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"artesian" poems
(Quote by Spike Milligan) One very wise man sat and said That, long before this world is dead This planet’s problems won’t be solved By reasoning which, though now evolved, has got us, where we now do sit, Afloat neck deep in mankind’s **** There’s SARs, Ebola, AIDs, Bird flu And in the woodwork, West Nile too, Each replicating viral spat To mutate, (at the drop of a hat), To complicate enviro’s stew Of global degredation’s brew. Urban spread and over stocking **** deforestation’s shocking, Depletion of aquatic life Intrinsically creating strife, Industrial pollution’s goo Ozone depletion... ALL FOR YOU! *Environmental degradation Means the world’s a weaker place, Susceptible to malady Wide spread across the human race. Those animals in corn fed stalls Who never get to see the sun Or graze green grass where honey bees Are vanquished by varroha’s fun. Too late to save the Hector’s dolphin Conservation’s lost it’s tools, Rastafarian hootchie smokers, Save the whales to **** the fools. Governments sell the carbon credits Everybody smells a rat Restorations for the birds And social conscience creamed the cat. ****** greenies own the airwaves No one gives a flying **** That good artesian water’s poisoned By good farmer’s leached out muck. CO2 in global warming Sings it’s song of fast decline Glacial retreat a-roaring Bass relief in blood ***** I guess the little children’s future Most depends on lady luck, Humankind in mass denial Most don’t give a flying **** Marshalg In retreat to Taranaki’s green haven in the gales of the equinox. 21 September 2011
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Sep 21, 2011
Sep 21, 2011 at 2:09 AM UTC
We Just Lost the Human Race
(Quote by Spike Milligan) One very wise man sat and said That, long before this world is dead This planet’s problems won’t be solved By reasoning which, though now evolved, has got us, where we now do sit, Afloat neck deep in mankind’s **** There’s SARs, Ebola, AIDs, Bird flu And in the woodwork, West Nile too, Each replicating viral spat To mutate, (at the drop of a hat), To complicate enviro’s stew Of global degredation’s brew. Urban spread and over stocking **** deforestation’s shocking, Depletion of aquatic life Intrinsically creating strife, Industrial pollution’s goo Ozone depletion... ALL FOR YOU! *Environmental degradation Means the world’s a weaker place, Susceptible to malady Wide spread across the human race. Those animals in corn fed stalls Who never get to see the sun Or graze green grass where honey bees Are vanquished by varroha’s fun. Too late to save the Hector’s dolphin Conservation’s lost it’s tools, Rastafarian hootchie smokers, Save the whales to **** the fools. Governments sell the carbon credits Everybody smells a rat Restorations for the birds And social conscience creamed the cat. ****** greenies own the airwaves No one gives a flying **** That good artesian water’s poisoned By good farmer’s leached out muck. CO2 in global warming Sings it’s song of fast decline Glacial retreat a-roaring Bass relief in blood ***** I guess the little children’s future Most depends on lady luck, Humankind in mass denial Most don’t give a flying **** Marshalg In retreat to Taranaki’s green haven in the gales of the equinox. 21 September 2011
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(Quote by Spike Milligan) One very wise man sat and said That, long before this world is dead This planet’s problems won’t be solved By reasoning which, though now evolved, has got us, where we now do sit, Afloat neck deep in mankind’s **** There’s SARs, Ebola, AIDs, Bird flu And in the woodwork, West Nile too, Each replicating viral spat To mutate, (at the drop of a hat), To complicate enviro’s stew Of global degredation’s brew. Urban spread and over stocking **** deforestation’s shocking, Depletion of aquatic life Intrinsically creating strife, Industrial pollution’s goo Ozone depletion... ALL FOR YOU! Environmental degradation Means the world’s a weaker place, Susceptible to malady Wide spread across the human race. Those animals in corn fed stalls Who never get to see the sun Or graze green grass where honey bees Are vanquished by varroha’s fun. Too late to save the Hector’s dolphin Conservation’s lost it’s tools, Rastafarian hootchie smokers, Save the whales to **** the fools. Governments sell the carbon credits Everybody smells a rat Restorations for the birds And social conscience creamed the cat. ****** greenies own the airwaves No one gives a flying **** That good artesian water’s poisoned By good farmer’s leached out muck. CO2 in global warming Sings it’s song of fast decline Glacial retreat a-roaring Bass relief in blood ***** I guess the little children’s future Most depends on lady luck, Humankind in mass denial Most don’t give a flying **** Marshalg In retreat to Taranaki’s green haven in the gales of the equinox. 21 September 2011
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Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 3:14 AM UTC
We Just Lost the Human Race!
