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TMReed Oct 2019
Beware the Gyac’tus!
Oh you monster, oh beast!
Found crawling over mountainsides
on such uneven feet!

Watch the way it’s hobblin’
o’er rocks and hills alike.
**** now, foulest creature! Rid that-
hobblin’ from my sight!

Gone isn’t far enough,
he stoops within my head.
No hamlet could survive like this,
let’s burn him in his bed!

Forks n’ brands, fires too,
pierce heavy evening air.
Storm straight, we do, his wretched mount
to find him sleeping bare.

Be gone, oh Gyac'tus!
I howl atop its shape
A whimper leaks from his lips ‘fore
I carve across its nape.

Fear no more! Fear is dead!
Echoes proudly out the cave,
thus we flounder up the mountain,
thought victors, found us slaves.

But the mount is unkind,
spilling forks in twos, threes,
soon a crowd becomes a party,
a party ‘comes a leash,

‘til the fire burning
on the crest stands alone,
yet the only thought I think,
thunk of wine slugged at home.

Drunken dreams expose me
the vengeful mount beneath,
my careless kneecap crumbling
like cornbread at my feast.

Tumble down the mountain
rolling head, feet n’ all
'til sprawling on the ground beside
the spoils of my war.

Glimpsing 'cross its body
held down by shorter heft
I find myself an iron cast
fast ‘round his shorter left.

Donning the clever craft,
my fate turns a corner!
I crawl, on such uneven feet,
homeward in a fervor.

Triumphant from the hills,
hunger tempting Bacchus,
my hobblin’ culls an awful tune,
Beware the Gyac'tus!
Humanity comes and goes.
Alexander Oliver Mar 2019
When I was a young boy
I met a man with no legs.

“They popped right off! They ran and ran, off to the hills!”
Or so he said
                               Promising him his legs, I ran off

When I was a young boy
Looking for this poor man’s legs
I met a man with no arms,

“They were choking me, so I cut them both off”

Or so he said.
Grinning at me, he told me his tales
Tales of the moon and the rabbits,
                                                Of the turtle and the hare,
         Of the squirrel and her treasure,
                               And of the man with no legs.

I took the man’s legs and never broke my promise,
In return I took the old man’s arms
To right my rightful wrong

Looking back now I can see a fatal error,
If only I could have learned it sooner;
You see, I was not a smart young boy
Or so they said
                               For I lost my ears along the way
I love telling stories. This is one of my first attempts at a more literal tale through poetry [after some heavy editing ;)]. "the squirrel and her treasure" is a reference to one of my other stories, if anyone is confused!
"There's a target on your back,"
said the man in striped white socks and flip flops.
He swung his arms freely and slapped his face
accidentally or intentionally--his illness wasn't mine to name.

The trees wrapped their arms around one another in a huddle.
"Quick she's coming near. The target is close."
One. Two. Three. Birds flew by and splashed my forehead.
I looked back and felt one of the trees wink and point ahead.

A man on a moped waited until my back was turn and I bent down.
Whistle. Whistle. Head turn back ninety degrees.
You'll get in an accident, I thought; I secretly wanted,
his helmet-less head splat flat on the concrete, skin burning,
melting, bubbling, pooling in a puddle.

The red doors whined against my insistent grasp.
When I found my white door, I air twisted the **** that was
pushed back to show the open space inside the coolness.
I didn't live that cold. I didn't know how.
He did. And he reached into my freezer and removed his tongue.
I sank onto the floor and felt ice hit me my cheeks and my eyes and ears.
The blankets couldn't warm me. My tears couldn't melt what formed.

He tossed my key on the mat, kicked back dust into my face;
looked me square in the eyes frozen wide open, mouth gaping for air.

"I put a target on your back. See ya."
db cooper Jan 2015
I stopped by for a cigarette and to hear a story
He always told the tale of one eyed molly
She lost her eye
In a fight with a dog
The moral of the story was
Never trust something
Just because it may look harmless,
Even act harmless
But this day he told me another tale
The one of old Lumberjack Dale*

He was large like an ogre
Chopped too many trees to know of

Was stupid according to my uncle
This gave me quite a chuckle

He left off, on a normal morning
Hiked up the mountain
To where the clear dirt’s mourning

Held his axe and began to swing
The trees didn't have a prayer
He thought he was king

One fell down
He yelled "TIMBER"
Another smacked the ground
He Yelled "TIMBER"
Then another

Birds were scattering
Squirrels were flying
The sounds were of a madman grunting through fire

The fifth hit the ground
The lumberjack ogre
Had to sit down

He swung one too many times, on this here day
The mountain swung back with a black bear, ok?

Protecting her cubs she wrestled the big man
Teeth in his arm and his axe in his hand

He squinted his eyes and flung the weapon
Missing the giant bear standing about 6' 11"

The mountain whispered to the lumberjack
"Leave and never come back"
He had ****** his pants and ran for the shack


The old black bear followed
Protecting her land
And the ones she adored
Jayanta Nov 2014
It is a tell of
two adored in historic past

“Their life was bumpy
No one allowed them to tie the knot!

They were lucky
Times permit them to get nearer!
In the fullness of time,
They are happy
Their new life is starts up!

They are starry
crops in their field are growing up!

They are brawny
Her haulage to a new hope!

Their hopes are turns to gusty
Draught spread out
Crops ruined up
and in the bolt from the blue
He breathes his last!

She is becoming leggy
Tears and torn encircled
People started to blame!

All of a sudden
A magic brings Mosey
A birds comes in and
tell   ‘I am here now,
Going sing everyday for you
and our up bring!’"

Then onwards
People in the hills
label birds calls are
the songs of their dearest one !

Now, birds are becoming honey
to everyone!!
Based on folk tale of ‘Sermaya’ community a sub-group of ‘Halam’ tribes of a inhabitant Tripura, belongs to North Eastern Part of India
Leonard Sine Jun 2014
In a past life she was a mermaid.
Her eyes seaweed green;
bright watery globes,
flecks of aquamarine.

Bones made of coral,
and skin from wet sands.
She devoured lost sailors
and made treasure their hands.

She rolled with the waves
of the great Celtic Sea,
and pulled with the undertow
‘round County Kerry.

I know this quite well,
‘cause in my past life
I was a drunk Irishman --
she was my wife.

— The End —