following the rhyme on the river'?
One in the know drops a line,
there was no A B C to spell,
yet it keeps spreading.
An animated lingua
wraps round the eyeline.
All those that get wind of it
arise and keep counting.
Without a beginning or an end,
For it has no 1 or 9,
not a mark nor a sign.
Speechless, breathless me,
turn to mine, the one,
superior turned-on mind.
And it appeared true,
true to that credible nature
that identifies indeed
the 'name' of the composer!

Meanwhile, a bird of time.
A giant spell takes no time,
eases off in a blink of eye.
I start to breathe,
begin to revive, again in my
native countryside:  
some clay-bumps on the river.
I can cry, smile, now I
can shed tears.
Rhyme on the river.
What's in a river?
'Lores of time immemorial,
an open heart on the move!'

Is there anyone out there
'tapped into the running cycle of water,
following the rhyme on the river'?

One in the know drops a line,
there was no A B C to spell,
yet it keeps spreading.
An animated lingua
wraps round the eyeline.
All those that get wind of it
arise and keep counting.
Without a beginning or an end,
For it has no 1 or 9,
not a mark nor a sign.
Speechless, breathless me,
turn to mine, the one,
superior turned-on mind.
And it appeared true,
true to that credible nature
that identifies indeed
the 'name' of the composer!

Meanwhile, a bird of time.
A giant spell takes no time,
eases off in a blink of eye.
I start to breathe,
begin to revive, again in my
native countryside:  
some clay-bumps on the river.
I can cry, smile, now I
can shed tears.
Rhyme on the river.
What's in a river?
'Lores of time immemorial,
an open heart on the move!'

Is there anyone out there
'tapped into the running cycle of water,
following the rhyme on the river'?
Owen J Henahan Jul 2018
i trek across the country --
six states, six days,
four countries further on behind my back.

i carry nothing but my footsteps and a worn-down pack.
my feet ring hollow on airport floor tiles,
shuffling alone in the company of the masses.

*   *   *

i drive a rundown car through the iowa countryside.
nose running thin from corn pollen and fertilizer,
i chase the sky and the promise of something different.

not better, necessarily, but a change of pace,
a slow-down, something outside the empty race.

the wheels of time rattle slowly across dirt roads,
and the dust of my memories clouds the sky behind me.
a good traveler has no fixed plans, and is not intent on arriving.
- lao tzu
Claire Hanratty Jul 2018
A mug of camomile tea is best accompanied
By the gloam of a late summer's day and
The distant bleats of young sheep,
I find. Peace lies between
Two silhouetted trees, black
Against a blueish sky.
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