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Chuck Sep 2013
Guilty pleasure
But time I treasure
Just you and I
No kids' screaming cry
No wife to bark orders
As we seek new borders
I stroke your limbs
My ego brims
You ride me away
From stresses in my day
Your frame is so light
I ride you just right
You transport my life
In a different way than my wife
I love the both of you
To you both I'll be true
But with you I'm physical
My wife is mystical
You create such sweat
The drips make you soaking wet
As I crank you on ascents
And coast down long descents
I get light headed
Nothing you do is dreaded
You carry me away
So I just needed to say
You are my mistress, my queen
I don't want to be obscene
But if loving you is wrong
Why does my wife sometimes ride along
If you haven't guessed, and I hope you have, my mistress is my bicycle. Actually I have six of them. It's okay; they know about each other. Haha
John Ropoulos Oct 2014
What should we have expected from new ascents?
You think there is simple safety in messages sent?
Melancholic waves descend, lonely veins sink in,
If I was simple before, you'd be able to see,
See through the extremities that bounded me.

But how could a flower begin these internal spins?
Bounded by piety to seek love away from sin,
Destined, we hope that this one will sink in.
If life's a play then this one is just pretend,
And the toil of tragedy, revealed at play's end.

But if this life is an Odysseun ode,
Then oh! the wonders to be told!
For each new ascent, a heroic tale,
On the way down, purified hail.

For we have cast Circe like Jonah's whale,
And fly alongside a dove's tail,
Whose wings spread in glorious white,
Revealing Leila, mistress of the night.
M Harris Apr 2017
Elemental Metamorphosis & Transcendental Milestones,
Sempiternal Origamis Of Her Temperamental Clones,

Spiraling Perpetuities & Her Sacrosanct Fortitude,
Procreating Tipsy Ruptures In Her Permeating Solitude,

Perplexed Momentum & Her Outlandish Constellations,
Nuclear Decay Of Her Masked Radiations,

Verbal Shadows & Her Tranquil Ascendance,
Encasing Her Tears In Liquefied Transcendence,

Yearning Oddities & Entropic Oceans,
Vitalizing Inexorable Emotions Into Phosphorescent Potions,

An Hourglass Existence Of Her Fabricated Virility,
Dwelling In Quantum Ascents Of Ardent Agility,

Silver Ghosts Of Her Prismatic Abyss,
Convicting Glass Houses In Her Ecstatic Bliss,

Telepathic Shades & Hollow Palisades,
Detrimental Novelists On Uncharted Crusades,

Pernicious Scars In Her Profound Gaze,
Erupting Genesis Inside Her Dimensional Maze,

Perplexed Periphery & Digital Fictions,
Annexed By Her Hourglass Depictions,

Breakdown Sanity & Her Concealed Screams,
Lifelike Dewdrops In Her Visionary Dreams,

Satellite Searchlights & Love//Less Progenic Mutation,
Paralyzed Sunlight Sparking Genetic Alteration,

Monochromatic Streams & Cinematic Realms,
Static Screams Of Her Toxic Schemes.

- 05:43 AM -
SøułSurvivør Mar 2014
Summer 1986 Sunday 5:30AM

Misty morning in Malibu.
Seagulls stitch the sea to a subtle
silver sky. They sputter stridently.
Each elegant gull hovers effortlessly.
Entreating each other. Echos bounce
off the sound of the surf into eternity. The screeching of many a
soliloquy akin to silence.

I sit on the pier. The water before
me washes onto the staccato legs
of tiny waterbirds who wander
in and out of the surf. Little
windblown ***** of ecru and grey
wool. I worship in the womb of
the great goddess ~ nature. I wasn't to know the Creator was watching patiently...

6:30AM
I make my unhurried way up the
pier to my car. A cheap but
comfortable convertable. Nobody
walks in LA. I punch in a tape.
Don Henley. Boys of Summer.

I take PCH up to the incline that
takes you from the beach. Pushing
the pedal slightly as I slide by the
colossal bleached cliffs of
Palacades Park. There the homeless
sleep under the benches dedicated
by friends and family in
rememberance of loved ones.
Small plaques attatched for
posterity.

My hands are on the steering wheel
at 7 and 12 o'clock.I look at the cast
I wear on my right wrist. A token
of rememberance from an angry romance. He and I parted
respectively, if not at all
respectfully. I drive.

