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Prairieland grass--
bent over towards the ground
by the dry, Fall wind
as the subtle warmth
  of a teasing Sun..

Submits itself to the
now impending Winter..
where grass and seed
sleep in dormancy
as the subzero wind
prepares the ground  
to receive  snow.. upon snow

upon snow.

..And there is this temptation
to draw feelings   and conclusions
from any one certain  part
   of the whole.

And those feelings and conclusions..
                             --they feel so very real

Because they were based upon  the real;
but only a part of the beautiful whole..
And though,  even  one part of the whole
is as real as every single  other part..

It is  in itself, incomplete.
Just as the bent-over prairiegrass
under the snow  is incomplete..

It is Spring now..  sweet, struggling Angel

    All things become new.

I remember in the mornings
   Waking up
With your arms around my head
You told me you can sleep forever
And I'll still hold you then

Now the weather's getting colder
It's even cold down here
And the words that you have told me
Hang frozen in the air

And sometimes I look right through them
As if they were not there

There is a love..
that is measured  in years
the years..  in seasons
The seasons.. in days,  then hours..

.. even minutes.
Knut Kalmund Jul 2020
tedious tardy sleeps are the latest commodity
my advisor‘s eulogized,
though I have dealt with it
for as long as ever.

since I do that exceedingly well.
just once I’d wish to sink into bed,
shut my eyes for a shielded moment,
and find myself revived afterwards.

perhaps my life is
too cluttered with uncertainties,
so my bedlam body unlearned to be happy.

instead, a high demand of despondency
is expected to be appeased by
the insomniac stakeholders of my remains.
Thanks for reading.
Knut Kalmund Jul 2020
there she hangs
my most appealing branch
bonding with a full-grown oak tree
what a fine firm fit

she enjoyed splendid foothold
one could say
according to her blooming children
far from decay

and her healthy membrane
enveloping the sturdy stem
that no wind can shake
silently screaming

pick me, pick me!
I will pick you
as long as you promise me
one last time
that you will stay
never let go
so I can
like my head in god's bulge

as I hoist myself onto oblivion’s clasp
into the deadliest of heavens
I’m tired
when you find me
eleanor prince May 2020
a fog of uncertainty
or mist of opportunity

discouragement of the fearful
passion of the pathfinders

boredom of the erudite
opportunity of the ready

despair of the overcome
pride of the calm conqueror

crumbling of the thoughtless
savvy of the thinker

rebellion of restless seas
wisdom of the calmer waters

coarseness of the unmodified rocks
refinement of a rare diamond sage

repeating dirge of the pessimists
excitement of the optimists

shock of the confronted
pragmatism of the realists

dissatisfaction of the takers
fulfillment's flame in the givers

empty shell of the ever selfish
and balm of those who

to the bewildered
smile kindness
In response to Joey's lovely, timely poem: 'Seeing is Believing'

There are many variations in the responses to modern life of those around us, especially to the daily bombardment of the news of 'mass disabling confusion and denial' or the 'barely contained hysteria' observed in reactions of many to an actual or even perceived foe. These altered societal parameters are proving to be a challenge for some, a way to shine for others.  The choice is for us to make, perhaps with a change in outlook for the best outcome, hence I wanted to share the reality and opportunity of our day...
S I N Dec 2019
In a very distant land I believe there is a
King; he is old decrepit and withered; no
Servants and no Knaves beside him; no
Queen to be the solace of his miserable
Being; he perched upon his throne and
Do nothing but beholds his sank in
Calamity Kingdom; the old tokens of His
Might and Sway may still be visible;
Bearing no power though; his mantle is
Crimson but dusty and shabby;
Somewhere even stiffened and resembles
A crust; his skin is placid and paled and
Peeling with flakes which fall and mound near au pied of his throne; no sounds
Resound but his moans and groans
From pain or from despair or some other
Misery is not known; but the thing that is
True is the fact that he suffers and craves
For the former boons; he wishes his plight
Was restored to that of an ephebe; but
Alas; leave all thy hopes thou King since
Long Ago of Nothing; forsaken is thy
Kingdom, come no prosper to thee nor
Posterity will thrive nor any herb will reside
These barren lands of yours; for we reap
What we sow and when thou sowest
Thou shalt reap the sprouts of
I wandered for a moment, surrounded by the white tunnel
In which I smelt the metallic tang from stainless steel
Travelling in the open air.

Glancing, I saw the disarray: nurses dashing in assistance, paramedics charging through the gaping doors with emergency cases
And doctors immersed in the plight to save lives.

I slid a door open,
Discovering an image so brief and profound,
A man, varnished with red, ached as it
Dripped through his hair -
Hesitantly, he settled sideways,
You could see his hurts were spinal.

He had fallen from an engine,
Dragged along the grating metals,
And as he lay, half sentient -
To his bed came a woman,
Who stood and sighed,
Her lips were writhen
As the sun had risen.

How desolate it was,
As she lied near the thundering waterfall of his heart,
Only to realise,
They were on the eve of their marriage.
lovelywildflower Dec 2018
it *****, doesn't it? feeling like you're not good enough, no matter how are you try.
lovelywildflower Dec 2018
i've spent my whole life making other people happy when all they did was leave.
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