Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
blue house
brown house
tan house

brown house
blue house

brown house
brown house
brown house

backyard inside the fence
rocks inside of rivets

dead grass and
rocks inside rivets
rocks inside rivets

bridge over tracks
bridge over trails
bridge over the river
bridge over rails

parking lot
parking lot
parking lot
parking lot

high school called
a dead man’s name

circle
avenue
court
lane
Oil pumps dot the fields for miles,
Like giant metal bison.
Rust for fur,
And shoulders of rotating turbines.
Man Jan 13
none of you are strong
or independent
how many do you rely on for your food?
your gas? electric, and the roof overhead?
this is a fixed system
a racetrack
where all the horses are doped
all i can say is,
stop running
it took me so many years to see it
the beauty of our flyover states

the grace of the dried grass
as it dances to melodious windsong

earthy golden arms contrasting
otherworldly clear blue expanse

authentic to its own ruggedness
and standing tall in isolation

to be rooted in these dakota plains
is to know a steadfast dedication

the understanding that the richest harvest
can come even after the harshest winter

the stillness to be found
in the peace of the prairie

the kind of beauty
that doesn't boast or beg

but offers sweet simplicity
and careful complexity

never more
never less
Bhill Apr 2020
where is the end
everyone has their own
everything is included
flowing waters will find their end and last droplet
winged beasts will land one last time
clouds in the heavens will rain no more
where is the end
fish in all waters will complete their last swim
insects crawling and buzzing about will settle in at last
wheat, corn, and all plants can't take the lack of liquid
mountain peaks, rolling hills, great vast plains hear nothing
where is the end
is there an end
waters may never find that last drop
beasts of the air may never land
rain will always be
fish swimming in the waters will be there
all plants will drink in the moisture of the land
mountain peaks, rolling hills, great vast plains will be listening
we can stop the end
we ALL can stop the end...

Brian Hill - 2020 # 115
Can we control it?
Glenn Currier Apr 2020
He is walking slowly where step by step
measure by measure in the lush meadow
he plays a dulcet meandering air
inviting me to join him there
unbound by dark and foreboding forces
of the viral pervasive present.

I join him and we fly to the open plain
recently refreshed by rain
Oklahoma and its green fields
where the spirits of Native peoples reside
and in soft spring breezes glide
and remember their ancestors’ names
and the simple childhood games
they played kicking up dust of earth
in earshot of their mothers who gave birth
to those precious souls and bodies brown
made of love and Red River and ground.

The flute’s tune again catches me
in its lively streaming strain
and pulls me up to airy heights
to join the dance of darkness and light
in spirit realms where beauty
and reality tango together in peace.
I bow to spiritual writer and mystic Richard Rohr and Kiowa, Pulitzer Prize winning author, painter and poet N. Scott Momaday who grew up in Oklahoma and once said “Realism is not what it’s cracked up to be.”
JT Nelson Jun 2019
My Dakota plains
Broken by clusters of trees
That surround farms
Connected by black thin lines
Draped between poles
That follow roads

Or a shortcut across fields
On giant steel mannequins
Standing watch over
Corn, beans, sunflower
Or cows or horses
Or sheep

On My Dakota prairie
With rich black dirt
That feed crops
And sustain our towns
Our clusters of life
Our family and self.
While South Dakota is so much more than agriculture, our ancestry that came here generations ago dug their roots in deep and nurtured this place in our hearts. It is a beautiful place... sometimes harsh, but a glorious place to take in.
Jonathan Moya Mar 2019
The weavers of the plains are tireless workers
poor but honest, always trusting the generosity
of an unlocked door to let in a husband working
nights at the print and design shop, finishing that
last small sign full of eclairs glazed with the most deliciously  appealing serif  font for the new
French bakery off of main and twenty-third

or the plumber who heard about that
slow running toilet on the second floor
who leaves the bill neatly near the vanity
knowing the check will come with
the Wednesday amble and update chat

or the mechanic who can be trusted with the
keys and a blank check  on the front seat
of that old blue Ford that is leaking green.

The weaver mother with seven children,
threads pieces for their school newspaper,
spins fine clear aqua yarn showing other kids
how to swim, substitute teaches so that she
can bind their minds into a chalkboard panel
of good knowledge, even drives the school bus
if that is what the thread requires to be strong.

The weaver farmer sees the Nebraska soil
is thready, dry, hard to till,   harder
to water, that crops can’t be harvested
without the abundant help of others.

In it they see a tapestry,
the people it’s colors
everything needing a tight loom
for it to work, survive and thrive  
and bind forever together.


So, they are intentionally local knowing
machine yarn eventually unravels,
that good thread can’t be found online,
and that the best panels in the tapestry
are the ones that come from common life.
Alek Mielnikow Sep 2018
There’s a horse on a field,
grazing upon grass as the wind plays its favorite tune,
a mountain song,
trickling down upon the eastern flat plains of Colorado.
Her head hung low in soft serenity,
this black mare stares upwards towards a blue purple red sky.
She asks not why or what,
but is simply aware of the natural.
Enjoying her meal,
this black mare alone on her favorite field,
concealed by a white fence,
one more day coming to an end,
turns to her stable,
ready to return.
The sky turns a dark blue.
A September shiver rattles her old craggy bones,
but the stable shelters her from further pain.
Time to rest,
and tomorrow all the same.
A nice, little observation
Next page