7:00AM
Venice beach. Not yet boysterous.
But never boring. The young people
(and old) still bundled together in bed. Saturday night hangovers will
be had by most of the denizens of
Venice beach boardwalk. A grainy
eyed few wander around abstractidly. Shopowners enter
their buildings, their storefronts
almost as small as booths. Graphitti
and giant works of art grace walls
everywhere ~ Jim Morrison and
Venus in workout leggings much
in evidence.

I smoke my cigarette and drink my
hot coffee carefully in the open cafe'.
I consider the eyefest of the crowd
that will congregate here to enjoy
the clement weather.
The cacophony and the clamor.
Touristas and Los Angelinos alike
drawn In by calculating vendors
and coyote souled street performers.
I look forward to seeing the
non conformity usually. But not
today. For now I sit in the quiet cafe'.

Venice beach. Vulpine. Vacuous.
A strangely vunerable venue. The
***** and the beautiful. The talented and the ******.

A street performance pianist trundles his acoustic piano on
casters out onto the boardwalk.
I ask him if I may play. He looks
at my cast doubtfully.
"I can still play..." I tell him.
He ascents and listens thoughtfully
as I play my compositions. He really
likes them. I ****** the ebony and
the ivory with insistant fingers.
The smile on his face is irrepressable. I smile back and we
flirt in self conceous, fitful fashion.
Time to leave.

9:00AM
Radio is on in my car now. A cut
from the musical Chess. One night
in Bangkok makes the hard man
humble...
I like the driving beat.
I'm going up I-10, a single blood cell
in the main artery that brings life
to the flesh of this mamouth town.
Traffic is tenuous. A boon here in
this conjested city.

I drive to Fairfax and Sunset, where
I lived with in a tiny one-bedroom
apartment with my mom. An
ambitious actress. I an ambivalent
artist.

Sunset. The Roxy and Whiskey-a-
Go-Go. Cartoon characters Rocky
and Bullwinkle casually cavort on
the top of a building. Billboards
as tall as the Hollywood sign. The
street of broken hearts for many
an actress -slash-model. They
wander about on street corners
looking haughty and haunted.
Waiting for who knows who to
honk. Their dreams have flown
away like the exhailation of smoke
from the mechanical lungs of the
Marlboro Man. Schwab's drugstore
and diner. The place where some
famous starlet was discovered.
Delivered into the arms of the
Hollywood machine. I opt to go
to the Sunset Grill.

11:00AM
I'm walking down Hollywood Blvd.
Perusing shops and persuing
pedestrian pleasures. Everyone
talks of the star-studded sidewalks.
To me they look tarnished and
filthy. Stars from a sultry smog
laden sky come to earth. The names
of some of the folks honored on
them I don't recognise.

I'm here to view movies today.
I'm definitely not going to
Grauman's Chinese Theater.
Been there. Done that. Gave the
very expensive T shirt to
Goodwill. I look around at the
proud and the plebian. The pedantic
and the pathetic. No prostitutes
out yet that I could see. Probably
toppled into bed to sleep
(for once). Deposed kings
and queens of the monarchy of the
night. The homeless hobble along
with their hair matted and askew.
Shopping carts with stuttering
wheels de reguer.

A couple of tourists with Izod shirts,
plaid shorts to the knee and deck
shoes sans socks gaze in a shop
window. It's borded by tarnished
and faded silver garlands... tinsel
Christmas tree.
"Want to buy a mood ring today?"
One of them querys his buddy,
laughingly.

I find my small theater and enter
the air conditioned lobby. I purchase
a soda and pass on the popcorn.
As I enter the theater's modestly
plush, dimly lit cocoon sanctuary
I notice very few patrons are here
for the matinee. GOOD. I finally
watch the premiere product of
Los Angeles. Movie after movie
slides across the screen. The callus
morally corrosive corporations
conspire with the creative to produce
the culmination of many art forms
in one. Cinema.

LA. Languid. Luxurious. Legendary.
Rollicking, raunchy rodeo.
Seaside city. Sophisticated. Spurious.

SPECTACULAR.

8:00PM
I wend my way up Mulholland Dr.
Another tape is playing in the deck.
One of my favorites. David + David.
Welcome to the Boomtown.

I pull over at a deserted vista. From
this viewpoint I can see the city
spread out like a blanketfof brilliance. The gridiron of LA.
Glitzy and glamorous. Generating
little gods and goddesses. A gigantic
gamble for the disingenuous and
gouache. Tinsel town. Titillating.
Tempestuous. Only the very brave
bring their dreams here... or fools
rush in where angels fear to tread.
All but the fallen angels. They thrive.

