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Genuine leaders cannot long keep company
with other leaders. Followers congregate
and wait.
Mark Sep 25
I've got the rhythm, but don't look anythang like a Nashvillian soul    
Been living on the streets, so I ain't been on any **** census role    
I'm not my mother's natural birth child, without any apology    
But I’m god’s chosen and gifted, finger picking, guitar prodigy    
   
Sun lights up the whole **** town, whilst it's still night-time    
So, save your smoke doping act, 'til the dark of the daytime    
CUCKUK, CUCKUK, cruisin' down some unnamed highways    
That's what y’all be not knowin', 'bout da Tennessee ways    
   
My Mama once said, just do your music or do something else    
So, I'm legally insane and uncomfortable to be with, I guess    
I don't actually see myself living anywhere forever    
But, how'd ya know, that you've actually arrived, wherever    
   
Sun lights up the whole **** town, whilst it's still night-time    
So, save your smoke doping act, 'til the dark of the daytime    
CUCKUK, CUCKUK, cruisin' down some unnamed highways    
That's what y’all be not knowin', 'bout da Tennessee ways    
   
If they don't ever remember the month or day, since leaving    
Families gettin' together, telling lies, now police intervening    
I sometimes have to forget that I wrote it, to be able to like it    
As long as fans think dope of it, why bother to disable the ****    
Hoed fresh corn all day, everyday, been up since the crack of dawn    
Pretty plenty of backyard swamp talkin' catfish, have since been born    
   
Sun lights up the whole **** town, whilst it's still night-time    
So, save your smoke doping act, 'til the dark of the daytime    
CUCKUK, CUCKUK, cruisin' down some unnamed highways    
That's what y’all be not knowin', 'bout da Tennessee ways    
   
He'd hit a rabbit a sittin' and killed it with the barrel of his gun    
While the dang hammer was a peckin' a wild hog to death    
Like gettin' outta control and hardly takin' a shot of breath    
Or being a drunken redneck, during a hillbillies whiskey run.
I wrote this for Sunny War. She is a great guitar picker , originally from Nashville, but since the age of 13, she has been living on the streets of LA, USA.
Hello Prolly Sep 15
they ******
them up
they cried
they ******
they’re up
they cry
and ****
what luck
shamamama Sep 12
So What Exactly is Permaculture?

may not look like much to you
the messy garden,
a **** might look ready to pull out, you see it
cover the kale,
however it serves as a magnet for the beneficials,
the ones keeping vigilance
over  caterpillars
who love eating
dark leafy greens

permaculture
penned from Bill Mollison (cocreating with David Holmgren)
the genius behind the word and the
understanding of “permanent agricultural system” hence permaculture
harmonious integration of landscape
and people
with sustainability at root of it

coining the term, after spending time in nature
and wanting to mimic nature  on the farm
it's all about relationship
it's all about respect
“Care of earth-and all life systems,
care of people
setting limits to population and consumption,
cooperation, not competition is the very basis of  existing
life systems and their survival”

why is that tree towering over that funny looking bean?
she is madre de cacao
mother of chocolate, planted over the cacao
trees giving shade and protection as chocolate grows
sweetly in shadow of mama glyrcidia

we welcome worms,
we welcome toads,
wasps do sting, but carry off caterpillars
even centipedes as long as they live in the garden
(please don't come in the house)

How did that small hill get there?
oh, the hugelkultur?
the place where we buried bent spoons,
broken buckets, rotten 2 x 4s,  piles of sticks,
and tennis shoes that flap,
cardboard, large logs,
pillows with no life, and the like, then
covered with soil and planted trees atop
We threw and grew it there

When we mulch, how muchling the chickens love the mulching
They kick and the spray all the mulch away,
Till bare naked sits the soil around the new tree
So, we love the coconut fronds we layer on top of
our pile, leaflets bind round their ankles –no more
kung fu chicken kicking straw

Community plantings,
as seen in forests layerings, moss and ferns at the bottom,
seem to naturally come when conditions just right
just the right moisture and temp,
invites next layers of herbs, low plants,
small trees then large trees
then the overstory
forest garden

Thank you  Mr. Mollison
For your observations and sharings
May you rest in the garden of peace
Bill Mollison passed away Sept. 24, nearly 3 years ago. Homage to his genius, and love of nature and humanity
to be held
three lines advice
and the horizon
Tommy Randell Jul 26
I wandered, lonely as a frown,
At midnight through my empty town.
Unmade by drink and celebration -
A meandering Wordsmith on some random peregrination
Maybe, finally, heading home.

Seagulls by the harbour side
Bickering and squabbling, waiting out the tide.
Water lapping, chuckling with laughter.
A bottle bouncing somewhere, ending with a shatter.
Window boxes overgrown.

Every shadowed alley, every darkened road,
With a writer's measured footfall, following my nose.
A couple kissing, or maybe even more so.
A cat arched & hissing, over a rat's beheaded torso.
A ****** on a traffic cone.

Steps go upward into unlit gloom.
Raucous laughter from a second story room.
The smell of Fish & Chips, vinegary & rank.
***** & Graffiti on the ATM at the Bank.
No bars open & no bars for a taxi on my phone.

Until at last a place to sit and soberize,
Looking down on the rooftops with less bleary eyes,
The yachts at moorings along the harbour side,
The sandy beach a golden margin 2 miles wide,
The moon, a ball of polished chrome.

Midnight into morning is this Poet's time for sure -
The waves of words surfed for pleasure,
Life as metaphor and meaning given breath,
Moments found & fashioned into ideas at their best
Hopefully, and then some...

Home unerringly, the long way round.
Bed inevitably, after I've written the evening down.
It's what poets do. We've got an extra chromosome,
We're driven to it like it's a scribbling syndrome -
Our DNA probably has a Rhyming Genome!


Midnight Into Morning - Tommy Randell
I have walked home many many times through my town in the small hours. I follow different routes depending on my tiredness or my sobriety. I stop and look into its shabby corners or listen to its night times moods. It is a luxury and a gift this small place is safe enough for old daft poets like me.
Niem May 21
All the little thing that I miss are found within the crevasses of my mind. The way the sun reflected on the water and the way it felt like I’d never die. That night the low tide was made by the gentle lapsing waves. I didn’t know what was next; that was the way I wanted to live. I had plans to be and plans to see, laying each night with a new lover beneath me. Craving a life with a new direction, still knowing Ontario would always be home to me. The cliffs were like wise hands gently pushing me to realize where I needed to be. Those city lights carved around our bodies, setting the mood as you loved me in the night. As I’ve grown, those waving streets felt like sweet memories of home. 15 hours away I sat drunk in the bay. In the woods there was a strange man living how I envied, he made me realize where I stood. I’m being called to take my place but 2 more years is what’s keeping me from my fate. I move with hope and impatience but I’ve learned to slow down so these memories can keep me sane.
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