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In rural areas there is
This demon
Who I have seen
For this is a time
Of war
And pandemic
His favourable time
To be of public display
As for mei am not insane
For I had a witness to the sirenhead sighting
Near my old home town
Living where I am living
No matter the seasons
It feels like
I am living in
A studio ghibli
Where everything is green
And dream like
I wonder if my next door neighbour
Is Totoro
There was one morning
A farmer so insenced
For someone
Put beautiful crop
Geometric in nature
In his wheat field that
Called the police
A man of science
The farmer
Didn’t believe in aliens
But was it the work of vandalism
Is the truth out there
As I drive
By a field
I see  hydro towers
Hydro towers that Eriely look like
Ancient Native American
I am in awwww
Only man create something
That surreal
casper Nov 2020
As potent as the drugs flowing from an IV drip,
I the prodigal son of this town,
the only one to infuse the blood of a much needed sacrifice into it's veins,
the one to carry the souls of those past,
those future,
those fleeting few at the end when the long standing foundation that has held up countless feet and dreams,
no longer stands and in it's place breadcrumbs fall,
thousands from the sky,
folly and few,
until embedded in the very ground it lands upon.

I, the one from the third house down the lane,
the all seeing all knowing all feeling touch,
climb the silo and above take in the view,
the little lives and scattered stories,
told once in still rooms with only the orange light of a desk lamps,
then carried away on drool into the storm drain,
with the leaves and street grit.

I, the babe,
once innocent and tender,
and still so within me exists,
carried through an entire lifetime on a sled,
down the sidewalk with only the sight of street-lamps as stimuli,
past every corner and home a dream implanted from my eyes to theirs,
yet mistranslation corrupts the many and what can I do but allow,
their own bibles to be written.

This town belongs to one king and one son on both sides of the mountain,
snow to teach them lessons,
rain to cleanse their wounds,
and to keep this monolith of a civilization alive,
all that is prophesied,
to run far, far away,
in place.
Dedicated to my home town.
Nathan Oct 2020
Autumnal leaves crunch underfoot
Amidst a thick fog blanket
Lay black tar streets
Adorned by cigarette butts
Discarded masks
As well as alcoholic cans
This once bustling city
That shone with life
Is now a ghost town
Remenants of itself  
Left behind in a museum
Of it's downfall
First poem I wrote in over a year. Its been a hard one and I've never been stimulated to do so till I saw this sight.
Dave Robertson Jul 2020
Little feet buckled up
in scuffed Clarks,
we ambled down hill

Below, the valley
coloured toasted wheat
smelled of forever

The school hall,
everyday familiar
for singing hosannah
became exotic, foreign

Different games played
and illicit sherbet
in cardboard tubes
to be chewed to a pulp
in carefree mouths

All the term rules fell,
and stayed away
til the apple trees called time
TJ Radcliffe Feb 2020
I swear a good deal more when in the city
my wife observes as we two wend our way
along the street. The towers are kind of pretty:
walls of glass, yet blocking out the day
so down here on the sidewalk dreary shadows
are damp reminders of how far we've come
from towering trees, from open mossy meadows,
from ravens swishing by. Look, here's a slum
a block or two from banking towers and glamour.
I should not fault the place. Variety
is the spice, they say. But such a clamor
of humans challenged by sobriety!
Life here was once quite good to me, but now
I'm just a rustic, pining for his plow.
I live in a small rural community but was an urbanite for many years and recently was back in the city to see a (remarkable, wonderful) show, and my wife said within a few minutes of getting there, "You swear a lot more here." There's a reason for that. I'm at home in the trees. Among the towers, I can flourish, but it's a lot more effort.
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