Oh! If this place could be bottled it
would be such sweet poison. I
look up at the auburn sky and back
down at the breathtaking panorama
The metropolis that is LA with awe
and angst. I carefully stub out my
cigarette and flip it irreverantly
toward the lagoon of lights.

I get in my car to drive home.
Home?
Could this imposing, inspiring,
impossible place be called home?

Well. Home is where the heart is.
And I live in the heart of a dream.
This is the city of dreams...

CITY OF ANGELS.

Soul Survivor
Catherine E Jarvis
(C) 2005
You can rest your eyes now...

I only have enough funds to
produce one spoken word
set to music... should I
do this one?
Grace Echols Jun 2014
People
athletic
sweet
intelligent
sporty
grew up in the south
grew up in nature places
have southern ascents
love caching fish
i wrote this poem about them because i love them
M Harris Apr 2017
Firelight Affairs & Atmospheric Starlight,
Rainbow Instincts Enlightening Her Satellite Twilight,

Quivering Symphonies & Colorful Voices,
Lyrical Abstracts Of Her Monochrome Noises,

Prismatic Rage In Her Eternal Sage,
Resonances Whispering Her Voices Onstage,

Vertical Ensembles Of Her Ecstatic Fashions,
Witty Odes Enlightening Her Arrested Passions,

Prancing Temptations & Provoked Mysteries,
Entrancing Her Artistic Waves & Surging Tapestries,

Storyteller Flares On A Perpetual Lease,
Intoxicated Mirrors Of Her Spiritual Release,

Lucid Memoirs & Condensed Revelations,
Inquisitive Glances Of Her Cupid Flirtations,

Crimson Armors & Her Reflective Scents,
Illustrious Serenity Embossed In Her Scenic Ascents,

Fluoresce Echoes & Her Scenic Prelude,
Coalesce Spotlights Guiding Her Summer Nudes.


- 01:24AM -
Timur Shamatov Oct 2018
As I lay... ever so awake
Hours long before the sun ascents
In bed with you is where I want to be
Watch you sleep and smile at the thought
That here, my dear is where I want to be
Baby, even though you’ll never know
The daydream of this - imagined scene

As hour of the bright draws near
I’ll drift further from the truth of you
Into rain and melancholy shades of blue
Makeup of my fake placed smile
Gives way through my dappled mind
The sun is peeking through the cracks
As rays of light eliminate obscurity of
My self delusion thoughts...
Saw my ex the other day and my thoughts of “what if” came to play...
spysgrandson Nov 2015
Fuji, Rainier, now to Africa’s pinnacle
she followed, behind a parade of sycophants  
marching, single file behind his greatness  

few made ascents with him  
she only Fuji, on a windless day  
though others made the trek up Rainer,
surviving a blizzard that hit halfway
down  

she told her lover
his faithful must have thought his presence
imbued them with immortality  
which he seemed to possess    

maybe it did, the lover said  
seven decades and one, still *******
old mountains and young women  
and she was still there, despite
the doctors’ bleak sentence    

she was painting, moving
while she still could, a water color
of Rainier in mist, hanging in some
haunted hall in his home

now a pale pastel of Kilimanjaro
for which he would spend a fortune, to hang  
somewhere he would not spend a minute    

when her extended contract expired  
she would be ashes scattered in Big Sur  
and he would still be climbing higher  
breathing heaven’s ether, a color
she never captured  

but her signature
would be on overpriced art  
which from the start, he commissioned
to keep her from leaving without
having seen rarefied air
CharlesC Apr 2012
He favored this poem
but never explained
the one named Smoke
by Henry David Thoreau
remembered Walden fame
Was the poem a mirror
reflecting a life
in fullness lived?

a pilot as Icarius
youthful ascents of flight
Were his pinions melted
in one upward climb?
Then a sharp descent
may have in the mirror appeared
discovering atomic paths
searching for particles
in their hidden depths
An Icarian bird once more
in a new pursuit?
Facing dangers in
desert flashes
like Icarius moving
much too close to
elemental light?

Or else
smoke thins and thickens
No more circling above
leaving his nest now
pursuing literary truth
where darkness also
has its due
Shading light from sun
and stars
Enabling students to
see anew
Imaginations soaring to
heights and depths

But he remembers still
a life complete and whole
Does he find any need
for pardon for this
his own clear flame?