(Quote by Spike Milligan) One very wise man sat and said That, long before this world is dead This planet’s problems won’t be solved By reasoning which, though now evolved, has got us, where we now do sit, Afloat neck deep in mankind’s **** There’s SARs, Ebola, AIDs, Bird flu And in the woodwork, West Nile too, Each replicating viral spat To mutate, (at the drop of a hat), To complicate enviro’s stew Of global degredation’s brew. Urban spread and over stocking **** deforestation’s shocking, Depletion of aquatic life Intrinsically creating strife, Industrial pollution’s goo Ozone depletion... ALL FOR YOU! Environmental degradation Means the world’s a weaker place, Susceptible to malady Wide spread across the human race. Those animals in corn fed stalls Who never get to see the sun Or graze green grass where honey bees Are vanquished by varroha’s fun. Too late to save the Hector’s dolphin Conservation’s lost it’s tools, Rastafarian hootchie smokers, Save the whales to **** the fools. Governments sell the carbon credits Everybody smells a rat Restorations for the birds And social conscience creamed the cat. ****** greenies own the airwaves No one gives a flying **** That good artesian water’s poisoned By good farmer’s leached out muck. CO2 in global warming Sings it’s song of fast decline Glacial retreat a-roaring Bass relief in blood ***** I guess the little children’s future Most depends on lady luck, Humankind in mass denial Most don’t give a flying **** Marshalg In retreat to Taranaki’s green haven in the gales of the equinox. 21 September 2011
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My French Gem The Rose tickler finely handwritten The movie part gave her the sign life crossed over gem French kiss the morning The burst of Kaleidoscope Sun Double touched but forbidden On the Cheetah necklace chase The French Lieutenant   her body and lips moonstruck On her chaise To get over it another work of art that got more attention To revive her from drowning in the gem scattered like a benevolent blue splat philanthropic Looking more into his unknown diving suit mixed with envy green how she got mixed into the stranger of Poison Ivy Her love didn't show all her attributes God spiritually well She went to the pastry heart how it flaked all over like crystals He was patiently sitting but got persuaded That little gem of the lounge Her firey gem was the canary that got his tongue Her gem stands taller   The crafted lines of quality in the Pillars "Le Bonheur De  Vivre Gem-Art" French kiss went inside the darker side of the painting       He's transformed. Shape heart delicate uniform. "Parisians on a mission A kiss is a serious manner   LOVE" Gem birth opens her He modifies her rainbow Artwork of brush yellow twinset platter hello fellow the essence beloved to follow So worth her wait being watched By the crystal rock, he loved her going up in spirit or she falls for him The gem to be it Magical modernly gem -fit clock. See through hands meditation harp. Lebonheur De Vivre fine art sharp. Lips movement beyond hearts. Le-bonheur De Vivre gem arts. Artesian heels tapping boots. Fall for Autumn love cahoots. Beloved, divinely he's the healer. The picture spoke she's the winner. Wilderness he glides kisses prints. Pushing her waves hints. Everlasting one thought he's guessing? Art never part beautify stem. Eyes so genuine he's her gem.
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Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 9:26 AM UTC
Lebonheur DE Revive Gem
My French Gem The Rose tickler finely handwritten The movie part gave her the sign life crossed over gem French kiss the morning The burst of Kaleidoscope Sun Double touched but forbidden On the Cheetah necklace chase The French Lieutenant   her body and lips moonstruck On her chaise To get over it another work of art that got more attention To revive her from drowning in the gem scattered like a benevolent blue splat philanthropic Looking more into his unknown diving suit mixed with envy green how she got mixed into the stranger of Poison Ivy Her love didn't show all her attributes God spiritually well She went to the pastry heart how it flaked all over like crystals He was patiently sitting but got persuaded That little gem of the lounge Her firey gem was the canary that got his tongue Her gem stands taller   The crafted lines of quality in the Pillars "Le Bonheur De  Vivre Gem-Art" French kiss went inside the darker side of the painting       He's transformed. Shape heart delicate uniform. "Parisians on a mission A kiss is a serious manner   LOVE" Gem birth opens her He modifies her rainbow Artwork of brush yellow twinset platter hello fellow the essence beloved to follow So worth her wait being watched By the crystal rock, he loved her going up in spirit or she falls for him The gem to be it Magical modernly gem -fit clock. See through hands meditation harp. Lebonheur De Vivre fine art sharp. Lips movement beyond hearts. Le-bonheur De Vivre gem arts. Artesian heels tapping boots. Fall for Autumn love cahoots. Beloved, divinely he's the healer. The picture spoke she's the winner. Wilderness he glides kisses prints. Pushing her waves hints. Everlasting one thought he's guessing? Art never part beautify stem. Eyes so genuine he's her gem.
