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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 shed, shrouding itself in the aroma of cut grass.
A tense brow relieves and tired eyes close, able to accept the modicum of peace.

A possible misstep turns the wary peace on end with the sharpness of broken leaves. The once relieved brow beckons their wild eyes towards an opaque barricade.
Sly pieces of garden equipment leash her 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 backs out of the splintered hole and pans over a darkened forest to face the waning moon.
The hero succumbs with muted screams to a gore far below and out of frame.
The only closure, a 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. *****.
Hg Jun 30
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
Pikalil Aug 12
are you never going to admit it?
or do you expect me to get your hint?

you wont be part of that long list of names
and right now, I’m letting you know
that you were never part of the game
is that it? Are you afraid of this *****?

I hope you know that you’re worth something so much more
you definitely won’t be my first
but you’re the only one that I want
so why are you dedicated to this taunt?

do you think you’re not good enough?
do you think you’ll never be her?
is that why you keep on with this bluff?
is that it? is that why I have to suffer?

I don’t want to share your heart, okay
I just want to know we felt the same way
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 at the dinner place

shiver and ******
at the piper's call
cob web dew
on the shadowy gates
a chilled mist mellows
the season's return;
poets and artists
and dreamers awake
harlon rivers Nov 2017
The nakedness of winter lies heavy upon
the tolling Sunday quietude
Shed  leaves perish into yesterday
and the dream of another
dawning  someday wanes

The  sun ― lay low
the drudging  ashen  skyline  
Barerd emerald moss scaffolds
draw much more distantness
to the pallid shadowed horizon

The evergreens step forth,
roots grasping sacred heart,
soil  and  rock
In the swelling aloneness
you can feel the grain
of  the  heartwood
rooted in your soul

There are no hard feelings
but there's an enduring ache,
like a tree with a rotting limb
languishing  within
its blackened bark sacrifice

It's not just the grinding time
that slips away begrudgingly;
more of the same takes a toll 
as if another unrung belfry hour
in an empty bell tower
without a song rang out in vain,

peeling  reflections
of reluctant hours  c r a w l  by
in the insensible apathy

A so called holiday passes ―
its footprint bears down
hard  and  deep
as if a paling winter rose
grieves its own passing

A dry wishbone unbroken
lay bare the poignant
truth  it  holds;

it takes two to make
this wish come true


.
Written by:  harlon rivers
a winter Sunday
11. 26. 2017

Note : alternative title before
accidentally published
by write/ public/default

"Unlucky Wishbone"
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
AS Jun 27
I can hear it within the voices,
unable to feel proud for those who try.
On the other side of the fence,
they celebrate and dance in glee.
The reason I originally was afraid to try,
as the way you twist to those who take risks.
Not passing at the top,
a failure you rather of not known.
All I hear is the shameful,
fake tone.
Maybe if you gave me your belief,
stopped covertly belittling in the way you speak.
Maybe I wouldn't be afraid to fail,
trying,
learning and growing to the best I can be.
But within your actions,
you create disbelief and anxiety.
Not emitting the support I seek or that this is just another stepping stone to achieve.
The other side of the tree truly believes,
brought to tears by how I've surpassed my troublesome past.
Their voices filled with triumphant pride and joy,
of the way I fought and tried.
Not allowing me to slip by,
seeing the opportunity and the drive inside.
These people make me happy to be alive.
Judgemental side please abandon me or at least fully dettach.
For you have poisoned my roots too long,
which has brought me to twenty seven to find where I belong.
Burnt my leaves in your disgusting pursuits.
Dented my bark,
covering my childhood in upheaval and traumatic marks.
Making me wilt for years,
with the guilt and the monster you let consume the water supply.
Even though my trunk is chipped, with
distance I've found the sun nutritional to my insides.
Growing strong each day,
without the fear of strain or being drained.
Finally I am taking bloom,
no longer buried by the family filled of doom.


© 2018
Abigail Sheard
PS Rowland Sep 2015
Flowery fragrance
Pink and delicate abounds
Dogwoods do not bark
© All Rights Reserved P.S. Rowland
Published April 21, 2015
Phi Kenzie Aug 18
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
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