I'll end this verse with
a sound some would
call a chime
This because 'til now
just one line did rhyme!
Time and the Earth--
The old Father and Mother--
Their teeming accomplished,
Their purpose fulfilled,
Close with a smile
For a moment of kindness,
Ere for the winter
They settle to sleep.

Failing yet gracious,
Slow pacing, soon homing,
A patriarch that strolls
Through the tents of his children,
The Sun, as he journeys
His round on the lower
Ascents of the blue,
Washes the roofs
And the hillsides with clarity;
Charms the dark pools
Till they break into pictures;
Scatters magnificent
Alms to the beggar trees;
Touches the mist-folk,
That crowd to his escort,
Into translucencies
Radiant and ravishing:
As with the visible
Spirit of Summer
Gloriously vaporised,
Visioned in gold!

Love, though the fallen leaf
Mark, and the fleeting light
And the loud, loitering
Footfall of darkness
Sign to the heart
Of the passage of destiny,
Here is the ghost
Of a summer that lived for us,
Here is a promise
Of summers to be.
Onoma Sep 2016
A cessation, the best
of black, having overslept
the eye of the needle...
some midnight sun
flung to shield this perpetual
wakefulness, becoming it the
more.
Ascents and views, sound
barriers broken...ice cold stars,
white winds of burnt cores.
Justina Ikehi Mar 2013
I need those blue shoes
Pumps so high elegant they stand
In the streets with each step cat calls I hear
With colour blocking ascents that is how they come
A beautiful collectionJimmy Choos no doubt

Now take your pick
Royal, navy, baby it's blue
Classy and beffitting just for a queen
Prim and proper eyelashes I flutter
For a night out with him I did choose you still.
Alyssa Underwood Oct 2022
Brothers and sisters in Christ, would we look at Jesus hanging on the cross in excruciating torment, gasping for every agonizing breath, pierced through, covered in blood and bearing our offenders' sin along with ours, only to say, "It isn't enough! It is NOT finished. There is still more to be accomplished, a greater payment yet to be rendered. You did not complete the work or satisfy the debt!"...?

For here is the thing: if we don't believe that His sacrifice was enough to sufficiently pay the debt for everything they have done to us then how can we ever possibly believe it was enough to pay for all we have done to Him? And if we don't believe that then how can we be saved?

This is certainly not to say that the process of working through all the issues of forgiveness is not an extremely steep and difficult climb or that it does not take time. It is! It does! Sometimes it takes years to reach the top, where we are completely set free from the pain and emotional struggle of it. But the choice to forgive, the decision to actually begin the process and step onto the path is not optional for any true disciple of Jesus Christ, for He has clearly called us all to take up our cross and die daily and to count ourselves dead to sin already. We have been commanded and empowered by Him to forgive, and He Himself will work it fully in and through us if we will only yield to Him.

But when we refuse to forgive, we are only digging through the trash heap and holding ourselves prisoner within it, yet somehow convinced we will find gold there. Do we not understand how ludicrous this is? We are beloved and royal children living as self-defeating street urchins—fists up, ready for a fight and buried up to our necks in a back-alley dumpster looking for rotten scraps. The King is calling, "Come out of there, beloved child! Come home to Me and feast!" But we respond, "No, not yet! There are still more *****, decaying bags in here to scavenge through. I haven't checked that dark, rat-invested corner yet. There may be something good in there for me!" What?! Are we insane? Stop digging, let go of the bag, let Him lift you once and for all out of the dumpster and come home! Realize who you are and Whose you are!

Authentic and heart-changing forgiveness begins when we look honestly and humbly at the offense, call it what it is without minimizing it or making excuses for it, feel the full weight of the painful debt incurred against us by the offender, realize that it is simply not within his power or means to ever sufficiently pay us back in a way that could restore us to wholeness (even if he desperately wanted to), and then look fully to Jesus, trusting Him to bear the entire weight of it for us and to provide complete payment for all of the damages done to us.

It comes when we decide to give the debt 'note' fully over to Him, transferring it to Him, like a mortgage company transferring (for their own protection and profit) a high-risk house note to a different lender and thus releasing the debtor from any further obligation to re-pay us, breaking the chains of our previous expectations off of him and putting them all onto Christ. And when we do, we will find that in the transfer we come out far richer than we were before the offense was even made and the debt ever incurred.