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64
Born to an Italian father and a dreaming, wide-eyed American, travel was my fortune, my life before I chose it. One late September evening, my wide-brimmed velvet hat and I   discovered what it was to fly. Surging through moving sculptures of clouds, riding the Pan Am night flight to London, I was nine, and I was hooked. Peter Pan was my secret love then. I had saved my loose tooth for the English tooth fairy, wishing and hoping for an English penny. Scones and bridges from my books were real now to taste and see. I began to write then, mostly in my mind. That was how I lived then, and still do. Finding and forming words within for everything. A sacred artesian spring, i Fonti del Clitunno. Perfection at Paestum. Stonehenge, when one could still walk among those holy stones. The early church of Santa Sabina, whose high windows transmit light through membranes of mica. The abiding silence of these ancient, sacred places   held me transfixed. Continuity of time flowed, like invisible honey, all around me. I wanted to taste it with my mind. Know it with all of my being. And one day, find the right words.
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Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 9:06 PM UTC
Vagabonda
**Earth Day, April 22, 2017  "give back to Earth", as an "offering" for all the planet gives us.** For Global Earth Day information visit:  http://www.earthday.org/        Her ominous shadow              shown a path    far beyond the miles high   a majestic mountain stood    Silently climbing down          million year old         steep canyon walls                at dawn,   each step chosen carefully      coursing with purpose     Finding a way forward          was the only way            to look back up       river carved ravines      where higher ground               once stood   Instincts drawn downward        gravity feed towards          the faint murmurs        deep echoes tracery    down sheer basalt cliffs           Artesian waters'        resounding gurgles ―      bubble up to quench      a lost soul’s incurably    intrinsic parching thirst;        to find an unfolding        metamorphic peace      in the trove of igneous      fountain veins of earth     There’s not need to wait       on sunrise pathways lit ―    there is no fear of gravity’s      downward silent weight         nor burden to be borne Listening beyond dark silence      .       igneous bedrock roots      beckon deeper expanse ;   spirit realms of ancient souls      whisperer like thunder         to the soul of man ― Awakening ruptured lifelines     deep below earthen crust ,     creations hidden essence      eternally remembered          by the light above ... April  2017 © harlon rivers ... all rights reserved
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Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 10:02 AM UTC
Thunder Whispers Beneath
**Earth Day, April 22, 2017  "give back to Earth", as an "offering" for all the planet gives us.** For Global Earth Day information visit:  http://www.earthday.org/        Her ominous shadow              shown a path    far beyond the miles high   a majestic mountain stood    Silently climbing down          million year old         steep canyon walls                at dawn,   each step chosen carefully      coursing with purpose     Finding a way forward          was the only way            to look back up       river carved ravines      where higher ground               once stood   Instincts drawn downward        gravity feed towards          the faint murmurs        deep echoes tracery    down sheer basalt cliffs           Artesian waters'        resounding gurgles ―      bubble up to quench      a lost soul’s incurably    intrinsic parching thirst;        to find an unfolding        metamorphic peace      in the trove of igneous      fountain veins of earth     There’s not need to wait       on sunrise pathways lit ―    there is no fear of gravity’s      downward silent weight         nor burden to be borne Listening beyond dark silence      .       igneous bedrock roots      beckon deeper expanse ;   spirit realms of ancient souls      whisperer like thunder         to the soul of man ― Awakening ruptured lifelines     deep below earthen crust ,     creations hidden essence      eternally remembered          by the light above ... April  2017 © harlon rivers ... all rights reserved
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Thank you for registering for our website. You're almost ready to enter a portal of super awesome fun time vibes that will alter your whole being down to it's genetic core. But before you can see the goods, you need to come up with a password that meets our criteria as follows, - Must contain at least one capital letteR -Needs @ least two $ymbols. -Should be a minimum length of an Ernest Hemingway novel. -Add a dash of salt -You will also need to cover your entire body in sacred mud found only in parts of Mesa, Arizona. -Written approval from any pets. -On your webcam record yourself singing the phrase "Lemon trigonometry adversely if but  ***** carrots digital ******** maps" then publish it. You must get at least 537 views within 12 hours. -Burn all your socks and mail us the ashes. -Write to your state representative and senator. -Make an artesian spaghetti sandwich using whole grain golden moon grown quinoa bread and cage free angel hair pasta noodles cooked al dente in a curry sauce with a whisper of coconut oil on each piece of bread and leave said sandwich out by your front door over night.
