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ˏˋDalPalˊˎ Sep 2014
how do you write a poem without love in it's meaning?
rarely is it ever about what they're talking about

are you being literal when you write about the tree and how rough the bark is?
or are you referring to our initials carved on the other side?
of course you are

hidden between each space in the type
the attachment to the dearest
and the gentle hearts of the unnoticed

all the indirect metaphors
and clever analogies
it's so very clear

so much power and meaning into those four letters
controlling every other emotion you feel
it is every emotion bundled up
into one poorly carved heart on pine wood

you're going to carve that tree with the greatest feeling of love every time
and it might just end with the worst feeling of love

but no matter the weather
it's going to stay there
does this make sense?
it's 4am and it just sounds very headass
A horror movie scene as the heroine escapes.
Everything is still besides her convalescing breath and the distant, chasing wind.
Not a noise is heard except the fall leave's rattle and the birch wood's moaning bark in the moonlight.
Her body slouches into the protection of a lone shed, and shrouds itself in the aroma of cut grass.
A tense brow relieves and tired eyes close, thankful to receive the momentary peace.

A possible misstep turns the wary peace on end with the jagged cut of broken leaves. The once relieved brow now concedes surprise as wild eyes are cast towards an opaque barricade.
Sly pieces of garden equipment leash a weathered jacket in place as she attempts to stand.
A cackle is heard, a shriek undone.
To spite the brittle wood, that formulaic jump-scare-skeleton-hand bursts through the shed's solicitous walls, set to declare the last of a weary soul as his own.
The wind catches up and spearheads any hole it can find.
It begins whistling around the dim room like a tornado elated to havoc behind a castle's walls.
The tree bark howls, the leaves, now delight.
We learn there is no reprieve for a begging champion.
The camera slowly backs out of the splintered hole, and pans over a silhouetted forest to face the waning moon.
The hero succumbs with muted screams to a gore far below and out of frame.

Our only closure, a somber black screen, with bright white letters, slowly scrolling up.


The end.
Just something I had fun writing, figured not posting it would be a waste despite it not being "poetry", just an experiment I guess. I feel like it would be good, in like, a high-school, short story competition. *****.
Lily Peacock Jun 2017
These eyes of yours,
Coaxing me into warmth.
You gather around me,
Like moss on the bark of an old oak.
Palms pressed against the trunk of me,
You seal the gaps in my fractured heart.
Hg Jun 2018
we’re rubbing our twigs together
trying to make flames
but instead of that
we’re scraping back
our bark revealing rings

and things that we’re not proud of
times we thought we passed
struggling to hug
with ****** knives
stuck in our backs

we’re just two wounded people
trying to start a fire
using wood
already burned
from the last scorching desire
©Hg
CK Baker Oct 2017
dust cloud heavy
in an apricot sky
cottonwood mucker
under ambrose pale
whippet and shepherd
mill at the earth patch
yellow birch hangs
over red bench park

combine shavings
in ***** rust brown
scissors chips
fall to the back stop
whiskey jack looters
sing patented chords
siblings (and 2 wheel enthusiasts)
give thanks

joyous retrievers
master the criss cross
bare maples stand
at settlers way
barred owl and blue jay
whistle the fore-wind
ghosts
and goblins
pull at the seeds

wind gusts belt
over the west gulch
blood rush churns
in a chilling fall morn
hallowed grounds still
at the midday
quiet reflections
of the afghan
and hound

jumpers unite
at the oxbow
route runners bend
(on a sultry foray!)
meadows exposed
in the framework
ball park empty
with pennants past

barrel dirt favors
the brew house
crimson and copper
find bracken ridge gate
harvest hands savor
the honey and hops
blankets of color
for a winter's hatch

brush fire kept
under steady peruse
bark bites fly
and embers glow
pine cones drop
from timber tops
3 wick candles
set the dinner place

shiver and ******
at the piper's call
cob web dew
on shadowy gates
a chilled mist mellows
the season's return;
poets and artists
and dreamers awake
Brooke White Nov 2017
my first time was in Astoria park
my dad jogged beside me
along the east river, toward the steel **** Gate.
his caramel skin against the bark against the sycamores,
their bark peeling like old wallpaper

he was so proud of me. the son
who never thought he would learn
but then i flew

a Girl once tried to come between me and Bike,
fat chance. Bike was a tangerine BMX
with ribbed handle bars,
both front and back brakes
both front and back pegs.
all girls did was kiss bad

when it snowed that winter, i couldn't ride Bike
Bike’s chain started to rust in the basement.
but Girl, she was still around
she kept me company on snow days

eventually, i sold bike for her
but that was okay, because when i was with Girl
then i flew
Debbie Brindley Sep 2018
Let me pretend our life is normal
there's no illness here
As I lay beneath the covers
with you
the one I hold dear