In forgiveness we have to both lay down something and take up something, for our heart refuses to ever walk away with nothing to cling to. We have to hand our offender's heavy debt completely over to the One Who willingly carried it on Himself, along with every one of our own sins and sorrows, all the way to the cross, nailing it there and paying it in full, and then we have to receive afresh the gift of His infinite fullness in exchange.

With every offense (small or great) there arises a subsequent path of forgiveness. The greater the offense, the steeper and longer the climb to get to the end; but the steeper and longer the climb, the more spectacular and rare the views along the way and from the top. Whenever someone hurts us, we can either stay in the barren valley with the offense, miserably imprisoned by it and trying hard to keep our offender chained to it as well, or we can kick loose the chains and set out on the less-traveled mountain trail leading to freedom, healing and rest. The trailhead is the cross, and Jesus is waiting to meet us there. All we have to do is take the first step onto the trail and begin to walk it with Him as our intimate Companion and determine (and keep daily determining) to stay on it as long as it takes and one step at a time with Him as our faithful Guide, for He will certainly lead us all the way to the summit.

And we will certainly need an all-powerful, all-knowing and ever-present Guide on such an adventurous trek, as this trail is ever-winding, full of dangerous switchbacks, difficult ascents and narrow, hidden passes; but the scenery will be breathtaking and the fellowship life-changing. As we travel further and higher our perspective will dramatically change along the way, and the offense back down in the valley will become smaller and smaller in the distance until we can barely make out more than a shadow of it for all of the beauty surrounding and enfolding us. It is not necessarily that the memory of it will ever completely be forgotten so much as it will be brilliantly reframed by an exceedingly better and higher view.

At the end of the trail there lies a secret alpine garden, lush with various kinds of healing fruit that rarely grow ripe on the lower slopes of the mountains and do not grow at all in the valley of unforgiveness. Their taste, fragrance and restorative powers are beyond anything that might be understood or even imagined by those who have never dared nor sensed the need to venture any further than the foothills. Nevertheless, the garden is always open and the fruit readily available to any and all who would choose to make the glorious journey together with their LORD...and none who do will ever be sorry they came.

So why do we so often struggle to do it?

I think when we look honestly and microscopically at hindrances to forgiveness it is idolatry that stands out as the most culpable suspect. For when we forget that everything we need and most desire is found in Christ and that everything we have comes from His loving, wise and faithful hand and then someone else fails to give to us what we are so firmly convinced we need from them or takes from us what we are so sure we require, it is easy to feel justified in withholding from them our complete pardon.

It is idolatry as well which blinds us from seeing how deeply and desperately we ourselves depend on God's mercy. For when anything becomes more important to us than intimacy with Christ, we are quick to overlook our own grievous impediments to that intimacy and therefore quick to overlook Christ's unequivocal command to forgive as we have been forgiven. So then we cannot fairly approach forgiveness without humbly keeping ever before us the awareness of our own stubbornly idolatrous tendencies which seem to be always lurking under every prickly bush.

Another common but still idolatrous stumbling block is our failure to grasp and cherish God's absolute sovereignty over us, which then causes us to unduly credit our offenders with power they do not actually have—the power to ruin our lives—and to mistakenly think that by refusing to forgive we can somehow regain from them the stolen upper hand, either by trying to pay them back with evil or by trying to force them to pay us back with good, emotionally holding them prisoner and refusing to unlock the door until we have sufficiently punished them or until they have sufficiently 'blessed' us. This is a prideful self-worship which pre-supposes that our lives and their avenging are best and most safely kept in the control of our own hands and that we are entitled to more 'good' than God Himself is willing to bestow on us. It is also a dangerous exalting of others which wrongly assumes that they have within themselves the ability to grant us enough 'good' to ever fully settle their deficit account and satisfy our wounded hearts.

When we forget who we are and all we have in Christ, idolatry can also lead us into a more subtle, less honest and in some ways more damaging form of unforgiveness, one that often masquerades convincingly for a time as forgiveness but is far from the real thing. For if our offender himself is the idol whose love and approval we think we cannot live without we may be very quick to make shallow, insincere and enabling offerings to him, trying desperately to quell any conflict and to ingratiate ourselves to him (wanting to retain peace with him at any cost so that we might retain a piece of him and determining to think well of him in the hope that he might think well of us). We will call it forgiveness and think it truly is but wonder why the issue never seems to be quite settled in our heart, why he never seems to be able to meet the standard of the 'high place' on which we have erected him and why we always seem to be trying to charge his offenses against us to everyone else's account.