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Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 10:48 PM UTC
Password Instructions
#***Blackwater rise up from artesian fountains Upsurge from the provenance of earthen soul Mingle unto a river of willow’s bend and sway Rooted in boulders***                                                           *scattered  within                                  milestones                                                   and*                                                                 ***riverbed Cornerstones                                                                                           Gray As though empowering sown seeds mightily strewn With intent a higher law's freshet flows For to stream from silence in a satiating tongue Rolling currents thickly bestow A  river  of  simple  truth lay  bare A stream of random kindness betides, Rivulets of unconditional love abounding    Rootstock birthplace coursing passage from whence Unbounded rivers' silent reverie manifests Rippling cadence immersing pulsing whispers Unbounded rivers rushing deep and wide Blossoming undercurrents gushing, resounding, rhythmic  ebb  and  flow Verve undulating wholly alive Genesis of soul marrow's enlightened shine ― Wellsprings arise from bedrock ancient mother earth A surmounting light leavens abidingly From imploring water's flowing river song To illuminate the beckoning pathway's bearings divergent from thither and yon                  Through  which  to  portage A way to carry back home in psalm*** h.a. rivers ... November 4th, 2017
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Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 7:59 PM UTC
Blackwater River
#***Blackwater rise up from artesian fountains Upsurge from the provenance of earthen soul Mingle unto a river of willow’s bend and sway Rooted in boulders***                                                           *scattered  within                                  milestones                                                   and*                                                                 ***riverbed Cornerstones                                                                                           Gray As though empowering sown seeds mightily strewn With intent a higher law's freshet flows For to stream from silence in a satiating tongue Rolling currents thickly bestow A  river  of  simple  truth lay  bare A stream of random kindness betides, Rivulets of unconditional love abounding    Rootstock birthplace coursing passage from whence Unbounded rivers' silent reverie manifests Rippling cadence immersing pulsing whispers Unbounded rivers rushing deep and wide Blossoming undercurrents gushing, resounding, rhythmic  ebb  and  flow Verve undulating wholly alive Genesis of soul marrow's enlightened shine ― Wellsprings arise from bedrock ancient mother earth A surmounting light leavens abidingly From imploring water's flowing river song To illuminate the beckoning pathway's bearings divergent from thither and yon                  Through  which  to  portage A way to carry back home in psalm*** h.a. rivers ... November 4th, 2017
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In urgent call. The door opens by elegant wrist. Her lashes close. Soft beads of water fresh out the shower. Made glorious, covering me. Her scent the tip of my nose. Every wrong made right. Sweetened cocoa butter, the hint of mango. Artesian painting reflects us. Offering safe passage from tongue to lips. Open, the taste of delicate skin. The fragrance of all I'd need. Seasoned by discovery. The rediscovery of thought. The towel drops. Every breath a caress from which we grew. A flower in bloom, ripe in unification. Well soaked in eternal ache. The artesian painting retouched by desire. Consistently in the utmost obligation. Undressed, The passage of me to you
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Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 2:36 PM UTC
Passage
.       *Heart and soul pour forth             an artesian spring                     arising                     set free     through the conduit of poetry brilliant constellations gleam adrift,           soothened reflections          float away unfettered,               mirrored upon        peaceful rivers sojourn               downstream              coursing afar           conjured beyond       the mesmerizing spell of the outbound tides beckon                unconfined                 swallowed        by the scattering voice            of the rising sea                fomenting        a comfortable silence                  all at sea          within ocean deep                         someone you used to know* 2017
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Aug 27, 2017
Aug 27, 2017 at 12:45 PM UTC
Drifting with the outbound tides beckon
