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Blades of deadly green grass
Flowing through the mountain pass
Cut by streams like flowing glass
Icy cold to the touch
Reflecting luminous golden rays
Gifted from heavens above

A modest man tends his cattle
Watching closely with one eye
The other capturing a picture so sublime
A life of duty he would never decline

Tree's sway to the breath of the wind
Testing the strength of their limbs
Birds dance , singing hyms's
Flowers stretch their petals high
Towards the light so bright

All the while a man tends his cattle
In a mountain pass
Full of beautiful green grass.
Locus amoenus is Latin for "beautiful place" I hoped to capture a scene of a beautiful place in a pastoral way. I hope you all enjoy.
M Ward Jun 2018
The air was crisp and faintly green
The wind was light, the scene serene.
I gazed upon a sprawling field,
As viridescent waves revealed
A lone black cat, soldiering on.
His eyes as verdant as the lawn.

He strode with purpose, without pause.
He writes his tale with the path he draws.
Black dagger, shimmering bright,
Piercing the grass, a shard of night.

Where was he going with such haste?
What delights of life would he taste?
It did not matter to him nor I,
But he knew a freedom that could not die.

I daydream often of that field,
And of the life that it might yield.
To trot assuredly through lush domain,
The burden of choice all that remains.
To feel the wind upon one’s face,
The grass and sun, a warm embrace.

The black cat’s life proffers this wisdom,
The path is forward that leads to freedom.
tïrïngõ Mar 2018
I wonder what the rabbit sees
when she passes through my backyard
garden. Catholic eyes that have canonized
nature’s wild mane
of vulcan brush and misty rain
does she think my sunflowers are just as beautiful?

and the rolling prairies of my
domesticated bend of the turnpike
are they just like the valleys she has
foraged through, beside the
shivering streams and
creepycrawling things, I
wonder if my nature is enough for her own

is the ant hill in my backyard garden still
sweet as the labor of the mountainspine
makes you sweat, admire the
dappled blueberries and
dark deer droppings
side by side, I once ate the deer’s own by accident and
I couldn’t tell the difference

but she is still just a rabbit and
has only seen the grocer’s slivered aisle of the world, she
hasn’t heard the wolf cry to the
violette moon
(god’s own thumbnail, mama used to say), or
smelled the dogwood in April
heard the mourning-song of the morning humpback while
the plowman’s humble dinner stays
salted by his moiled earthsoiled toilsweat
cried in the summershine of noontime Arizona rising and
laughed into the Amazon’s hair
stood tall on the moors, stood tall and faced the
edge of the world
kicked up the fertile dust of the African enterprise or
powdered her frosted nose alongside crystalline Mongols, no
she is just a rabbit, and I want to tell her all the secrets
Gaea has yet to murmur, low
but she is just a rabbit, and she sees my backyard garden
this wide world
and that is enough, for her own
ShowYouLove Feb 2018
A splash of red against the wall of white
He stands: still and stark in the silent snow.
The sun strikes the new fallen snow
And light dances from a million crystals and more.
Sensing no danger, he calls for his mate.
With a voice strong and clear and sweet he sings for her
To feast on winter berries and sunflower seeds,
Keeping eye and ear out as his bride feeds.
Together forever these two they shall be:
When they mate, they mate for life you see.
Here he stands upon the fence, ever faithful ever true:
Dressed in ruby regalia, he looks at me and you.
Dany Dec 2017
Taken aback largely by
coveted fate born of star-blind wishes,
have I riveting cause for concern
when I tilt my head to skies
unheard of or ne'r seen before?
against the risen ridges of my veins,
dawn cast shadows steeper than any
mountain range.
So I cry, "Out Sun!"
for its light burns the peeks more than
I could bear, and dries up
valley springs of youth hidden there.

It is so I've come to pray,
Sweet destiny, free from celestial rule,
bake my hubris, till my needs,
water down my ambitions until
between my rushing arteries buds
grand daffodil and tempest lilies.
Question of the Day: What do you think the flowerse represent?
High athwart global sphere
planet Earth doth app pear
tubby totally tubular as a mere
twinkling gem devoid of lesions from hare
brained schemes to exploit near
Gaea, where

legions of self aggrandizement tear
ring into all four corners  
   of terrestrial firmae orb *****
hull us wreaking indiscriminate havoc,

   yet blithe dismissal mare
ring greedily inducing
   brass knuckle sandwich lobbed punches
   punctuating each pugilisitc
   jude dee ish us punch with denunciatory jeer

accompanied in situ with a malicious glare
destroying staunch
   eco-friendly advocates tabulated violations
   kept under lock and key  
  within a filing cabinet dossier
to **** rants Donald Trump and his miscreants
   in reference viz those “FAKE” defiant, hippo critical
   defenders of Earth, wind, fire, and air