As long as our 'pardon' is rooted in fear of rejection, resentment and abandonment (or in any other insecure human emotion), it cannot qualify as genuine forgiveness or obedience to Christ and therefore cannot bring any measure of real peace or lasting resolution to our hearts or to the relationship. It will only keep us locked up within our own limited and easily drained ability to love, suffocating both ourself and our offender, causing resentment on both sides and robbing us of the joy of entering into a deeper love that can only come from trusting in and drawing upon the overflowing fountain of Christ's love. True forgiveness will always extend out of that flow of intimacy with Him and out of genuine worship of Him, for we can only walk like Him when we walk closely with Him and crave Him above all else.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Also it should be noted that forgiveness is not the same as reconciliation. Forgiveness of an offender depends only on your relationship with the LORD. But true reconciliation with an offender is very much dependent on their repentance. But whether or not they ever repent, whether or not we ever find true reconciling peace and healing WITH them, we can find peace about them and love them from a distance, as we let Jesus heal us on that journey and fill us with His love, peace and joy.
Sophie Belle Sep 2013
We had just met for our daily meal
When through our midst blew a quiet Wind
That grew to a gale; quiet, surreal.
Yet the flames of Truth brought hope to our minds.
And Truth, like wildfire, ran through us;
Bewildering pilgrims for the Pentacost
When the Songs of Ascents rang out from us
In their mother tongue left them quite lost.
Pilgrems blamed them to be drunk at 9 o’clock
Yet Peter set them right with Joel’s prophesy.
Amazed, they listened to the one called the Rock
And withdrew their former claims of heresy
When baptised with the Truth that set them free
They go with the Wind to set the World free.
MS Lim Jan 2016
Everyone is a wanderer
so few find their hearts' desire
the winds their fury unleash
the sun burns like wild fire.

There's no resting place
only slippery rocks, sharp ascents and mire
but there's no turning back
though the prospect is dire.

There's no food or water
for the hungry and thirsty wanderer
the night sky palely looks from asunder
the stars are weary and lose their glitter.

Everyone is a wanderer
destiny is the driver
but none wants to be a loser
this defines him in his perilous splendour.
inspired by WANDERING SOUL, a fellow-writer in HP
PK Wakefield May 2010
begging narrow trees stand expanse
naked sky beseeching for
the wet lips of a thousand little children

they

                           grow that way.

always pleading. unquenchable green drunk
ascents. to play a dream. in hands of roots.

stand trees. a soil bed soft to your appeals.
grace my vision neatly dumb straights.

pierce the moon sweat arbor men.
GONE WITH THE WIND
Unhappiness touched the mark on her face,
A lip that was once her soul.
Growth came riding and left the darkness,
Now she is searching to cave in her soul.

She owned the light of beauty,
She believed it would last forever.
But the tragedy happened in her dream.
Only to realize she has been there before
There came a hand to grab a moment
Face concealed by the ***** mask
Wandering across the stormy wood
To find the redundancy of beauty


She sometime hoped that she could hold on,
as she lay crying over faded broken tears.
She would try again to see existence then
When all left in her is behind the mask

But if he take off his mask to see,
with a quick impulse she ‘d see his beauty.
There is always a first time for all.
To describe somebody along with something.

I have never seen what beauty is
but when I will, it will be

Red hair Tied back in a pony tail
With eyes that no one thought could be so blue

It looks like the ghost in the graveyard
who silently dwell within and come out bursting
only wanting to let out screams and cries
It looks like the starry night
full of constellation and a goddess
that reigns the night as dusk ascents.
That you don't see very often
and eyes that no one thought could be so blue
There are no words to describe it
Like the flawless feet of wind;
And like breeze across the lanky trees
Your voices be Beast’s growl
When frequency pitched the soul
The clouds be never changing
And the sky remains black holed
And the princess of the wood be still dreaming
:
And the midnight wolf starts the mourn
Her quiver fills itself up
For the grizzly hunt
And the nature sets you free
as it listen and adore you;
with limitless power and strength
As Wind rule the wood
kaitlyn lawrence Jul 2014
up, down,
swerve,
a curve,
i'm riding a rollercoaster.
i hate this ride.
blind to what's next
my body can't sense
where the drops
or the ascents are.
who put me on this ride?
i want to get off
*let me off
Abraham Esang Dec 2017
After our love, I lie in the shadow of your shoulder

also, float to the sound of the seventeen-year locust outside,


their forlorn tenor buzz that ascents and falls together

and all of a sudden it stops, and flares out once more.