I ponder of something great on a sonderous level can a man a sentient being ever exist like an omnipotent being am I just a subsidized being is the vanity of a self-absorbed world the pneumatic indifferent fascist question my legitimacy so I question the society of a world more cold and more active than an incestuous birdy and the bee They question an artesian hand slightly smaller than the average man yet the significance of the difference in that artesian is not the manic who refused me embarrassed me rumored me ****** me to a dark inexsistant inbetween the coldness of a lover never to be because she is in league but out of reach like a lion her simple minded pedagogy has left her to everything and everyone as she is not mine and I am not hers just the birdy and the defective bee a farce love story the ending of a never beginning trip why o so dramatic because I just can’t help falling in love with one a selfish self absorbed vanity in a repugnant world disgustingly this pedagogy stays to me like glue on this dying bee this is true of our starcrossed unrequited drug induced comatose that put me into this ponderous level the inevitability of what truly will never be yet for some reason these sounderously significantly radical thought I ponder just like a pneumatic bot have you ever felt this lost this cold dark nonexistent in-between a limbless sentient rushed in the ever invoking might of hysteric emotion I ponder this cold and warming toiling notion The one like a lion can you and will you requite and love me
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Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 8:44 PM UTC
Bernard Marx
I ponder of something great on a sonderous level can a man a sentient being ever exist like an omnipotent being am I just a subsidized being is the vanity of a self-absorbed world the pneumatic indifferent fascist question my legitimacy so I question the society of a world more cold and more active than an incestuous birdy and the bee They question an artesian hand slightly smaller than the average man yet the significance of the difference in that artesian is not the manic who refused me embarrassed me rumored me ****** me to a dark inexsistant inbetween the coldness of a lover never to be because she is in league but out of reach like a lion her simple minded pedagogy has left her to everything and everyone as she is not mine and I am not hers just the birdy and the defective bee a farce love story the ending of a never beginning trip why o so dramatic because I just can’t help falling in love with one a selfish self absorbed vanity in a repugnant world disgustingly this pedagogy stays to me like glue on this dying bee this is true of our starcrossed unrequited drug induced comatose that put me into this ponderous level the inevitability of what truly will never be yet for some reason these sounderously significantly radical thought I ponder just like a pneumatic bot have you ever felt this lost this cold dark nonexistent in-between a limbless sentient rushed in the ever invoking might of hysteric emotion I ponder this cold and warming toiling notion The one like a lion can you and will you requite and love me
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Mystery girl, let me make an ansatz about you: You are like an anti-gravity wave - the farther I go, the more I pine for you. Some kind of growing exponent: yes, you are the solution I ignore in my quotidian root-finding mission; Ah, the annihilation, those killer eyes! Now I see, we inhabit orthogonal planes. Your uv, to my uw, you are IR to my ivy. Wonder-woman, let me make an ansatz about you: You are elegance. Ripple-play at pebbles, those dimpled cheeks. Deliciously symmetric. Alpha 180,  no Beta at all - well not Cartesian. Guess it's subterranean, Artesian, in the k-space, transform domain, my mind-space, where, girl, you are a wonder of beauty and grace. Magicienne, let me make an Ansatz about you: You are the particle for Love waves. A lovelet. Dressed in that kaftan when you walk in, I will sublimate. Ether-maker, you solve the Hamiltonian, I see now how matter's made.
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Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 10:40 PM UTC
Ansatz für lieben
As children, in this springtide of the year, my two brothers and I would venture deep into our woods, exploring all that had thawed. Walking along, there was little need for talk, absorbed as we were in the scents and sights of lovely nature, awakening all around us. Following a line from the artesian well that fed our home, we listened for signs of an undiscovered, woodland stream. There, we heard it. That secret, lovely gurgle, somewhere hidden under soggy brown, deciduous leaves. Excitedly, we used sticks of hickory and oak to dig down, to free the living water. Once we had found it, clear and singing, we leaned in, working together to ease its path. Time disappeared from our minds, this self-appointed team of junior engineers. Somehow, though we wouldn't have known it then, that freshly springing water was life itself to us surging forth once more, finding, like each of us, its own way home. Now I understand, remembering our common sense of purpose, the way we worked together, with single-minded focus, why freeing it really mattered to us, mattered so very much, and always will.
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Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 8:44 PM UTC
Finding Living Water
We're talking put up a hand to stop a hurricane futile here, folks. Two days past trying while listening to Hermine's tails lashing at the windows, I reach deep into a well of emptiness for a lost bucket of words filled with dusted dried feelings, the rope frayed to snapping. A thirst to heal will lead me to drill elsewhere, thirsting for the tears commingling with rain, the tears that burst from a stone-crag heart in artesian splendor.
