Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Allyssa Buenafe Oct 2018
I could tell you that I tip toe across the cold wet stones,
Careful with every movement,
But I’m not.
I’m unsteady,
Unsteady as the current rushing beneath me against the slippery rocks.
I could tell you that I’m dainty,
Soft spoken and polite,
But I’m not.
I’m brazen,
I’m honest,
I’m emotional.
I’m clumsy and I don’t have good balance on the moss beneath me in the water.
I ***** under pressure,
I’m an anxiety filled vessel.
I hate to be the rain on your sunny day,
But baby I’m sorry,
I’m nothing but the girl who fell into the rushing waters below.
River
ph Jun 2018
You’ve grown on me
like moss and ivy,
slowly at first but
before you know it, I’m
covered in you, and I
choose not to remember
what it was like to be *****.
Whether virtual or actual paths cross,
     aye great thee ahoy
no fear Mademoiselle or Monsieur,
     thy harried style haint cloy

rather, when embarking
     on introductory acquaintance
     ship, aye employ
swiftly tailored indistinguishable,
     asper this wordsmith mebbe goy

or Jew, yet genealogically
     thine Semitic lineage,
     unknown descendants begat,
one generation after
     stitched another thread,
     whence warp and woof, sans dat

     (moth eaten tattered wool worth
     coat of arms), twas slim and/or fat
chance biologic dice throw
     adumbrated me Matt,
a skinny, quirky,
     and nerdy kid, who sat

alone during lunchtime
     at school pained, plagued,
     and pronounced with extreme,
     where introversion didst agitate
chronic state of misery being alive
     immobilized, hogtied, and forfeited

     natural predilection
     to discover and create
heterosexual relationships,
     viz interpersonal experiences
     re: raison to date
initial intimate rapport

     (anxiety fraught) fate
full situation with a gal
    giving her good grief great
(yes, twas Maryann Sage),
     who understandably became irate
predicated on lack

     of mine demonstrative affection
     quickly becoming an unsuitable mate
though now in retrospect
     (hindsight always 20/20)
     a sudden resurgent spate

finds remembrance of things passed
     (with her) engendering
     cerebral tete a tete
rankling memories,
     hence for death aye cannot wait!
Jim Musics Apr 2018
0.9
I found a place
On higher ground
A big, flat boulder of Canadian granite on a gentle *****
A thick carpet of softest green moss covers it
It rained yesterday, but it will be nice and dry and warm by tomorrow
There are Pileated Woodpeckers building a nest nearby
I shall stretch out, on my back, looking all though the blue
If you're not busy
Come there too
27/30 0.9
Under roofs of aging pine
Where the trees in rows align
I awake a forest doss
On a ***** of golden shine

Missing shoes is not a loss
When I step a floor of moss
Feel the urge of turning spread
But the light I have to cross

All is faint that comes ahead
Staring at my feet instead
Then I’m left with just a nose
As I in the light embed

Pine cones fall under my toes
Where it’s going, no one knows
But I’ll keep the forest close
Forest close, forest close
https://www.patreon.com/oscarpbcreativity
Jim Musics Apr 2018
Peepers, (at last!)
Their thousands of calls blown, wavering across the eternal swamp.

Squishing, slurping boots.
Just last week they crunched and squeaked.

Softened trickle of Crow Creek,
As it makes its way down the algae and moss covered rocks.

Chasing and swooping Red Tails' Dopplered “keeeer”

The sultry, subtle, effervescence of the first Bock beer of the year.

The longing whisper in my dreams.
All this without my hearing aids!
Bee Feb 2018
It’s been raining for 22 days straight and I
couldn’t tell you why the evergreens weep like
they do but if you must, the skies ravens are
bellowing what they’ve witnessed in a song we
will never understand and will endlessly hear.

Feathered armor protects the branches that starkly
plead for handfuls of the sponge-clouds above.
Why don’t we listen to the warning calls
of the floods coming from God’s eyes?

The sticky moss resting on the north side of the
rusty hemlocks will tell you, the record is 55 days
since they’ve seen the sun---a dialect less penetrating
than the all-too-inviting cries that echo the woodlands.

Whispers of the breeze flowing through the trees
are not enough to overcome this tempest that is steeping
slowly and surely the habit of nature will wash its face
clean of any inadequacies.  Now, if you told me

it rained here over half the year, I’d believe you.
Not just because it’s the Pacific Northwest, but because
I’ve witnessed the consistency of the pure quietude, of the
circling crows that count every beat and divide every lap.
Their dependable vantage forecasts any storm.
Karan Sharma Feb 2018
A wind blows softly through moss covered trees,
Branches wrapped warm against the ice-cold rain.


A bird calls out
                            And echos reply.
                              
Atop a hill a skeleton remains of times gone by.

An empty void brings forth an abundance of feelings-
The truest Dharma lies within the soft wet mud.

A fire bursts from sodden wood and a new flame is bourne atop damp moss.

Do not forget the feelings they stir,
Hold the moss close and let it warm you.
Laurel Leaves Nov 2017
Trail  
eyes blending the murky colors
as they slowly lick the landscape
tickling with the edge of tongues
warm pastels
as if
creamsicle dripping
the edges of fingers
somehow now
lining evergreens
rushing turquoise blending with navy
denim white caps
as fresh water churns alongside
smoothing edges of rocks
I dip my spine
the hemispheric shape of my back
as it extends over the damp
dripping moss
you cradle my body
the warmth moves between
the sensations
of shudders
as we cling alongside
one another
your lips part
as the foreign color
of red
stands out to the cold,
dimly lit nature
I bite deep
gasp,
scream
weep.
******* in the woods.
Next page