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Hussein Dekmak Oct 2021
If you end up in what feels like a wasteland,
Make positive change.
Sprinkle seeds of promise,
Grow some trees,
Plant lots of flowers,
Invite the melodious birds,
And awaken spring to the call of renewed hope.

Hussein Dekmak
Hadrian Veska Jul 2021
The dry tundra calls to you
Whispering a phrase
A memory that flows
In between and through
The forest needle and pine
Something lies beyond
Far past the snow and sterile ice
Over the great mountains
The places of our birth
Nothing more than an inclination
That all we hope there to be
Has not yet been made know
That the secret hidden for ages
Has in turn hidden us within it
Preserving us in a way unseen
That when the time does come
In far flung ages hence
All things might be revealed
And the barren wastes
Turn to fruitful gardens
Dead Sep 2020
The skies have rendered everything a pale grey.
Not used to our own thoughts, the screams still ring in our ears.
We are all wandering under the ash rain, eyes low.
Nothing heard, nothing said.
There’s not much of us left, not much of anything.
After this agony, where will we go?

When these wounds heal, and the skies finally clear.

All we will have is a wasteland.
sickophantic Jun 2020
my grasp on her glass of water clanks and
      clatters like shackles,
resonates savagely for miles and miles.
until it reaches my mirror and becomes
      too red to hear;
i hadn't realized the water had reached my eyes
i couldn't know that it was so near.

saw this in the news, my darling, thought
      you might be interested -
but all the sounds from my window are muffled
by the ringing inside my ears.
hope they reach you well, i hope that you
      are well. can't check for myself.

(the dried tubers have always been enough so i never
ever asked for violets)

Time came back once again, daughter,
he left a red smudge on your chair's left arm.
it catches on my hair as I fling
      arms and legs over stained upholstery;
eyes outstretched to the ceiling (an offering:
      to whichever gods are still left.)
i don't even know what this is, enjoy?
I knew that irksome emotion
Had emptied the vessel of devotion
They did want me as captain or King
I wanted them three times more than being ordinary
That's the ardor I had once
I was deceived twice and let the matter be once

What grew jarring was the stuttering
When I lost my spirit
Bit by bit my heart grew terse and blithe
Little did my confidence help me keep my wits
I went through the works of Emerson and Whitman
I immersed myself in the light of wine
I lost sight of the darkness of time

I know I married a poet
When I see through their will
The stretch of time washes through thine eye
None had ever scared him only my wish
T'was the wind dimming that saw me sinking
As vision of land and seething water
That brought the emptiness in my soulless win
"And now that you don't have to be perfect, you can be good."- John Steinbeck
lua Feb 2020
Morning comes, the world is set on fire
Our state is quite dire
But that doesn't stop me
From picking up a flower
A flower that bloomed in the spring
Alone, at a wasteland
The flower of the wasteland

Evening comes, the flames have died down
There are ashes on the ground
Not a single sound
But the light is still here
Hope never disappeared
Even here
In this wasteland
In this wasteland
a song by me
Simon Oct 2019
What’s happened! A voice remarked. Why are my puzzle pieces scattered in a wasteland? Another voice spoke up, sounding distant. That’s what I’d like to know! Then more followed. Sounding like a choir of different voices were in effect. Except none of the voices sounded cheery in their perfect chorus on cue. A shriek followed. A wasteland full of shrieks rumbled the ground. Ejecting lots of dust. Blinding visibility across a wide landscape! A landscape full of sand. Governing a deadly waste scouring a dryness accumulating pieces of voices not to far off from one another. Dust from the shrieks rumbling the ground, finally clear. Settling a glimpse at what has been shrieking with such volumes of obscure reasoning. Puzzle…PIECES! Huh? Who said that…? The voice asked, completely taken off guard. What instrument are we trying to provide here? Not sure I’m exactly wondering what your trying to offer by the term (instrument)? Having instruments aren’t folly you know. Another voice interrupting the other voices conversing nonsense. You guys do realize non of what your saying is making any practical sense? Like…at ALL! Huh? One voice replied. Another joining in. Well if your so clever…why don’t you entertain us with how things should really be voiced? Gladly! The more logical voice commented. The voice acting snobbish made a sound. Showcasing it didn’t like being told what it knew and what it didn’t know. The dust has settled. The two voices conversing said on cue. Your point…? No logic, until you display your horizons onto the landscape which shows what we are. One voice replied confused. Logic? Another responded. Horizons? Then on cue again. Landscape??!! The logical voice continued. Just looking around the landscape, which introduces the horizon of who, what, and where you are. Making the logical assessment that, well…everything…is what should have been since the very beginning. Panting for just a single moment. Without claim or focus…the end! The two conversing voices completely dumbfounded, sighed very harshly! Finally deciding to take the more logical one’s words more seriously. Other voices following on cue. Which made all voices look down toward there surroundings. The logical one smiled brightly! AHHH! Another shriek came. O…JEEESSSUUUSSS!!! More shrieks accumulated the wasteland. Prompting more dust to rumble. Popping all over the horizon’s visibility again! So, what did we learn about this very confusing, obscuring display? Well…easy! A voice said from no where. That it was a display of nurturing. Huh…? Really? The one sounding like the narrator drawn in by the voices interest. Ya, well… They stopped to rethink what they just offered in response. Your hesitating. The narrator’s voice sounding suspicious. Ya, well… Not sure how to express what I saw. Still remaining suspicious, the narrator continued. Anda…what is it…you exactly…saw…? The voice from no where exploded all built up energy in one gigantic spurt! There was puzzle pieces scattered in a wasteland! They had no identity to speak of. Pieces deconstructed in a sand covered landscape full of dry essence. And…and… They stopped mid-thought to catch their breath! The narrator didn’t speak a word. The dust was symbolizing ones missing grasp at not figuring out they were all apart of the same form. The same essence. Drying out claims too full of themselves through partial reasoning on potential agreements never going anywhere. Mmmmm…mhm…mmmmm… The narrator seemingly amused by this information. No identity, means no way of connecting to one another. Never to make sense of the premise one could offer. Puzzle pieces stuck in the sands of dry essence. A rut too involved to be just any coincidence. The dry essence covering up each puzzle piece. Muffling there voices forever. They tried to reach out. Trying to make sense of (what could have been). Rather then how to assort their differences into one claim. Working together wasn’t this identities strongpoint. Pieces were arguing too much. Until one seemed to be the most offering of the bunch. Thou…thou… Go on. The narrator said. No one listened to them. Following in the footsteps of one foolish puzzle piece after the other. Until there was nothing to be left, but silence. The voice from no where shrieked towards the narrator’s glaring tension toward the speaker. Laughing in disgust toward the potential risk one poses when reaching out toward its other component pieces.
Puzzle pieces will never learn if each piece doesn’t know how to direct oneself, before connecting with the bigger, more established form. Which is rendered to a mere silhouette full of details invoking a nothingness claim.
lua Sep 2019
All the acrid smoke
And dust of the world
Fills my lungs
Burning like a fire
I can taste the sulfur on my tongue
And feel the charcoal sticking to my fingertips
I look around
And all I see is a wasteland.
Colm Aug 2019
The bitter road
With walking feet and identical pace

     Fear not

For they are all just shadows underneath
Just ghosts beneath the turquoise ice

     Quiet as can be

And you will not fall
You will not falter

As you have colder blood within your veins
Than in every surreal arctic peace
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