Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Merry Oct 12
I’m just a postmodern bush poet
Roaming and roving rusty roads
Writing, wordsmithing, amid yellow grass
Fondling the various ******* of Mother Nature
The hills and mountains, all her nooks and crannies
Looking at peeled potato sheeps
Dreaming about what great stews they would make
Listening to a bit of AC/DC
With no wuckin’ furries
Getting eyed by work dogs
With no sense of self-preservation
Telling me I’m going to die all the same
As those rotting roos lying in the dirt
Sodomised by cars just like mine
Their pink, esoteric entrails getting pecked out
By the crows I call my friends
Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 10/7/2019

O scarecrow, dressed elegantly
- in worn-out shoes, ragged old hat,
on which black crow sits in dignity
and stares off into this distance where forest sad

- you certainly dream about traveling
into these wheat fields, grasses adorned with flowers
that you could lose your scarecrow's soul
running happily towards the horizon...

But you stand here, alas, forever lost in thoughts,
unable to understand where the restriction comes from,
with your straw heart always split
between both powerlessness and want.

Funny thing, my dear scarecrow - to have
so much on your own and not to.

Przemyslaw Musialowski 10/01/2008
Only poems that I've ever tried to write myself come from a time when I was 22 or 23 years old and there are only a few of them. Enjoy!
A mellow breeze in a wishful sun
   fills waterfall flowers with honeybees
   where ageing grass, still young at heart,
   sways to music this autumn dreams.
      
      Sweet as honey and missed in seasons,
      the summer waves goodbye in peace.
         And what for fruitful hands today?
         Clammy, they’d be, away with spades.

A shallow river in the twilight sun
   brings hope to budding flowers of may
   where swathes of land, still rife with hope,
   sing in raindrops this autumn plays.
      
      Sour as lemon, yet yearned with reason;
      last winters madness is still yet to atone.
         And what for hopeful minds today?
         Busy, they’d be, in morrows ways.

Those swollen blue hands in the evening sun
   sees waterfall flowers with trees afar
   where times attritions, still young in regret,
   take no measure of our autumns jar!
JS CARIE Oct 3
As the crow flies south from capital city
With soaring moonshine he coasts into synchronicity
Highways below dissolve into forgotten whispers
Like a rear view mirror sees only memories in its disappearing

Visual ****** initiates and fills this polychromatic cruise
Starting with a quiet historic ruse
Contesting over which of the two
echo shadows for optical repeal

the many leaves of kaleidoscope hues
That keep a running legacy since time before our time
and / or
Buried horizon from endless layers of skyward hills
Hills that have been storing a primitive foundation for the growing of substructure foliage in order to be able to drop its petals and leaves

Resolve is left with the one true and unbiased impartial decider...
the wind
to form a fair measure of mediation

From the human view
All are merely a preview for the impromptu quest
In an attempt to catalyze foreshadow and paint memory for the drive out west

To approach from afar
The destination appears to be a resting
shape of an antiquated location

splashed with opaque aromas,

sensory weaving visuals,

and

Melodic tones of nostalgic definition

Emitting vibrations of soothing tremolo that quiver throughout the body

this multi-strip string of singular select shops
Is the alignment initiative in the countryside
forecasting a manifest
for the hazy occasion
Anointing inspiration over the heartland’s artland
That nearly only hope,
could create

Invisible snows sprinkle over roads like a magic red carpet of threaded tranquility in its coat
Enticing, Welcoming, and Lighting up this neck of the west
And opening into the
Woodland Hills of Little Nashville

———-—————————————-——————————
Terry Collett Jul 21
You showed Lizbeth
the empty cottage
down the country lane.

Maybe we can get in
some how
and do it there,
she said.

You looked at
the overgrown garden:
I couldn't do that,
you said.

Not do what
get in or do it ?
she said.

Neither of them,
you said.

Why not?
it can't be that hard
to get inside,
and surely
you like ***,
she said.

A goldfinch flew
to the apple tree
and made noise.

Rooks flew above
and around
the tall trees.

I won't break
into the cottage,
nor have ***,
you said.

She pouted her lip:
Why are we here, then?
she asked.

(When I came with Jane
a few weeks ago,
we looked around
the outside
talking about one day
marrying someone
and living there.

We also looked
at the various birds
in the garden.)

Just to show you
the cottage
and see what birds
there are,
you said.

She looked bored:
I didn't cycle
all the way here
to look at this
empty cottage
and look at ****** birds,
she said.

I didn't ask you
to cycle out here,
you said.

She sighed
and gazed
at the garden.

Maybe you should
come into town,
she said.

Too far to walk,
and there is only a bus
on Saturday morning,
you said.

You can cycle,
she said.

I haven't a bike,
you replied.

She didn't know
what to say.

I get the coach
to school
on weekdays,
you said.

After a few minutes
we walked up the lane
to where
she parked her bike.

See you at school,
Monday,
she said.

She rode off
and didn't look back.

You watched until
she was out of sight
and then you went back
to the shed to help
your father saw up logs.

Far off you heard
cows moo,
and the barking of dogs.
Terry Collett Jul 20
She talks to you
of birds
and butterflies.

She holds a wren's egg
in the middle
of her pink palm.

You touch
the fragile egg shell,
the sensation
of your finger
on the smooth shell,
her skin inches
from the tip
of your finger.

She moves the egg
in her palm
to show the blue shell;
you watching
her finger move,
wishing she
would move
with yours,
or hands holding close
against her thigh,
looking eye to eye.
Neon Robinson Jun 18
• This great division of space. •
And the untamed plants.

Geckos...
Pose as domestic pets -
slide along its faded railings.
Casing draughty walls,
tethered to rafters loose lashing;
hanging in jungle green.

I clean up the wild flowers
that float   in   the  a i r, without
explanation, without wrong measure.

Is as it comes -  
I am ashamed that this is all I want.

A testament to solitary hawks in the upper branches.
Flutter in memory carefree cardinals
in this leaf-strewn place,
Dragonflies form wing-prayers
We kneel and peel our shoes off,

drop our feet to sleeping grass
to be closer to the narrow splendor.

Peacocks honk rough phrases, asking anyone.
Commuting the tracks, between valley stream.

I linger limbo roads
On the jungly drive,
pass a farm that repeats
its exotic fruit tree, the elbows of orange blossoms
Guava groves, avocado arsenal,
saturated ocean views beyond pestyflower frills.

At the life proof gate. This world is untidy
with its muddy banks, with its eyes.
1000 flower bloom
Listening feral fowl, ungulate shake  

Retirees friendly fire,
Long forgotten barbwire crossing creeks
the mountain lost in a sea of green    
This land, like me, is free
To live a less domesticated dream
About my homestead in Hawaii. A cabin that falls somewhere between Lincoln log  / LEGO looking safari tent is the muse. As well as the surrounding areas.
Isabel May 6
Two buzzards on a winter tree
Side by side, smart and efficient
Guardians of my countryside
They don't care about Brexit
They are not interested in all the silly politicians
Unless they were dead
In which case they'd eat them
And tidy up the place
I wrote this back in January. Now the trees are in leaf, but we're still in a mess.
Next page