Rain falls from up high
On to the leaves of trees;
Drizzling down to the earth,
Nature's shower for the ground;
The cold creates a fog and
Makes the environment damper;
The mixture of cool air floods the lungs,
Gifting a relaxing feeling as it
Courses through the body;
The sun is all but a faded memory,
As grey clouds darken the sky;
A light wind blows through the trees
As the rain becomes a mist;
There is beauty in the cold rainy days,
That few will ever experience;
A pleasure it is to sit alone,
And observe such art before me.
How I wish life were like a zen garden
All my problems raked away
Everyday spent surrounded by pretty rocks
Simplicity is king
Nothing is disorganized, not a single facet of my life
Living life like the sand falling through my fingers
Easy and effortless
Passing around a fatal flaw like a joint in a hot box,
Refreshing baths of Coca~Cola and regretful indulgence.
I'm wasting away in a paradise of my own creation!
Poems tinted grey through abstinent romanticism,
and an inexplicable undertone inherent to my prose.
As everything starts to return to a drumming constant.
It all sounds the same.
Like ashen trees and factories which procrastinate and suffocate.
We've been sunbathing in porcelain skies and lonely daydreams.
I know it sounds dramatic but as is the nature of reality.
Drab and dreary and acid washed.
Interrupted like a beach by the sea,
By the little peices of honey soaked warmth that act as comforting distractions.
A smile or a shoulder or a sunny day to drink from.
Summer and solitude, the likeness of warm bodies in a cold pond.
Compose me an opera of Soda Cans and of choral song. Of coffee and two bass lines and pollen and folk.
Make it for me so I can watch you as you work.
Let me listen and bask in its ludacris vanity, and clean shallow waters.
How I would relish the time spent muddying the current. Destroying the tide out of boredom.
And black hot frustration.
Flowers painted in acid and acrid accounts of repetative revalations in the context of rude rosy cheeked acceptance.
Blonde haired ignorance and one dimensional delusions.
Blue eyed terrorists armed with air and arrogance.
Give me seatwarmers and handholding
Or corvettes and convertables.
Give me arrowheads and heart attacks
Humble my bones with a cardiac
AND ***** TALK HOTLINES
seven letter words with little context or meaning and selfless expression that's often demeaning
Its September in January and it rains for a day
And despite our efforts
We still waste away
There are too many modern maladies
in our over stimulated society,
of social media junkies;
flexing for the next fix
likes for your muscle pics
or a salty dish of something
makes us want to scratch
so, we continue checking it
when we wake up for just a bit
then struggle to go back to sleep.
Like toxic metals
this mental poison
fills our techno prisons.
Until, we live in
little broken bubbles
of preconstructed biases
that fit whatever side of this
binary plague we are infested with.
So, to exit this
I take a trip
facing the space
where no one lives,
the multi-sensual cure for
I listen to the sound of
wind rushing through
the leaves that move
and sound like rain.
In this summer heat
are such a tease,
but I feel at ease.
I follow muddy tracks
that turn and head back
just in time to merge
with familiar patches of grass.
I see tons of green
and brown things
but hidden gems
of purple, white,
and yellow flowers
fall into my line of sight.
I breathe it in
then take a breath again
as my pulse quickens.
An hour and my sour
soul goes from dead
and I take the notes
of inspiration I am given
to write a poem
Woke up Sunday morning
Put on my Sunday best,
'Cause I didn’t want to go
And look different from the rest.
When the meeting was over
Was among the first to go.
Made a beeline home
Put on some comfy clothes.
Every weekday I work
Must wear a suit and tie
Feels so **** confining
It makes me wanna cry
By the time my shift is over
Tell you goodness knows
Can’t wait to get on home
Put on some comfy clothes.
Comfy clothes are great
Doesn’t matter what the season.
Just can’t quite explain it
There is no rhyme or reason.
But if you feel uptight,
Don’t know which way to go,
Things will get a little better
You put on some comfy clothes.
5/18/2018 - Poetry form: Rhyme - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2018
Laying under the feather tree,
Breathing scents of serenity,
Soft down feathers come falling down
And swaddle me on fuzzy ground.
I'm fast asleep in memories
Of all the things I haven't seen,
As I stay by the feather tree.
relaxing and loving
for laying in bed
all day every day
chill beats that flow
over your ears
and your tired soul
Time for relaxing,
and spending time with some friends,
and having some fun.
The weight of your lover as you're cuddling,
Their usually tense body so relaxed and
comforting, the slight pressure of them on
You makes you feel so safe.
The almost subconscious movement of your
Fingers as you run them through your lover's hair,
The pleasant texture of soft hair
And the occasional appreciative groan
Keeps you from stopping.
The sound of their quiet breathing is
Slow and steady, and you,
Being half awake, mimic their
Breathing pattern as best you can to try and
Sync with them as their chest
Rises and falls against your body.
The full feeling of being completely warm
Makes you never want to move from
This exact position for a long time,
I have found that I am almost always craving cuddles now that I know how amazing it feels to cuddle with someone you love a lot.