Under the covers
On a chilled mornings day
outside beyond our window
children are at play
Freshly brewed coffee
drifting in on the air
As we lay
beneath the covers
without a care

Spring flowers bloom
their perfume
dancing in on the breeze
Hear the Kookaburras laughing
outside in the trees
Dogs bark in the distance
a few streets away
But under the covers
is where we shall stay

Till it's time to get started
on our day ahead
But for now I'm quite content
under the covers with you
in our bed
Pretending  life is  normal
Jesse stillwater Jul 2018
there are the ones
that feel it climb up
the shadow towards the light,
hesitation on every rung,
each wave of the arising
      overwhelms  unabated ―
and woe betides those
who are on the run
from a storm's deluge


A rousing ocean breeze
stirs inside the memory
of an unframed seashell
lying on the hearth mantel;
heightened sensitivity
lapping soundlessly,
spindrift plashing
the shoreline
of another world's
feigned peace


Perhaps the muted voice
of guilty pleasures,
hushed by their own
hidden truths
Feeling the unfelt textures
of every stifled vibration
left unbreathed


The ***** truth befallen
so cold and lonely
Running in circles,
volatile as all those
     unspoken excitations raging ―
and the whispers of those
who hear not
the voices in the wind


An emotionally enslaved  heart
tarries,  marooned high and dry
in a memory on a distant sand bar
     lain fallow for so long ―
stagnant darkness
of an unsated soul
gathered on the back
of a parched tongue
sullied wordless


Rising up through
a dusty hieroglyph corridor
through an unlocked
labyrinth gate;  vestige echoes
from somewhere left behind
in an incomprehensible
abandoned wake


It's getting harder and harder
   for an insatiable soul to breathe ...
   climbing up a tree trunk―
up within the silence
of the listening tree


  Toes dug into
the rough bark furrows ―
fingers reaching upwards
beyond their deepest known grasp


A shadow stranded
out on a hangin' bough
hearkening without ears that hear:
“perhaps they’ll listen now“  
the wingless bird sings
in psalms that fly away
on tattered feathers
over untamed waters roil


Back to nature’s waning youth,
the bough bends unbroken
to taste the freedom
of the wild absolving seas



Jesse Stillwater
June     2018
Notes:                                                                                                          
a friend sent  a link to a deeply thought provoking modern classic 70's song about Vincent Van Gogh and the complexities of imperfection some of us relate .... i'd listened to the words prior but never heard before now.

  Title is last final lyric line from:  "Vincent" (Starry, Starry night) 1971
Writer(s): DON MCLEAN, ENRICO NASCIMBENI,
ROBERTO VECCHIONI
laura May 2018
stop that.
curtailing the rewards of love
around the softness forming on her face
upon the news, you've broken up
and there's not a chance
of feeling any contrition
because you're all about yourself
most of the time, anyways.

She, wrapped in light and acceptance.
you, in the dark, smelling of bark and river
overnight.

thinking of Her again
stop that.
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
Sitting in Circular Quay in a bistro on a warm winters day
dreaming while watching the tourists and ships sail by.
As I eat oysters and drink the day in with my wine,
past memories wash over me.

Morning teas, chats, and paper bark trees,
hikes through the bush and walks along the beach.
Watching dolphins play at dawn
and fishing the waters on New South Wales shores.

The Harbor Bridge alight with Bicentennial Fireworks;
a surreal beginning to this adventure.
Wringing every drop from days spent,
finding a new world with each step.

Discovering myself through the wisdom and eyes of you,
maturing, becoming my own.
Like family, you’ve been both mentor and friend,
carrying me through fire and back.

My life was undone as I first saw your shore.
Feeling my heart would break
with our first goodbyes,
unknowing that an permanent bond had been forged.

Tracing back over the years since we met,
I’ve been given more than my share.
Making me ponder how I have been blessed,
to count you as a true friend.
All poems are copy written and soul property of Vicki Kralapp.
Phi Kenzie Aug 2018
oooooooooooooo

I bet I could be an oak
if I tried hard enough

Extend my roots
maybe branch out a little
lead with my leaves

Reach for the sky!

Let my bark ring true
through the sea of trees
Watered by rain
Fed by sun
Raised in Earth
Knit Personality Dec 2018
The Candy Cane Tree
    Has peppermint bark.
It grows in the snow
     And glows in the dark.

It drips chocolate sap;
    Its flesh is white cream.
**-holy-night-**!
    It's a tree-hugger's dream!
gleck Mar 2016
I feel my outsides *****.
Please I beg, I take it back.
A set of white teeth glisten.
Bad words, mad words, I still listen.

