#wetlands
In the once noble house,
almost all is taken except
The walls, the lath, now held on
by a cleat of wood and lace
that redeems the letcher,
denizen of Sussex wetlands.
Of late the chalet is latched
only by hate, and the letch
chats with outlaws in the storm's eclat
of thunder far off.
No knights or maidens remain,
nor any ruler of demesne
and the treasure is born
off to other kingdoms.
The well is dry and
fields are bare.
And in the end, all depart.
leaving doors open to the wind
and gate down to the woods.
And broken the way
down to the sea.
Jan 8, 2025
Jan 8, 2025 at 12:31 PM UTC
Pleading for a purchased god
Romanticized for its ancien régime
Celiac, and yet I licked the wheat paste
Of the letter I was was trimmed A4
In all that time spent by the basin
(and its traffic-trimming wetlands)
I only rode my bike to the depot
To color code my calendar
When capital kept its calls collect,
When the gravy train kept me idle
Each chamber would be emptied
Fruitlessly: punch drunk with praise
(Indulge a little)
Each from four through five: orchestrated
The plains always claim the sixth
(Respecting the tradition of western folk)
Only three will ever threaten treatment
Sep 25, 2022
Sep 25, 2022 at 9:57 PM UTC
loosely based on events that never took off
I refuse to let it die out, I can save some
of the memories, wash away the dirt on my name
play with the energies as if you were here all the same
as if I can hear you calling out my name, or whispering
my heart is whimpering looking for hot hands
to cradle my cranium and explore my wetlands
you were just my type of man, my perfect poison
I was just your type of victim, the perfect person
for you to disrespect, neglect, and gaslight
for you to pretend we were friends until that night
where you stripped me of more than my rainbow light
Mar 3, 2022
Mar 3, 2022 at 10:48 AM UTC
Claypan
Hideaway
Constant instars
Exiled metamorphosis
So quiet you can almost
Hear the sun go down
Valle de Las Hamacas
Vista Hermosa
Spheres of Paradiso
Seismic dewdrop points
Listening to the night
Fall with the rain
Nov 7, 2020
Nov 7, 2020 at 2:17 PM UTC
the entirety of my feeling is resting on my tongue,
asking for birth, release, freedom:
here at the border post, the guards have fled, and the memory dreamer refugees, previous detained, hesitantly, gingerly, step across a narrow invisibility, a legal fictionalization, courageously frightened, but words of “at last,” “if not now, when,” and “god bless” blend into a merging crescendo of “yes!”
the road chamfers, dusty gives way, all the traveller’s shoes, now wetted, stained and staining, make amusing sounds of connection and interaction - squishy, distinctive, known in every language, dialect - unrealized but known, spoken, somehow comprehended.
why is this heaven wet?
is truth moist?
indeed, for this place is truthful, and sensory networks cross, senses are both heightened and bluntly realized- and this confusion delights in human land mines
exploding.
let me explain:
my tongue has eyes,
my tongue speaks the words we have in commonality,
my tongues hears your sounds,
my tongue penetrates parts of you
that no other-part touches in the
same way.
though you might think this is simply ****** subterfuge, it is not.
simply you need to understand how
deeply this human connects, in his way.
Oct 30, 2020
Oct 30, 2020 at 12:54 PM UTC
I'll be like the wetlands
I'll take the brunt
When the storm rolls in
Let the flood wash
across
my skin
I know how to survive being drowned
So I'll stand my ground
Oct 9, 2020
Oct 9, 2020 at 11:42 PM UTC
a schismatic
of prevalent
preexistence with
a cassowary
zoon only
fall this
moon in
rainforest that
Hoyce pounce
as an
alien with
**** neon
sign that
always will
turn up
a boon
with séance
Apr 24, 2018
Apr 24, 2018 at 8:11 AM UTC
*Wet lands smell like tomorrow
And dry lands reminisce the good old days of rainfall
Fate has a thing for tragedies
And lust is a fierce soldier
Castles are like seen mysteries
And towers, royalties nemesis*
*Love and hate are two unequal friends,
The later has an uncanny envious flair for the former,
But the former, soars above the later far and farther than heights can go*
*The memories that trees hold
Are priceless and endless
That even the seas can hold no boundaries
The oceans flow unending
But keeps a tale of the after call
And when rain comes calling,
Every element of earth respects this after call*
Evna-Luna©
**After some of my good poet friends left here, I'm finally back to do what I do best..... Writing poetry"
Oct 3, 2016
Oct 3, 2016 at 6:51 AM UTC
Daddy takes me to the greenhouse,
behind our rotted trailer, deep in sovereign backwoods.
Marsh voices, thick like tupelo honey.
The coo of a loon, hiss of a cottonmouth, shiver of a snapping turtle.
The silver of swamp lilies lip the land in wild haze,
a veil of ochre moss tickles my nose like gauzey ginger ale
and soil clings to my ankles like a lonesome hound.
Daddy’s greenhouse is a shed, a haven.
A milieu of magic and fleur-de-cannabis
where pixies pull my curls and gnomes dance
under mushroom parasols.
My hands dip into a hollow of muddy earthworms.
I feel akin to the yellow blood of a butterfly
or pale jade of perplexing geckos.
Daddy is a shaman.
He trims holy blooms that come from spirits
who sing in the wind like the whippoorwill at dusk.
Snipping sticky bushels, he pads tufts into his pipe,
carved in the shape of a sullen armadillo.
I watch him inhale.
His breath
stiff
as a braid of mangroves.
He exhales a ligneous cough.
I don’t mind,
much.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 3:18 PM UTC