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Sep 3, 2016
Sep 3, 2016 at 10:40 AM UTC
Dry Spell
Being divorced is not very much fun Two kids, no dad, life on the run A king-size bed with two pillows But she’s sleeping alone On a whim she headed East to the West The Cowboy convention in Tucson With her new boots and hat And old friend Laura Lee, wearing a vest This Hollywood screenwriter has seen them all Jive city slickers with cell phones and new cars It had been so long since she’d really been kissed Her love life needed a punch, it could not make a fist Samuel Dawson was born on and still lived on the ranch He rode fence, chased cattle, is one studley man With a soft streak as demonstrated by his craft He works wonders with leather, why it was art He too was lonely, this singular man He’d cleaned himself up since his wife went and made other plans For he had deserved it, so he sat hoping to sell Wishing he’d find that artesian well Stop the action, let me set the stage There he sits at his craftsman’s booth Underneath the canopy in the hot afternoon sun Here comes Rebecca meandering along She lingers and fingers his feathered and leathered strands He smiles and she notes his mustache and tan They talk, she will not turn away Laura Lee shouts, “Let’s get on the way.” This is where the story begins One cowboy love that has no end She’s still a writer on fine TV shows Sam is the wrangler, whom everyone knows Loves a lady who fancies parasols On hot Summer days, who now rides a horse Who no longer leads a half-finished life Where western handicraft is everywhere in sight And their love is on course Some don’t understand, some don’t want to know But bridges are built wherever you go Even on land with no river in sight When a cowboy finds love he succumbs without fight The ranch is now located in Southern Cal The fence he mends is picket, see for yourself For I know them, and please call me Sam She’ll be home in a few, I’m her lover man.
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Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 2:15 PM UTC
Cowboy Love
Being divorced is not very much fun Two kids, no dad, life on the run A king-size bed with two pillows But she’s sleeping alone On a whim she headed East to the West The Cowboy convention in Tucson With her new boots and hat And old friend Laura Lee, wearing a vest This Hollywood screenwriter has seen them all Jive city slickers with cell phones and new cars It had been so long since she’d really been kissed Her love life needed a punch, it could not make a fist Samuel Dawson was born on and still lived on the ranch He rode fence, chased cattle, is one studley man With a soft streak as demonstrated by his craft He works wonders with leather, why it was art He too was lonely, this singular man He’d cleaned himself up since his wife went and made other plans For he had deserved it, so he sat hoping to sell Wishing he’d find that artesian well Stop the action, let me set the stage There he sits at his craftsman’s booth Underneath the canopy in the hot afternoon sun Here comes Rebecca meandering along She lingers and fingers his feathered and leathered strands He smiles and she notes his mustache and tan They talk, she will not turn away Laura Lee shouts, “Let’s get on the way.” This is where the story begins One cowboy love that has no end She’s still a writer on fine TV shows Sam is the wrangler, whom everyone knows Loves a lady who fancies parasols On hot Summer days, who now rides a horse Who no longer leads a half-finished life Where western handicraft is everywhere in sight And their love is on course Some don’t understand, some don’t want to know But bridges are built wherever you go Even on land with no river in sight When a cowboy finds love he succumbs without fight The ranch is now located in Southern Cal The fence he mends is picket, see for yourself For I know them, and please call me Sam She’ll be home in a few, I’m her lover man.
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Devastated was the word.  Yes, it fit. The night before found her restless and fitful,  up and down, churning, besieged with scattered thoughts. Noisy chattering, fragmented bits of fear, hurt, shame, regret, disappointment and judgement, all jostling with one another, all scrabbling like jackals to be the first to gnaw on her bones. Why was she carrying the full burden of shame? Had he not shown his flaws? But as the indignation rose,  the words of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn  wept through like an Artesian wellspring of wisdom reminding, "But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?" "WAIT JUST ONE MINUTE HERE, AL!" she protested. crickets "Oh no!" says she to herself,  as she dusted off her Ouija board, "You will come back here!"   Nervous fingers and shaky vocal chords work together in a synchronized effort to pull him away from his glass of fermented potato and there he was, a bearded wild haired man with an intense stare that left her wriggling under her skin. But she was on a mission and she would not be deterred. Clearing her throat, she began, "Mr. Solzhenitsyn ---" Aleksandr raised his hand up  in a gesture to stop her His heavily accented English softly penetrated the air. "Pебенок, tell me, what do you need?" "I need to understand." "Tell me why." he pressed. "Why?"  She forced her words past the hurt that sat lumped in her throat,"I'm trying to make sense of betrayal. How can people insist they truly love even after lies have been uncovered?" "Tell me Кэтрин, would you agree that morality can often be found to be at odds with passion and desire?" She nodded. He continued, "And that good intentions are often found to be at odds with unconscious motivations?" "Yes." she whispered Aleksandr sat thoughtful for a moment, then gently and softly spoke. "You understand Кэтрин, your problem is, you want too much from understanding. It cannot turn shadow into light and it cannot right wrongs. So, no Pебенок, you are not in need of understanding. What you need is to accept that a thing is what it is." He drew on his pipe and smiled tenderly.   "And you need to make a decision. You must decide if your wounds have made you more ... or have made you less."
