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Adam B Feb 2010
The dissonance in the air
visiting flashes sonically weaving trembling tales
of flash floods and brushfires. intertwined between and beneath
leathery scales, dorsal fins and rat tails.
Intimate whispered coded messages
massaging ear drum lines menacingly, scratching the passages, cruising through each hall.
tapping at every door.

With a gravely groan, reciting a indecipherable buddhist koan.
Laugh as you may
The moon will leave
Without a notice
We'll be without
Another day.

The dissonance in the air
leaving car crashes and birthday bashes in shambled states of stasis
smiling bits of shrapnel suspended in howling fits of laughter
smoldering hordes of children melting under summer suns
all while a paramedic belts out birthday songs
and a clown juggles displaced screws and cogs.
Disasters and dances have more in common than
dispatchers and discjockeys.
I long for the smell of fresh turned soil , an experience I've never forgotten ..
The smell of diesel , oil and grease  ..The ringing of harrow and bush hog ...
My Liberty overalls and size ten clod hoppers , suede cowboy hat , pocket watch and Bloodhound tobacco ..
Bob White Quail walking the wood line waiting to
get their fill of turned ground morsels , grains and grasshoppers ..
Curious Whitetailed Deer hiding in the shadows , Redtailed Hawks
with a keen eye for field rats escaping the plow ..
A sixty two Massey Harris that ran like a' Top ' through rain
and heat , never missing a beat !
My mind prays for the simple life of man and machine , the brushfires
of March , the restoration of God's green earth ..
Copyright January 23 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
holyoak Jul 2015
empty lighters in shaking hands
reminiscent of our trembling fingers
touching for the first time
sparks lighting
but no fire catches
no pyroclasm ignites between us
a storm rages above us
i cant help but wander the maelstrom
& beg this lightning to start the fire for me
to strike the ground
with almost as much intensity
as i would
the small brushfires
just dont do it for me anymore
i need a wildfire
i need a firestorm
to set our world ablaze
& wipe our slate clean
a worldfire with such intensity
that it burns all traces of you
out of my head
to flood my mind with its fire
& sear it with a new pain
that doesnt involve you
there were never any sparks with us
the only heat i remember
was the cigarette between your lips
taunting me with the fire
i could never start
well
hand me a match
its getting cold here anyway

[holyoak]
You open your mouth and engulf the San Clemente Mission in flame,

Bonfires and breeze and look how you’re little Miller High Life escapade gets out of hand,

Look at the aftermath. You saw it coming. You predicted the beforemath.

Go ahead.

To mentors, you’re wrong no matter what,

Go on ahead.

To friends, you’re always circumstantially correct.

You’re led astray.

You’ll have to hide under the pier after this.

“I’m Sorry miss, you have to leave.”

Cue Grammy nominees for Reality Check and Now She’s Bawling category.

[Name Undisclosed] in… (sound of planes releasing chemicals on brushfires),

I’m hoping for a small mistake,

And granite skin,

And I’ll learn.

Until then, a bonfire sounds novel.
Samantha Oct 2014
I write a lot of love poems
Even though I have never been in love.

This is the irony I brush my teeth with.

I bruise easily.
This is seen and treated as a curse.
They think I am an anemic girl.
They think there is something wrong
With my inner chemistry.
They have thought that since I was six years old
And refused to read.
Now I bury myself in books
And poetry that tastes like dirt.

Winter was made for people like me.
People who feel
Personally victimized by the sun
And can’t breathe
In the still, stale heat of July
I always seem to swallow
Ice cubes the wrong way.

I love so fiercely,
So fast.
My love can ignite candles
And start brushfires.
My love can fill oceans,
Lunar craters,
And you.
I spend my love
Like a first paycheck from a first job.
I love recklessly.
I love openly.
I have not had a real boyfriend
Since the 8th grade.

I complain and complain
And complain.
I hate people who complain.

I only open my wrists metaphorically
Yet these scars
Stand at attention like
Soldiers whose minds are still at war.

I think my fingers are bleeding
But there is no way to know for sure.
I am blind
But like Oedipus I have sight.

I brush my teeth with irony
Because its the only thing that has
Ever been able to polish
Any part of me.
I brush my teeth with irony
Because without this irony
I am just another girl
Who can’t breathe without assistance.
Who can’t feel without being told what feeling feels like.
Who can write sonnets
But doesn’t know what the **** Shakespeare is talking about.

And this,
This is the irony I brush my teeth with.
Nevermore Nov 2016
Lightning was never meant to be tamed
Moreso by mortals
Ask the foolish and the brave
Who died trying
She belongs to nature
Her mistress is great and terrible
Who swallows villages on a whim
And decimates cities with a gesture
The tides and hail are hers to command
The very ocean and the earth her lackeys

Lightning is appreciated from a distance
Keep a wide berth if you value your life
It strikes and immolates
With nary a warning
It is beautiful as it is deadly
But why then
Just why
Do I override my instincts
And walk closer and closer to you
Even as the brushfires
Creep closer
Inch by consuming inch
For my geisha
Ashley Sep 2013
i am craving your touch,
gentle as silk, drifting across
hidden crevices and valleys,
unearthing my follies and defects.

i want your laugh, languid and airy
as you huff it against my skin,
erupting goosebumps -
as though they are volcanoes -
in its wake.

i need to feel your love,
need to be scorched by the dry brushfires
your lips create
when they are pressed against
mine.

i am desperate for your breath,
in quiet exhales of sleep and laughter and desire;
desperate for you to inhale the toxic fumes
of old books and shared
oxygen.

there is a physical need
to have you near,
orbiting around me
as a steady constant,
much like the Sun;
never fading or disappearing
unless it is for the quiet echoes
of the night.

i wish that you words
could be sewn
into a tapestry of wisdom,
a blanket of both security
and inadequacy,
a reminder that words can never be
enough
to describe how you shake me
and leave cracks and indelible stains,
or the fragments of yourself that are
embedded
in my skin, soul,
and mind.

i am aching for you,
so delicate yet so whole,
both sure and uncertain;
a comforting enigma that requires
a lifetime
to unravel.

there is an ache,
rooted deep in my soul,
that can only be quenched
by you.
Daniel Anderson Dec 2020
I’ve been to hell before
not for long, just few months
maybe more
coaxed by death’s angels
hellbent on keeping score
Darling, I’ve been to hell before.

and I’ve felt it’s pain.
inhaling the smoke,
blistered by flames  
lit with brushfires of passion
unkept in our brains
fanned by your wings
when you’d flutter away.

but it’s not a place for you
or for me,
and honesty haunts me because  
I miss the heat
the phantom flames of my visit
still tickle my feet
so, baby, go to hell



and that’s where we’ll meet

— The End —