Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Meadow Sep 2018
White water meets white sky.

No escape from this fog bubble we call paradise.

Eyes blinded by white blankets of smoke.

We wonder what is beyond.

A white canvas to project one's desires of a far-off dream.

Anything is better than this, right?
a man
of Bastille
that Canandaigua
march till
Pacific with
their referendum
suffrages to
really inhabit
kingdom that
welcome a
pickle as
this ancestry
written petition
must declare
doom but
again with
fur trade
Lewis and Clark were fur traders and left with The Parting Of Ways on the Oregaon Trail making way for Mormons to settle the Southland.
an early
moon made
falls shine  
and being
a kind
of archer
where he
was taught
with ingenuity
that ritual
his prowess
in hunting
would tell
arrows here
in forrest
succumbed to
their inclusion
Shahola in Pike County and one of sixty-seven in Pennsylvania..
Hicky has been there to bleed a knife where once it traced him
in the knees like a robot he fought his colors in a foe but his registered *** offender agreed where feelings hurt inside the belt
that flood was never analgesic again and let him gun down nights
he walked alas with cleated shoes as future most often did ****** with just his uniform search for sovereignty and dignified marksman with courageousness that ended his justiceship in Harris County.
Sheriff Hickman will survive  Houston
impale olympic skies! their pacific
avarice, turbulence, mai-tai-dyed
oxycontin contradictions pull out
deep convictions to rift meteoric
and fall apart.
happiness apart.
The big day was a week away
The streets were being swept
Folding stands erected
Where homeless, last week slept

To make a good impression
The Mayor told one and all
To step up and take note
To answer his loud call

We must show the whole country
We are the best at what we do
We have to show the country
The best side of me and you

This meant weeks before this
The police were out in force
Removing the imperfections
Both on foot and out on horse

A cleansing of the city
Make it nice for all to see
It brings up bitter memories
At least it does to me

It happened back in Europe
A little corporal took command
He did his little cleansing
With his little **** band

The town had hung up bunting
Like the banners in Berlin
being homeless is a problem
It's not where a cleansing should begin

The mayor had plans for plenty
Marching bands and lots of press
He'd only answer pre-set questions
In case it all became a mess

He had to have it perfect
It was his first parade you know,
the streets were freshly steam cleaned
There was nothing he didn't want to show

The displaced folks all huddled
Down in the park, a mile back
Veterans and soldiers
Whites, Hispanics, and some black

Their town was in transition
They were the cities hidden sore
They would never be accepted
Never let inside a door

The Mayor stood on the dais
Waved and smiled as folks went by
It was a town of smoke and mirrors
He showed the world a great big lie

Like the small Austrian corporal
who refused to change and would not bend
The Mayor lied to his country
It was the beginning of his end
Gaby Lemin May 2014
The  eerie warmth that comes with the calm before.
The unnerving shade of black that only clouds can claim.
The heat that rises from tarmac on empty, open roads.
The scent of petrichor from the passing of earlier rain.
The first rumble starts somewhere unknown and distant.
The suggestion, an omen, of the beginning of an end.
The first drop of rainfall from another night of storms.
The thunder waking creatures from their beds.
The sounds increase slowly as time crawls and passes.
The night is young and roars keep rolling in.
The dark, as such, so early in the evening.
The set of warm goosebumps rising over skin.
The colour of the sunset behind their eyelids.
The blood of Gods is soaking up their breaths.
The momentary post apocalyptic sense of living.
The moody skies catalyse thoughts of untimely deaths.  
The passing of the clouds seems dangerously fast.
The growls now thick and boisterous, vehement and clear .
The dust that whips past legs and arms and faces.
The shelter is no barrier for the splitting of an ear.
The tranquillity of standing up in air now still.
The peace of opportunity to look over horizons.
The aftermath of rain and wind and thunder.
The silence of one mind becoming enlightened.
I like thunder storms.

— The End —