Their cadence clears against the sides of the house,

stirs like late leaves, a delicate edgy scratching,


the ave, ave, ave syllables of air, skin against skin.

When we happened to come upon her yesterday, inside the church shadows,


the youthful soloist deserted herself to the words she sang,

her interpretation like a nonattendance of dialect. Her music


cast itself away and away, beating on, until the hush

of a vacant room had its spot, where the heat of day


is just lamplight through the recolored windows.

It channels over the dusty floor. It lights


upon a light blue divider, unpredictable in what it touches.

What's more, the deriding, mating voices of the grasshoppers return once more


in their consistent journey out of the earth,

out of the dull, into the shadows.
To the man that call him himself shadow
Commuter Poet May 2016
To pursue
Freedom
Means to break
The chains of authority
To embrace
With compassion
One’s own life
And to summon light
From the darkest corners

Only the free
Have known the darkness of despair
Only the free
Have looked into oblivion
And chosen to continue
To stand alone
To walk proudly
In their own skin

Freedom
Is to break through
The binding cocoons
Of society
And unfurl
One’s unique and fragile wings
Of creativity

A march of freedom
Has no easy path
Only steep ascents
And treacherous crevasses
And yet only the brave
Will experience
The incomparable
Joy
Of liberation
28th May 2016
A song of ascents.

1 I lift up my eyes to the mountains—
    where does my help come from?
2 My help comes from the Lord,
    the Maker of heaven and earth.
3 He will not let your foot slip—
    he who watches over you will not slumber;
4 indeed, he who watches over Israel
    will neither slumber nor sleep.
5 The Lord watches over you—
    the Lord is your shade at your right hand;
6 the sun will not harm you by day,
    nor the moon by night.
7 The Lord will keep you from all harm—
    he will watch over your life;
8 the Lord will watch over your coming and going
    both now and forevermore.
Bible chapter,poetry inspiration can be drawn from the bible as well..
Sleep Aug 2019
a valley, a valley
for my sleep, inward embracing
a holy moment of silence before
ascents, questions, anxious wing
of a moth, an animal in famine,
the goat that travels the brink
Fall. Rise. Whatever comes first
his brother follows, the sister frowns
behind the veil, aslee,
Asleep.
Alex McQuate Mar 2022
Home is where the heart is,
They say,
But to me that is just not true,
Home is where the spirit lies quiet,
Sitting contently in a gentle stupor.

I pack my bags,
To travel south,
To visit where my soul will lie quiet and still,
Where the people are full of life and the land is quiet,
Nestled in Appalachian mountains and hills.

It is a land that borders near-untained wilderness,
An hours drive from anywhere truly uprooted by man,
Where the morning's sun is greeted by smoke-like pillars,
That billow up from the mountains ascents.

It is a land of shine and fiddles,
Of guitars, trucks and barns.
Where your neighbor is your cousin,
His neighbor is their brother,
And his neighbor is his Ma and Pa.

It's a land of quiet reflection,
Far removed from the roar of highways and cities,
Where if the world were to end,
It would take weeks to know,
And would be bo real loss in the end.

The people are hard,
But gentle at the same time,
Always willing to give a helping hand,
They have tales to tell if you've got the time,
I recommend bending your ear and listen.

It's mountains are steep and treacherous,
Infested with snakes, ticks, and venomous spiders galore,
But watch your step, make the ascent,
And it's views are worth the trouble.

The food there is genuine,
Made with love and care,
Whilst simple it makes its taste so much more true,
If you aren't careful you'll gain 30 pounds,
On this hearty holler food.

And the sky,
Oh the sky,
May be my favorite part of all,
The bluest blues,
The whitest whites,
It's sunsets a tear inducing menagerie of reds purples, pinks, yellows, and golden hues.

As the last bag is packed, and my car is gassed,
I ache for my spirits home already,
For it is someplace I can never visit often enough,
A place where I am most lackadaisical and happy.

For in the hollers loving embrace I am sheltered from the pollution and dread of man,
Where for but a fleeting moment,
Frozen in time,
I can feel like a kid again.
Shades of Orange

— The End —