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Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 10:59 PM UTC
A Conversation With Aleksandr
Devastated was the word.  Yes, it fit. The night before found her restless and fitful,  up and down, churning, besieged with scattered thoughts. Noisy chattering, fragmented bits of fear, hurt, shame, regret, disappointment and judgement, all jostling with one another, all scrabbling like jackals to be the first to gnaw on her bones. Why was she carrying the full burden of shame? Had he not shown his flaws? But as the indignation rose,  the words of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn  wept through like an Artesian wellspring of wisdom reminding, "But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?" "WAIT JUST ONE MINUTE HERE, AL!" she protested. crickets "Oh no!" says she to herself,  as she dusted off her Ouija board, "You will come back here!"   Nervous fingers and shaky vocal chords work together in a synchronized effort to pull him away from his glass of fermented potato and there he was, a bearded wild haired man with an intense stare that left her wriggling under her skin. But she was on a mission and she would not be deterred. Clearing her throat, she began, "Mr. Solzhenitsyn ---" Aleksandr raised his hand up  in a gesture to stop her His heavily accented English softly penetrated the air. "Pебенок, tell me, what do you need?" "I need to understand." "Tell me why." he pressed. "Why?"  She forced her words past the hurt that sat lumped in her throat,"I'm trying to make sense of betrayal. How can people insist they truly love even after lies have been uncovered?" "Tell me Кэтрин, would you agree that morality can often be found to be at odds with passion and desire?" She nodded. He continued, "And that good intentions are often found to be at odds with unconscious motivations?" "Yes." she whispered Aleksandr sat thoughtful for a moment, then gently and softly spoke. "You understand Кэтрин, your problem is, you want too much from understanding. It cannot turn shadow into light and it cannot right wrongs. So, no Pебенок, you are not in need of understanding. What you need is to accept that a thing is what it is." He drew on his pipe and smiled tenderly.   "And you need to make a decision. You must decide if your wounds have made you more ... or have made you less."
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You, girl who's starved of passion: I disappear into you like a drop of sweat in a sea of desert sand finding the well beneath. Buried river, one drop from the surface boils you turning artesian spring bringing flowers to the desert missed longer than forever could fathom. New oasis, let me bathe in your pools, lounge in your shady breeze, and muse over your every petal. Bring me home in the growing seeds I’ve sweat for you. Dawning goddess, don’t vanish or melt away, and I’ll never let you dry, forever sweating the water I drink from your springs, to find you again and again.
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May 15, 2011
May 15, 2011 at 5:25 PM UTC
Famine famished mirage
I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME ROAR is what your eyes are screaming at me, pencil scratching across page as fingers stampede, stationary upon your desk. don't you know what you're doing to me, with your Catholic faith and artesian frame?? I swear to your god (for I am Protestant and yes they are different) that you will ruin me and I swear to my god that I would love nothing better for in your unmaking of me there is a subtle art, not an artifice, and it is this which I adore, possibly even more than I adore thee.
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May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 8:40 PM UTC
Gina Nicole pt. II
tea-cream earth underoak lying drenched in sun gleam streams, a sky in between the green sheets laid upon and the beamyblues breezes blew past our post-modern monument, and I shuddered like the towers, as i was amply leafed. strong winds knocked branches loose, falling from seventy-four inches up in the air. a logjam tore a hole inside my artesian mouth. still, fresh spring water found a way out, taking a ride in a turnstile cycling through riffle and pool all the way to its end. clothes soaked, made holey, by rain no righteous men know; I tried my hand with a needle and thread still trying to forgive, a soft fabric to sow.
