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Ackerrman Oct 28
Old rings grow great
But the circles are less perfect.

Have to squint
To make the shape
Stand Stout.

Purple on black-
Looks bright!
******* on ****;
High as a kite.

Some mornings
Stay stale
As old cheese in the fridge.


No matter how hard I stare,
Or how much I squint,
I can’t make the blood
On palace walls
Look like liquorish.

I cant make the holes
In my shirt
Look like button holes...
Find the perfect partner-
My hand in hand;
To lead me across this ravished land.

To make it feel alright.
Like human means human.
I once dared to dream of an Oakland beholder, whose maker held a misused, trusted scheme.
Ackerrman Sep 18
Blood-rich, vibrant, swirling petals dance, swing
Around breezes, tremble petulantly,
Feeling power course: green heartfelt stems sing,
Wearing thorn-mail, blazon, nonchalantly.
Cruel thoughts drift timidly toward the wood,
Shady under-shadows conceal pollen,
Ash bees sing the Roses’ song- Ruby food
Feeding volcanic hearts, single chronons
Bounce between young cupid’s glass heart garden,
Dream half coloured mirage: Wood-Nirvana.
Water drips and sputters, flower haven
Calls from woodlands as Father to Maiden,
Calling gently to sail, meander home.
Rest safe in the halls of horticulture.
Eat my heart out
In ancient woodland
this child roamed,
lost in nature,
briar & loam.
Mapping clearings,
badger setts,
the places where
the deer had slept.
Picking berries
hops & flowers,
lying under
stripling bowers.
Until evening's
amber gloam,
with twiggy hair
racing home.
Joined Twitter and began trying writing prompts with vss365.  Challenging for me not to expand on the story and my adventures in our wood as a child.
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 must not miss,
A wander in a wood
Once I did walk the hills behind my house to where a wooded area lay where I played as a child to hear the sounds of
wind whisling through those trees such an awesome show of power
It was to where Helen and I once made love a time I remember so
A place that holds so many
memories that will carrie me througth my winter days
Woodland where I once played as a kid made love to my wife
a woodland that holds so many
Johnny walker Nov 2018
How of late my mind goes
a wondering strange, so many thoughts running constantly within my head of memories shared with
Almost like a dream-like state, I'm sitting by a lake
surrounded by magical woodland and reflections
of memories with Helen are just floating around
on the surface of the
I'm there with a fishing rod
but it's not for fish I'm trying to hook, It's memories of Helen each one I secure on my fishing line goes Into the keep net
that of which Is my mind
All thoughts and memories I see
for a dream-like state Is to where I am
Strange a dream like state Is to where I am today lost deep In thought of all my yesterdays with Helen
Erik Whalen Oct 2018
Through a torn visage, I see the flame
One torch, by day, reflects ages hence
That spark, they say, can't be to blame
But many, still, keeps shoulders tense.

Man, sincerely, calls for homeland
But flame to mirror rends reflection bent
When man, in jest, sets sparks to woodland
The forest, torn, its visage now rent.
Olivia V May 2018
within a dark wood, no sound could be heard,
no rustle or leaf, nor chorus of bird.
though through thickets of thorn, and tangle of vine,
a traveller long lost, settled down by a pine.

it was then that the trees, and brambles beneath,
twisted their branches and made him his wreath.
a crown of late thorns, to place on his head,
by the exact moment, in which he was dead.

the traveller had wandered, for days through this grove,
mistook it for where there'd been buried a trove.
many had done so, the young and the old,
naïve in their search, for fairy-tale gold.

asleep on the fallen, both leaves and past men,
our traveller breathed once, then no more than ten.
his lungs filled with scarlet, his blood running thick,
from poisons and toxins of berries he'd picked.

as night came to banish, the warmth of the sun,
his corpse slowly stiffened, decay then begun.
what of his soul, his spirit, you wonder?
encased by his bones, shall never float yonder.

no other remembers, this story I've told,
long lost in myth and legends of old.
his death was not pleasant, nor lacking in strife,
it felt oh so sweet, to steal that man's life.

for I was the wood, that he'd set eyes upon,
to plunder and pillage, and lay his hands on.
but blind from desire, for coffers of gold,
the man did not witness, his follies unfold.

my treasure's not buried, but strewn all around,
if only one glances, to see nature abound.
the man had such fortune, in the palm of his hand,
but thought nothing of it, of cherished wood-land.

although he still lies here, enveloped in moss,
his death is not tragic, don't mourn for this loss.
a traveller he was, perhaps you are too,
but his soul was crook'd, his values askew.

oh yes he was selfish, and now he is mine,
his body 's held tight, for my roots to enshrine.
the lesson dear reader, I ask you to heed,
is that misfortune awaits, all men filled with greed.
We turn blind eye to the treasures of the natural world, we take and take and decimate the beauty of nature around us, purely for personal gain.
Arrays of stars land softly
on this thick bed of pine needles
under your graciously reaching tree,
and we see impossibly blue, miniature
flowers with centers of infinite white.

Tunneling underground, more
have been born over the decades
since you planted their mothers and fathers
by hand, here in this garden that has become
a secret woodland, even in the middle of town.
©Elisa Maria Argiro
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