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James Orchid Aug 26
I want to be held from the cold
As the warm water hits my body
Emulating embers slowly fading in the night
I can't help but notice
Goosebumps on untouched skin
I want to be held from the cold
Deja vu overwhelms my mind
Ive felt this feeling before
its almost childlike
innocence
I want to be held from the cold
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James Orchid Aug 23
Particles of sand swept from beneath my feet
As the wind blows into the nonexistent future
Uncovering remnants of a past set in stone
Relieves my dry mouth with a taste so bittersweet
But in the end my solace is only a mirage
A fleeting feeling carried away by the dry air
impatience prolongs erosion
To leave my mountain of guilt for an indefinite stay
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Texas: The Grand Facade

“All my instincts, they return, and  the grand facade, so soon will burn”. Songwriter: Peter Gabriel, In Your Eyes

§§§§§

and so nature does it best to humanize the arrogance,
“can’t happen here, can’t happen to me,
I’m too young, a brave Alamo Texan,”

forgot Gabriel’s admonition, the grand facade, is exactly that,
a coverup, and skin is not deep enough, even your tough hide,
cannot keep out what you
cannot see, is stronger than you,

did you weigh the scales,
do a cost/benefit analysis,
write down the pros & cons?

think of coronavirus like love and ***,
——————
good love is a treasured blessing, a live long song,
wine to be pleasured sipped, you get drunk on beer, and
hookup ***, give yourself ******, aids, and/or the clap,
a bad decision, a haunting, a hangover that is marked on you face,
that you’ll testify to
every day for the rest of your sad, sad, existence,
in the bathroom mirror
a facade always gets revealed,
too bad you chose the
wrong thing to believe in...

you unmasked yourself!
Sheila Greene May 19
Cotton has a plantation,
It’s home in central Texas.
It might be your cremation.
Don’t drive up in your Lexus.

In the barn he persecutes.
Devices of mad torture.
Chainsaws, meat hook executes,
Diced and spilt into quarters.

The Bloodbath we fascinate,
Victims face he has gotten.
Oh my, he does dominate.
****** face here’s some Cotten.
This was based on my trip to Florida last week because I’m convinced Waze wanted to **** us.  It took down this back Texas road that looked like Leatherfaces home.  It’s done in Ae Freislighe, an Irish Quatrain.
Isabella Apr 2
I want to drive him to the country and sit in the silence like dew.
And listen to the grass stained hills take little sips of air.
And listen to the roosters gasp for the light of the rising sun.
I want him to feel this – this Texas.
Where the crickets croak eternal  
and the cayotes call confused to country dogs like the wild.
I want to drive him to the country and weep excess tears
down our cold, city scathed cheeks
in rhythm with the birds as they sing their morning songs –
and swoon each other awake.
Who will swallow the worm as prey?
And you’ll hear them say:
maybe it isn’t so much about all you do and do and do?
and the sun’s lips share the same message,
but only to the few who know a Texas country morning
like a well-kept secret:
whose cups catch the cows stretching when they wake.

I want to drive him to the country and cry
and decide what life is like in synchronous solitude
with her timelessness
Singing of Dawn’s baby yawn -
the sound of her silence a sweet surprise.
Her fingertips linger
on each blade, on each bend, on each bug and tree.
I want him to understand the longing in each whistle and tune –
for country cravings aren’t satisfied with one lover’s hand,
but imbued with the light touch of a million–
all abundant in each drop of river and pond.
And when he sees the shadow of fences lining pasture walls
and reflecting on the wet ground,
we’ll turn on the engine and drive away.
The day will forget, with its ever-searching eyes,
what it saw in that morning sky.
But the body will remember – as it does
with each kiss, with each touch and scent,
sweet, sweet Texas will whisper her fingertips full of song –
and the birds will sing, and the worms will whine,
and the dew will drip as your senses will rise.
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2018
texas blondes shotgun size

hurricanes can’t survive where northern boys rule,
it is just a national geographic magazine truth,
everybody knows the slow frenetic taking is a compromise,
my tongue parachutes inside the dome and the soft down
comforter is on the floor in the hotel room with a view of
fifth avenue and central park and the occasional glance outside,
a landing zone for the  V-day parapoets

room service delivers in god’s love we trust.
i teach you my mastery and you laugh
texas blonde shotgun size

is that the best you got
and I laugh
cause we don’t got hurricanes in manhattan
unless they are man made
and the shower handle won’t turn us off

in what time zone is it am4:29
and you feed me verses like long legged spaghetti lines,
and i say too fast too fast and you say too bad too bad
northern boy
that how texas blondes shotgun size write poems

4:29am
fictitious delicious
Colm Oct 2019
Where painted rivers pick apart
The rocks and earthy soil

Carve bolden paths into meadow lands
With a crashing winding coil

Puddles form
And land deforms
Opportunities rise
And tidings fall

As beneath the growing chaos storm
My mind unwound
How I cannot help but be feel now
When the rain clouds burst on the Texas soil
True story - And the storm held off, thank God

https://youtu.be/G0aTF8im2t0
MicMag Oct 2019
I'm a Texas boy
Born and raised
In the greatest and the proudest
Of the United States
Grew up in the shadows
Of them loblolly pines
This oil boom town
Sweet home o' mine

But I left it behind
To see the world
Traveled the globe
Just me and my girl
Meeting new people
Trying new things
Embracing and facing
Whatever life brings

But no matter where I've been
'cross God's green earth
My blood's kept me rooted
To my place of birth
And if you ain't from 'round here
Maybe you don't understand
You can take the man outta Texas
Can't take Texas outta the man
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