This morning the plains are shrouded in a thick fog
and here I am right in the middle of it
drifting all around
looking for a buoy, a light, a sight or sound
so I’ll know I am somewhere
and not nowhere.  

I wonder how many of us
are in their own foggy world
if the planet has little patches
hovering over our species
each of us wandering -
sometimes with great determination -
looking for a place, trying to see
somewhere firm in the shrouded sea
a place calm and silent to be
just for a minute or two or three.

Inspired by Michael of HelloPoetry.com and his poem, Nirvana.

My beloved cries out—
I bring cool cloths, rub her back, I pray
and wait, and split in two—
As one watches over, the other packs her bags
and drifts into the night

First the forest and the fog—
I am blind with darkness and use my hands
to feel my way through
the unaccounted for,
the unrecognizable, flashes
of memory dismissed
Tangled branches whip, roots rise up
tiny monsters nip,
but I don’t run
And always the presence—
thick film and sticky, bearing down
too heavy to be comfort,
and cold

There is more air here
but I see what’s next and drop
to all fours
Now I am on the rocky ocean’s edge at low tide
Here the wind rises and I know it can
spirit me away
while parts of my little body are cut away and discarded
it can spin me into ether
Here it feels free,
but not really, false promise—
I will have to return some time,
to face my broken heart

I’ve been here many times
and have what I need: layers, rain gear
soft soled shoes
(we’re on slippery ground here, pay attention)
a locket, some string
and one match
The match is my beacon, string
keeps me grounded
I know this road, and will
find my way home

This  time   winter
  was  the  real
cruel   king.



   The  king  does  not  allow
    to  enter  the  vehicles
to  the  cities.


   This  is  the   monopoly  and
monarchy  of  a  king.


     On highway
in  fog  situation
teas  and  co fees  are
  being  distributed    freely
   to  avoid  accidents.


   This  was  really  thew  
great   symptoms  of
  a  king.

   In  foggy  and  foggy
situation  truck  drivers
have  to  sing  
to  escape  from winter.

This January, fog slips thick fingers through the hair of the trees,
wrapping them in blankets against the cold and against the sun.
Streetlamps and headlights make halos
of red, yellow, green, white,
carving slices into the air,
the same at three as they are at six as they are at nine as they are at--

And something whispers to me that elsewhere there is snow.
It’s only getting warmer.
It’s only getting warmer.

A curtain drawn on the sun;
A summer storm pouring down.
Gale of winds brush past
making you lose your breath.

Emotions start to rile  
Thoughts start to pile
letting your words become vile
as tears start to flow down.

The fog settles
as the mind rages
and bones
start to feel uncomfortable
in your skin
as the swallowed air
seems to be too thick.

During those days
some just want to curl up in a ball,
take cover
and watch laughter evoking shows
to get you through.

Some want to
fight through the storm
trying to hold on to
the bleak of glimmer
that maybe there.

Some find comfort
in the presence of others
letting them be their crutch
and drink their potion of love.

Some just want to
cry a river nile
letting sadness trail down their cheek
to let it all out.

Some remain in the
black silences
falling apart to the rhythm of solitude
as the black matter multiplies
and they implode
falling back into the abyss.

- Beautiful Sensitive Soul

Meditation is sniffing lines until the pain goes away.
Meditation is hiding in my room until the sun goes away.
Meditation is found in the countless women I've let inside, but never to stay.
Meditation is the ice cold razor that clears the fog that accumulates in the day.
Meditation is when the heart tries to find the words to say,
but my mind finds ways of distracting it and keep it at bay.
I find the strength to meditate everyday, it's good for you, or so they say.
But everyday I feel weaker, how long before I'm no longer stuck in the gray?

There's nobody that cares enough to look past my career,
Even I don't give a **** about the far future or near.
I am waiting for the day that I can get drunk off my rear,
If it saves a life, go ahead and put me to the spear.
Definitely not suicidal, that hotline's not my speed dial.
The evil's really there, but I'm the one who's even more vile.
My fam and friends love me, too bad the hate is deafening.
If you really wanna help me then be more than just threatening.
Can't walk with pride, so I crawl. Society's centipede.
seventy percent chance that I won't live to see seventy.
My heart plenty big, but plenty dark. My bullet biting thoughts mostly small, cause it's all bark.
But I am always down to get together, hang out at the park whenever.
Maybe even spark a little, save these memories for forever.
Keeps me and my homies tethered down, weather won't catch us now.
May not see right past this fog, but I see through you now.

It's the easy path to label all problems under depression,
no one wants proper treatment, but prefer smoke sessions.
Then you think you learned your lesson, underneath it's all digression.
Takes you at least a year to break down and start confession.
It poisons me to see my friends fade into strangers with problems,
only thing you can do is relate and say "Amen".
Why did you ignore omens? My door was wide open,
but then again I have my problems that I don't cope with.

Have I lost what I’m just beginning to realize
is most important to my heart’s longing for home?
I was formed in this comforting hurting place of greens and golds and blues.
Help me,
I’m crying in the home-sickness of my bulldozed childhood house.
The rain that blurs my tears,
The fog that hides my fears,
The cold that gives warmth to what’s dear.
Like my memories slipping,
This sense of security feels,
lost.