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The Kimbeaux Jul 2
I’m having fun
with no rhyme or reason.
I’m just chilling
in the sunny season.

I’m keeping pace
where wild flowers grow.
I want to go fast
when I need to go slow.

But I’m running swiftly
to fill my desire,
until a rock causes
my momentum to expire.

I’m instantly frustrated,
but I don’t dwell long.
Within my power
I choose to carry on.

The trail continues
where it seems to end.
I journey further
and I find some friends.

Where the the rushing stream pauses,
I take the plunge.
Frigid water
freezes my lungs.

I too, find reason to pause,
and I bask in the sun.
The world stands still
and I wonder why I run.
Reflection on a trail run down to the mouth of the stream where it rushes to meet the river.
Paul Butters Sep 2020
My stream of consciousness is in full flow,
Tumbling down the page.
A cascade of words
Bouncing and foaming
Towards unknown seas.

No planning here.
No structure
Or direction.
Just meanderings
And oxbow lakes.

Free verse unfettered
By Draconian Rules
Or dogma.
Odd rhymes thrown in
Casual confetti.

So what should I type about,
Sitting here in my armchair
In the silence of my lounge?

The sky is full of clouds
A blanket over this
September afternoon.
Perfect conditions
For composing this poem.

Should I put the world to rights?
(How long have you got?)
Or just indulge
In some uplifting visions?

I don’t do emotions very much.
The cork is firmly closed
On those.
Recall my early loves:
All unrequited.
That crushed my very soul.
Memories of crying inside,
Unable to eat
Or think of anything except
That longing for love
Which never came.

So no
I don’t do emotions.
And seldom reveal myself
As I just did.
I’d rather let my imagination soar,
My eagle eye -
A soaring cliché –
Taking in the sweep of space
And everything below.

I see trees
And animals,
Mountains, coasts and oceans.
People milling about.
A scream of seagulls soars above the sea.
Waves crash:
A thundering tsunami
Against the brittle cliffs.

I have many voices.
From soft soothing lullabies
To grand orations
Full of pomp and splendour.

Music plays in my head:
A crescendo of orchestras
And songs.
Freddie, Elvis, Bassey
Clapton, Hendrix and Satriani.
Ginger Baker, Phil Collins.

Reciting poetry
Within my brain
Is easy
After Bohemian Rhapsody.

So once more to the beach dear friends
With Brian Wilson
And his crew.
Let Sloop John B be launched
Heading for oceans new.

At last a rhyme
As attention spans begin to
Enough for now
My loyal friends.
I’d best bid you

Paul Butters

© PB 4\9\2020. First 3 lines Written 16\8\20 in my big paper diary.
Going Walkabout
Guntang Jul 2020
beneath the surface
the many streams
pouring thoughts
of liquid dreams
pnam Apr 2020
Paddling gently over your heart’s love streams
Good night words made sweet dreams
As the good morning sun shine greets
Your love ripples in my heartbeats
Michael R Burch Apr 2020
by Michael R. Burch

Yesterday the wind whispered my name
while the blazing locks
of her rampant mane
lay heavy on mine.
And yesterday
I saw the way
the wind caressed tall pines
in forests laced by glinting streams
and thick with tangled vines.
And though she reached
for me in her sleep,
the touch I felt was Time's.

This is an early poem, written during my youthful Romantic period. I believe I wrote the original poem around age 18, then revised it six years later. Keywords/Tags: Love, freedom, beckoning, lure, allurement, time, wind, pines, streams, vines, hair, mane, locks, travel, departure, parting, separation, loss
Grace Mar 2020
Why is it
That when I see
I think, “oh! She’s so pretty!”

Why is it
I describe
Other people’s eyes
But mine are just ***** dishwater?

Why is it
I must change my hair
Damage it
Color it
In order for it to make me happy?

Why is it
That I am
my own
I believe everyone is beautiful, why can’t I believe it about myself?
John McCafferty Feb 2020
Ivy climbs gnarled knotted trunks
Darker lines and streams divide where white wool digs below tufts of heather and tall tipped reeds
Calm flat lakes vacate
Pale hues of birch become rocky barren lands of moss and brown broken bracken
Thick conifers multiplied for miles
The mountain side tipped with ice
Houses change like the hedgerow from new to old
Some unfurnished whilst others glow
(@PoeticTetra - instagram/twitter)
Brianna Dec 2019
Maybe it was the hazy Sunday morning bliss or the cicadas screaming their annoying lullaby but I found myself drawn to the woods.
Streams of blue and green water and muddy paths that lead me back to sanity every time I come through.

My past has kept me locked in city streets with too many people and too many memories.
My present holds a sympathetic and nostalgic view for the things I love but also a craving for something vast and beyond.

As for my future if they ask me today I might just head to the woods and never leave.
I’ll become one with the moss on the trees and the mushrooms in the ground.
I’ll be the composure for the cicadas and the paint for the sunsets and sunrises.

Tonight we will dream  of the right path to the New York life and the city dreams but tomorrow we’ll find the left path holds the cure to the soul in the trees.
Music is the soul
You can hear it in the rubber sneakers
The fogginess of this song
Finished by the word of you
Ever been left out
The lights that can create the betterment of time
I've been with you a while
Time and time again
Time and time again
The raining Tokyo streets
Of Yakuza blood
Encompassing the violence of a surrendered throne
Imagine if we have crime
As the criminal lords uncover the conspiracy of double-crossing duplicitously addressed woes
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