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Vladmir Putin May 2015
Frank Sinatra
En mi casa
Copy pastarino

Wearin Prada
Russian opera
Quentin Tarantino
craig apogee Mar 2015
you sweep in a like a gust of leaves
turning my head and commanding my eyes
which are now firmly pinned to your rustling rhythm
a crisp distraction

the type that lingers on...
for days...
nights...
weeks...

unwilted by time
preserved in my mind
a renaissance of the heart and soul
a beautiful, crisp distraction
Sometimes its the small victories
rachel Nov 2014
The trees really do have souls,
And they whisper to me ways
To not be sad anymore.
Claire Sep 2014
No I won't call it fall.
Crisp is the feeling.
Crisp is the taste.
Apples on the trees.
Wind through the air.
The leaves carry my soul.
Everlasting into the winters edge.
Hold me close my dear.
It's that crisp time of year.
Not ill,
But thriving in light.

Not envy
But wanting more:
To be understood for who I am.

Not growth,
But becoming--
Changing to match my
Guardian angel.

Not what they believe,
But cool and crisp,
Cucumbers in a salad,
Blending in unnoticed.


Today I feel like green.
Glaucous Definition: grey-green; green-blue; yellow-green.
Poetic T Jul 2014
I woke to find the world covered in white
I ran down the stairs,
Opened the door,
Running through the white ground
Sinking deep,
Lying  flat the ground beneath.
Cold,
Vivid white,
Pure,
It crunched under my weight,
I spread my arms out like wings
My feet spread
I moved them in sync
Left
to
Right
My head still,
As it sunk ever more deep
I lifted up to see what was done
A white snow angel
Pure as the snow that surrounds
I made a wish to the snow angel
Protect,
Care,
Look after
Those in this house from now,
The hours past it went to fast,
I slept a deep sleep blanketed in the dark
I woke as light pierced the room
Shoeing the darkness away.
I looked out to the ground below,
Where once there was one
Now more did appear, encircling the house
Days pasted and the white did fade,
But the angels now ice
Not melted away,
The sun shone down,
The ice did gradually faded away.
I awoke to my mothers voice
Come look my child,
Wings spread,
Angels before my eyes,
What once was white
Its shadow in green,
They heard my wish
Though the snow had gone,
They were still here there circle of wings.
Here to stay to forever protect me
And  those who live in this house,
Each year it snows.
Cold,
Vivid white,
Pure,
The angels appear,
But leave a space, for my own angel to reappear
As I lie in the crisp white ground
Surrounded by my angels all year round.
Liz Apr 2014
The dull leaves
cry and crackle as
the sharp winds strains
their stalks.

They flutter through
the wayward wood
like the ever searching cuckoos.

Ochre, the sad oak gleams, barer
in the morning rays.

Diamond frost melts once more
into the crisp leaves which,
from crunchy embers, soften
as they drench

Satin turns to pumpkin
and mahogany
as melancholic
November approaches.

— The End —