Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Rowan 7d
It
It stood among no giants, no towers, no mountains.
Heedless to the wind, scattered without waving stalks and rusted leaves,
it chose to fall where it could not.
Jaded, perhaps, but not without sterling hands crafted to bellow.
A smattering of elbows chastised the woodpeckers pecking.
Ephemeral? Beautiful? Sober? Lassitude?

It fell among no gorges, no ravines, no swale.
Heedless to the rain, swamped in a dell without sliver streams,
it swelled up above the ratty woven sails.
Coarse, perhaps, but feather flew, vying for sky.
A copse of whitebark pine pillaged no battalions.
Mauve? Tender? Empyrean? Redolent?

It pattered among no small sorts, no ant hills, no chambers.
Heedless to the duke, sabotaged without sword, spear, stone,
it swallowed a hive of rabbits in no fields.
Desultory, perhaps, but not with quintessential ripples bent in space.
A harrowing panacea flourished in spindles of florid bristles.
Sempiternal? Susurrous? Honeyed? Irascible?

It churned among no whirlpools, no pots, no frosting.
Heedless to the maelstrom, sluicing in a myriad of slanted lanterns,
it chose to lure where it could not beguile.
Laconic, perhaps, but not without furtive gallows smoldering.
A candelabra of viridian mire spies spied genteel dragonflies.
Enormity? Enmity? Vestigial? Switchback?

It stood among nothing.
It stood enervated.  
It stood.
It.
hindrance May 6
I sat at a wooden desk next to an old lady who also sat at a wooden desk. I picked a dandelion, the biggest one I had ever seen, before coming to listen to the talk in the chapel of the brick built college building. It sat on my desk and splashed its yellow into my eyes and occasionally I’d twirl its stem and get the green sort of smell on my fingers. The old lady had picked a dandelion, the second biggest one I had ever seen, before coming to listen to the talk in the chapel of the brick built college building. It sat on her desk and dripped its yellow into my eyes and occasionally she’d twirl its stem with her fragile old fingers and scratch notes with her other hand. She smiled at me knowingly as we did the same thing in the same place at the same time. Did you know that we’re all the same?
sometimes i forget
in the woods of my life,
darkness is the only thing that prevails,
the trees of grief stands tall,
like devils wearing black veils,
behind the trees of grief,
hide and seek,my sadness plays,
like thorns it injures my feet,
the grass that grows on its land,
no apple,no almonds,no pear,
pain is only fruit the trees bear,
neither does any bird chirp,
nor does a traveler passes by,
no one bother to peep into forest,
to see what these enchanting woods hide........
Jon Thenes Mar 31
Dry crying
with your mistless tongue
gacking and clatting
(a toy tapping out the winding
in its clockwork mockery)
Dry crying your devotions
and gloved family
into nothing more than vented memory
Your pores pelt vapor
You treaten thinner
stern thing
true to your wood
Dry to make your soldier state
Link rank with your troop mate
Crop your mind foreign of frills
Pay attention with your brothers in drill
Find a piece in the wood
Cause i'm tired of the world that become so rude
The darkness get ready to put
Standing there Mr. Bunny wearing perfect suit
Offering me to **** the mood
You left
A footprint
On the wood panel
In front of me

Your wet soles
From dewed grass
And drunk squats

Your mark
Lays upon me
I know you’re near
But not here
Badshah Khan Mar 13
Rubayiat Al Thurab (Verses of the Dust) - 72

BismillahIr RahmanIr Raheem

Like a bamboo flute his dear life'
Noble birth of woodwind family.

Which naturally generates;
An acoustics stream of sacred music!

Allah Khair..... Khairul Rabul Alameen Yah Arrahmanur Yah Raheem

Ummah Thurab - Badshah Khan.
©UT-BK 2019
Rubayiat Al Thurab (Verses of the Dust)
Mark Levitt Feb 17
The gentle space,
Fertile air,
Dappled light,
Some here,
Some there

Textured trunks,
Shiny leaves,
Hiding moths,
That soon,
May be

Quiet sounds,
All around,
Pierced by calls,
Snapped twigs,
And more

The scents, the smells,
The sweet bluebells,
That time is bliss,
You should not miss,
A wander in a wood
Seanathon Feb 12
Bright and cheery as the sunlit gleam off the seasoned leaves
With peaks as high as the surrounding sound
And yet as approachable as the dawn which streams
Into the Meadow of the long lost wood
Where every childhood memory can be found
Pure is the light which envelopes these scenes
And pouring out is the heartfullness of each and every noted sound
https://youtu.be/N3DVsL3ugjQ
Next page