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Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 3:36 AM UTC
no admittance
Look around what do you see?/ No matter what endeavor Visually/ was dream up by an artist Realistically/ They create the world Which we live imagery/ aesthetic visions/ Precisely entice thee kitchen/ television shoes clothes Cars and homes/ Think about it? it's an artistic scheme/ optimistic exquisite An articulate scene/ Step back take a view Coppistetic articles/ clothed What ensues / Open your eyes enclosed in false truths/ Artesian the currency Naturally Flows through/ artery Eyelids down/ an optical torrent/ I've been drowned/ in surround sound torment/ cinematic pictures that Visually pour in/ Articulate with in particulars Such a beautiful song/ The rhythm of the words Guide me and carry on/ Music to my ears The universal art-form/ In a cold world storms Keeping our hearts warm/ Auxiliaries the art of war Artilleries silly me/ Addicted to creativeness Soliloquies/ abstract attract In fact an artist Artistically Art of Art artifact/
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Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 6:35 PM UTC
the ART of ART
I have no words to say I will have no words to say what words do I say? one word is all needed. and it's a verb. not not a name for something. artesian deep within us - you and me in there where there is no you and me and no other word matters say it to choking throats say it to the evening birds say it to the withering flowers say it to the corners at night no other word matters. it's a verb when we've found it there's just no need to say it. it's a non-local field collapsed everywhere
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Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 2:18 PM UTC
it's a verb
The door opens thanks to our own to finish the last artistic word from an artesian in the 15th century to be my only best friend having no trust in human beauty to know love will lead to disappointment To be a broken man pale as a lizard in the cold liken to a painting ready to be sold To wish not to feel to know an Ideal to find a state of mind to find the soul of mine By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
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Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 5:32 PM UTC
Soul Of Mine
Once again I came and waited here for you Knowing you would never show So I sat and watched the ivy climbing true Upon these walls To and fro I do believe this time next year Still waiting, I will be Filling my artesian well full of all these tears Flowing freely Inside of me Perhaps one day all that climbing ivy Will overtake my well Take within itself all this inside me I am afraid to show And tell Therefore, no longer will I sit here and wait for you Knowing you will never show I will go out into the world searching true Leave this ivy here Alone to grow I will no longer wait for you to come to me Filling my artesian well Instead, I will leave all this ivy here to be As I climb right out of My own shell
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Oct 8, 2010
Oct 8, 2010 at 7:38 PM UTC
My Own Shell
What night-bird sings across the river? What bear of winter whispers low and deep in the cave of its mouth? And who is she who moves toward the many mouthed artesian, invisible to the clouds and stars that live in her reflection? We stand on our heads; the world turns its duplicity to meet us as our imagination ventures beyond the beyond, before it rushes back to be with she who has not yet released us. She spins her arms in all directions; our mother, calling with the night bird says “here children you’re safe with me”. We walk the southern bank of the Ballone. Before the weir we imagine the river mirror to all the world. Then the weir-gates reveal her power. Broken water announces our birth and friendship; a turbulent opportunity to bright with stars, to carefully wake the sleeping bear. Beside this river Our future is brought together, And like her, this unseen strength Will flow potent, low and deep and with our mother nurturing. MChallis © 2015
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Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 7:37 PM UTC
A Night-Bird Sings
Her eyes, deeper than any artesian well, capture me completely.
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Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 12:16 PM UTC
Missy Lyn (10w)
butterfly shells clipped wings the ocean curls and crashes beyond the reef I umbrella-shade my eyes cast shadows over overhead sunlight the glimmer blinds so prettily and I swallow all contention like sand-crusted fried food It's a kind day at the beach the clouds grace us with their presence and I spit out my insurrection, my envy of such shrouded calm wafts of cloud, like pink bubbly fairy floss so sweetly like a wind-cuffed boat choked by destiny we watch the sun bathe down into the ocean submerged bleeding orange into an obsidian eye, a pearl of blue don't say I didn't warn you, says the storm rumbling, grumbling, toiling and boiling I've been on this horizon all my life, it growls little more than petulant lightning I've never trusted thunder all bark and no bite but I believe in this shark-storm if only for the palate of streaked colour the sky is a wanting canvas my eyes are needy spectators the soggy chips are artesian entrees and the butterfly clips refuse to mount and swoon So the recipe is baked; a perfect storm a pointed knife, carved cataclysm a catchechism of the repentant earth we only see the sun sleep when it knows it's been bad.
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Jul 18, 2019
Jul 18, 2019 at 9:34 AM UTC
Off day at the shore