subject to rampant wanton (soup per) discrediting  
   substantiated scientifically airtight conclusion,
   sans irrefutable linkedin cause and effect
   against human perpetrators
   rampant environmental abuse

pegged since that first Margarita
   signaled industrial age crowdsourcing,
   crowing, crowning deuce
ex machina leveling landscape until
   scoured bowels of oblate spheroid glacis loose
to wring and extract sought after mineral wealth
   essentially wrenching, hammering, nailing cinch,
   which global gem analogous

   to affixing a polarized noose
specific metals deemed precious
   justifying reckless ramifications thin as gruel excuse
whereat said esteemed Mother Nature privy ledges
   sheared to extract vis a vis akin to a sluice

industrial machinations insyc –
   dynamited, sheared, sound blasted to rob
   (point blank with no criminal sentence),
   especially when conglomerate
   conspiratorial corporations
   violated most every truce

boot at bottom, any vow to tender flora and fauna,
   a dead letter steeped in violations ruse
vitiate prior drafted conservation pacts signed, sealed
   and delivered with “faux” obeissance

uttering lame excuse
in an effort to squeeze and seize
   (by aggressive means if necessary), the goose
that laid golden eggs intended to line deep purple pockets –
   brushing aside accusations with VAMOOSE,

particularly to marginilized Native Americans
   already a shadow of their former glory,
   but production even at the expense of
   slo-mo genocide annihilation a road block
   to sought after mineral deposits juiced

waiting for opportunity to rake landscape bare
   as the Moon (with a eh “No big deal attitude)”
indiscriminately sowing seeds of bleakness
   via uprooting, scraping,

   and pulverizing plants and animals
such as Bull Winkle the moose
and crown such egregious destruction
   claimed as righteousness purportedly pinpointed

   within religious texts to render unto haven
   of innocent creatures, and other organic life,
   the God sent email to reduce
once resplendent oblate spheroid,
   now nothing but a wasteland
   even a nightmare to Doctor Zeus!
Dany Nov 2017
Deep earthen roots, gold arrow-tips,
Sounding rush of green applause
Now, trees and bark stretch to
Higher lows of raptured skies.

Wide face of etched ranks and--
Here His marks tread and silence falls
Quite tenderly under winding timber,
Woodworks, Tree-rings, bound around
As clocks tick to celestial Grange's face.

His deeds show across baked-ancients
And those whose sun came creeping under
Horizontal terms and periods-- in lapses
when Time held his own--

On winding old branches with buds smelling
Young n' green n' poking free from yellow scars,
Time garnered his people, his children and dead,
housed them in ticks and tocks and surnames,
For Twilight's enamelled hubris to bathe them,
Wash them.

To set them in winding bark,
And brand them in Himself,
In Winding Tree-tocks.
Trees carry the marks of Father Time well into ancient swells of the earth, and so then carries marks of us with it.
Carl Halling Nov 2016
He had no insight into the mysteries
Of the gilded sports
Of the British social elite,
By the time he arrived at his beloved college,
Long, long ago in a long-forgotten England,

And in later years, when he looked back at his beloved college,
He'd insist if he possessed a single quality
That might be termed noble
He owed it to his education,
And not least the four years he spent there,

And there’d be times when certain pieces
Of quintessentially English pastoral music
Still had the power to evoke his strange and sudden flight,
While seeming to him to bespeak a passion
For the Arcadian soul of England that verged on the ecstatic,

And others when he’d dream of a day
He might return to the scene of his flight as if in atonement,
And commune with the soul of his beloved England,
With a passion verging on the ecstatic,
And then put the memory to rest for all time,

For he absconded once...just the once it was...
To avoid being chastised for something foolish he did,
And he finished up wandering, forlornly wandering,
His boots freshly caked with the purest English soil,
Long, long ago in a forgotten field in England.
'In a Forgotten Field in England' was distilled in late 2016 from an autobiographical piece entitled 'Leitmotifs from an English Pastorale', dating from several years earlier, and which will ultimately undergo a process of systematic marginalization, as I no longer identify with it to any degree.
Trevor Blevins Mar 2016
This cathedral was ruined by dust,
Your altar has gone out
And you smell so strongly of the pine trees you rest your head under.

I wish I could bottle you,
Either to have that aroma at my disposal,
Or a shot of you to drown out my hardships.

Each day moves in sequence with great emphasis on the orchards,
Bearing myriad fruits,
Such heavy blossoms in sequence with your arrival.

I'll wish I wouldn't have locked myself away,
Away from the sunlight—
The good sunbeams that grant entrance into life,
Spending all my time lamenting for the world around me.

Seems like no time to feel love now,
Only time to cry for the love I let go to waste.
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