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Kaaya Faye Jun 2018
Far, far away

Deep in the woods

Filled with thick trees and tall grass

Lived a man named ‘Saga’

Short and stout

Noisy and loud

He lived alone

Screaming at the air, talking to the rain

Saga lived in a cave

Posing to be brave But, afraid of the loneliness How naïve!

Living in the wild

Far away from his tribe

Alone through the woods he steered

Saga was afeard

He missed his wife

His old, happy life

And cursed the dusk

When he lost his way, following the musk

He cursed his daughter, Hilde

Deeming her the reason he was lost in wild ‘Why did you have to be so obstinate?’

‘Spoilt as hell, brat, ****** arrogant”

Mumbling under his breath

He was lost in his wrath

Crossing the same eerie desire trail

With misty fog and traces of hail

“What a horrifying path to take

Death be waiting for all treading this way”

Shivering and afeard

He walked rapidly till that path disappeared

Days passed and nights went by

He lay on the grass

Watching the drifting sky

Change its color from blue to brass

The trees rustled and wind blew

As the storm brewed

Sky thundered, rivers creaked

Saga listened to the forest screak.

“Hellish! I am lost in these labyrinthine woods

With cimmerian paths and Styngian brooks”

He started towards his aphotic cave

“Someone come for me and save!”

The forest grew murkier and dark Deafening sounds of storm, hark!

A whip just cracked

Echoing the sound of a thousand claps.

Saga fastened his pace

In terror and haste

Mud laved his feet

As if mocking Saga’s hysterical retreat.

“Oh! Get out of my way you muck”

As he fell on his face – Shmck!

Thud! flumb! squelch! splosh! deign!

He flushed through the water of rain.

For hours he struggled against the gush

Louder and louder grew brus

With each passing minute, the storm soared

The forest rumbled and sky roared.

Saga brawled and bawled

As if trying to silence the stormy howl.

Alas! all his attempts failed

Unconscious soon, he sailed



Where to? He would never know

For the forest had already beseeched his breath

Saga swam through the wild flow

Into the comfortable arms of Death.
harlon rivers Jun 2018
.
There’s an ancient duct tape patched
roller suitcase still up in the attic,
scarred by sky miles and undiscerning
indifference;  it came to rest like a final breath
exhaled at the end of the long road ―

In the dusty rafters of silent repose  
the death of an alter-ego comes to life
and jars and jogs the  sleeping dogs 
that lay benign as a pothole riddled road

Holding onto memories buried alive,
hidden away remembered ― 
      sans wings to fly away
laid bare unweighed with the weight
of everything else garnered and saved
      subsisting in a shallow grave;
hoarded and hidden away breathing
locked up with the other baggage borne
       behind tired eyes

Feeling the ache of blood stained knees
falling down sullied at the side of the road
Hindsight and a roll of duct taped memories
linger;   stuck to the  grey bandage scars,
second guessing should have thrown out
with the permanently temporary
fading plasticized luggage name-tags
back when I was still close enough to care;
too many miles to reconsider  ago

Some say: "it's the journey not the destination"                                    .
Some day when its too late we'll know
Some day it will be too late to make amends
        for everything i could not be ...


           harlon rivers ... 07  06  2018
apologies for the inconsistent reading, posts and replies.  Internet access comes and goes up here off the grid

To anyone interested, this is a piece from a collection from the summer called TRAVELOGUE:   https://hellopoetry.com/collection/27104/travelogue/
Seán Mac Falls Jun 2018
.
Tangles of vine, wisps of thorn,
Roping a rocky face of granite,
High, on a hill are drops of sky,
Green hands cradle purple beads
Of the sun, whose skin is frosted
In water vail, morning days' dew
Has come, birds and bees singing
Songs to hum anew, this offering
All to ancient invitations of spring,
There will be wine and flower laid,
Before rise of moon or day is done.
.
Baylee Kaye Jun 2018
caves whisper to you better than
any man can.
they understand your
deepest desires and secrets.
the wind carries away every
sin and piece of guilt.
each crevasse is there to drown your sorrow.
under earth streams in place
to wash away the pain.
the caves are empathetic with your very being,
they do not boast in their knowledge of you,
but rather than cherish the memories
you share to them.
I’ve been in so many caves. Ones in Missouri, Arkansas, Texas, Kentucky...each one has healed me in different ways. Truly they are a gift from God.
s s f w s May 2018
In a pornographic poem
ee cummings wrote
may i feel ,
Fell the nicest of the rhymes into
Brooks of sholas
Untidy caveman and lady in water
Heard the words in the streams
Though evaporated few from the stream
There stood ee Cummings on the banks
With the inks for liquid state
Somewhere he again stood
With the inks for gaseos state
Aftermath of reading the verses of sanity. And the Cycle continues liquid gas liquid gas liquid. Poem verses are heard by many , are being heard live and many to be heard. Embrace the moments Past, Present and Future . Prosper
Mary-Eliz May 2018
feeling lost
in this vast wilderness of words

lone voice
This is what I was feeling when I couldn't post anything!
thinkinghertz May 2018
Winding Redwood forest roads,
In colorful California, carving through the
Steep, potentially collapsable mountainside.

A perfect balance of hot and cold,
Mountains and coastline,
Wilderness and civilization.

Coming to this place feels like
Everything is teetering on the edge of life and
Death, but that's the excitement we crave!

California is the sun's playground;
It is where the world's eternal children come to
play for the rest of their lives.

And much like this life,
We've got to have as much fun as possible
Before it all disappears into nothingness.

So play on flower-children, sun enthusiasts, water worshipers, Mountaineers, gold diggers, fantasy dwellers, reality repellers;
Each and every one of you--

Play on 'til death do us part!
Even the plants are savage! They are a fire-dependent species that are well adapted to survive burns. In fact, fire helps them get the next generation of sequoias started.” That’s because fire encourages the trees to drop their cones en masse. The blaze knocks out competition from other plants and provides a great shot of fertilizer in the form of ash." (From a national geographic article/video about Yosemite Giant Sequoias)
Jolan Lade May 2018
City lights
Or
Clear night skies
Closing doors
Or
Wild paths
Choose wisely
Rae Apr 2018
Here was another question :
Why hadn't we felt comfortable ?

Not that I cared , but
I could not be blamed .

We were both victims
of the Wild .
Ted Mar 2018
Content in Solitary,
Loftily in the night sky,
Passing over tranquil hollows,
With peering eyes of deep perception,
Wisely then perched in tall trees of safety,
The owl awaits the nights unfolding,
Inside it knows all of the worlds holdings,
For the owl has learned from this place,
Hearing nature speak it's truths,
It has listened to the brooks babbling,
The soils endless turning turmoil,
All the trees as they speak in their creaks,
Even hear the softly breathing deer,
And the bats as they flutter near,
Hear the field mice speak in squeaks,
The moans in the night wind,
Of the coming of new season,
The splatter of the late night rains,
The rustles of falling leaves,
as life escapes these trees,
The howl of the hungry lone wolf,
All this knowledge being spoken for those who listen,
The owl in it's perch does not let their teachings fall on deaf ears.
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