With your fingers you paint me purple and blue.
Each spot a slightly different hue.
Then in front of other's I wear a mask.
"I'm clumsy" - I tell those who ask.

You are all bark- yet you bite.
I shiver in fright.

You tell me I'm small.
What am I to you, a nut?
Mr. Nutcracker.
Not based on  any of my experiences
Cné Mar 2017
i am your pet, cherished, you bet
from the very first moment, we met

you are my master, tried and true
my job in life is to always, please you

i wander aimlessly alone
when you're gone, so long, on your own

forgive me, if i chew your shoe
i was nervous and i missed you

if i snack some food from the trash
it smelled so good, how could i pass

bark, bark, bark, i cry out alarm
the mailman has come here to harm

when you get home, i'm so happy
wagging my tail with my whole body

when we go for a walk together
if a cat threatens, away i chase her

don't be upset with me, please sir
i promise to protect you from all danger

i greet other dogs, on our way
smelling their butts to just say, hey

i lift my leg marking my place
to find my way back, just in case

i'm not too crazy about the rain
but i'll keep you company and not complain

laying belly up is a sign
scratch me, rub me and i'll be fine

if I lick my area, because i can
please don't be jealous of me, man

sleeping here, my chin on your foot
obediently, my faith in you, i put

though my purpose, i may reach in a flash
compared to your life, my longevity won't last

my loyalty to you, will never sever
unconditionally, i love you, forever
Another artist's statement for a series
of pet portraits I've painted
ryn Dec 2014
My last few hours,
In the land of a week's refuge.
Bade goodbye to water towers,
Away with sunsets made of rouge.

Ready to fulfil a previous standing pact
To a life I left and put on hold.
I'll leave you in memories of retrospect.
An experience worth weight in gold.

As always I find myself in the driveway .
Standing all alone, in the dark.
Looking up at what does lay.
Spellbound as usual as the distant dogs bark.

I'm sending wishes into space,
Kisses to the dots in the sky.
Going to miss this place...
As the coming year would go by.

I'd long for you,
My twinkling lovelies in my nights.
Following hours would be through
You'd be replaced by city lights.

For now allow me to drink you to a stupor.
A feast I can't get enough of.
Let these minutes extend into forever...
Goodbye Darwin stars, you have all my love.
Time to go home.
laura Mar 2018
fell into a hole of myself--
i know too much

a bag of cheetos in an ill-fitting suit
runs the country - made the mistake

of reading what it had to say
awhile ago

all in the stirring of a feather
my ego, my ignorance

smattering albiet aggressively in an annoying
aggregate, dog-bark bird-squacking

grating my effing ears
these 7am mornings
kms
Seanathon Sep 2018
You are ember with less orange
You are tree bark true and brook trout at play
You are earthy as the hollow dell in the Catskills still
Turning as the waterways

You are ever moving, always slight
Looking back over those delicate shoulders of yours
To the footprints of me
And in the time spent therein not a day’s older

I don’t know her name
But I know what I see
Passing. Glances. Scent of trees.
ryn Feb 2015
Arms outstretched like the branches of a tree
Aspiring to be amidst with those borne of sky.
Gnarly bark, imploring the eyes of another
Weathered and worn... Skin and grain but parched dry.

Twig-like fingers that would bear no leaves.
With open barren palms that hover in the wind.
Longing and thirsty for the tears of rain
Pining for the heavens to wash away all they have sinned.

Spreading disjointed roots dig in,
In touch with the unseen core buried deep.
A tainted trove of lifelong poisons...
They greedily drink and keep.

Lone little trunk... That shoots up strong from ground.
Sturdy and hale, at least to the ***** eye.
When in fact it's core is rotting within,
Eaten away by the worm of a single unassuming lie.

Sad fruitless tree...
Standing amidst the green thriving brush.
It dies with the hours baked in sun...
One day it'll fall, consumed by the secrets trapped in a silent little hush...
theblndskr Aug 2015
Let me tell you the story of my death:

Carving words on the bark of a tree
A poem that means life to me.
Glows through night, my soul delights!

        "Exist beyond my death, oh please...
            So I could live in bliss at least."


But they cut the tree, so mindlessly
Illegally. ****, selfishly!
In chainsaw, I was murdered.

        A massacre,
      ... a massacre of my every being!!


I'm a ghost that forgot, the best in me
Now writes relentlessly
To relive the words, once killed in greed
I found the "
papers*", the poems you lead...

Then before me, is some piece of me
they killed.

I died a hero,
Readers who found their hearts, in death of the writers. Is but ONE.
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