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Jonny Angel Feb 2014
We walk like vapor-genies
in old growth forests,
ghostlike & elegant,
we move
like true fairytales,
gnomes whittle the way
for us
past exploding ferns.

It’s true,
we have seen the rain
coming down in torrents
along blue ridge trails,
fallen logs strewn about
like matchsticks,
fungi licks our shins
while lightning cracks
thunder like bullwhips.
I love moments like that…….
I hear Creedence every time we go.

And didn’t you know dear friends,
it’s spiritual medicine
for restless souls,
like my fellow companions & me.
Ray Suarez Jul 2016
How can I explain?...
You open the 5th beer
And you are sitting alone
You let out a belch that
Tastes like the
Salty 4 AM tide mist water
You look around
And the scenery has become
Meaningless
You start to feel what Sartre
Vomited
On the page
Your surroundings become
As out of control
As they seem
When you are sober
You were right! It's real!
Your insanity starts to seem
Intellectual
You throw your left leg over
Your right knee
Turn up the Ades
Another beer cracks and hisses
Bullwhips, cobras.
When the faces arrive they
Are false, cardboard
You think about that phrase you
Think of all day
When you watch the people
"God, what HORRIFIED lives we live"
Except now you are smiling
You start to think about
How one of these days the sanity
Will drown completely
Choking on that bubbling spit
Foaming, soiled
Green tide
Yeah, that's alright
With me.
Alexander Coy Nov 2016
After work
I come home from a
half hour bike ride;
I don't count
the miles,

why bother?

As I place my bike
against the bookshelf
I have yet to organize

I overhear people
in the kitchen;
loud like the engines
of trains on a sunny
day in Arkansas

They're talking
about *****,
the tips
of *****

nuts;

blurry waves
of cosmic notes
against the sheets
of empty space

This is what we do
with noise when
our brains
fill to the brim
with symbols,
concepts, ideas
and worries

Do we have
real control over
our tongues?

How they click
and cluck; lash
like bullwhips
against the back
our teeth

As though
they are in a hurry
to get our mouths
to turn the
thoughts into

daggers;

sling them wherever
and hope they
hit a target;

any target will do
MimiR Jun 2020
Listen,
Listen,
For that high pitched
Clannish call.
Isabella,
British colonies,
150 chained Souls.

Listen,
Listen,
For that tune
Of white-washed memories.
Tobacco fields,
Slave labor,
A blight on a Nation’s legacy.

That tune,
That tune,
Ode to bullwhips
And slave patrols.
Ode to white fear,
Bankrupt plantations,
And rage over emancipation.

That tune,
That flag,
Fractured a Nation,
Assassinated its better angels,
Pressed a blunt knee
on the neck of
Its Black history.

That flag,
Those statues,
Over 1,700 symbols
Of inhumanity,
Of treason,
Of a fight for
A Nation’s identity.

That flag,
Those symbols,
Whistles for the
Whistlers.
Still brutal,
Still exclusionary,
Still chillingly influential.

On the beat,
In the parks,
In the City Halls,
They whistle
They whistle,
That high-pitched
Clannish call,

Through those road signs
Through those army bases
Through those high-horsed
Men in gray statues,
And, through a loud-mouthed
President, guilty
Of having no clue.

Listen,
Listen,
For its what those whistlers do.
Warning some,
Inspiring others,
Hissing their on-the-sly tune,
To say: “We’re still here for you.”

By Mimi Rosen
Yenson Jun 2020
Rain fell backwards
in clouded sun inlands
frosty winds whistle Dixie
flaccid ***** of cotton monies
cat calls in the heat of the night
bamboo canes in the straight tracks
in drips fears are real on winters night
finding the sad way home on hock and gin
the beast have been and ably widened the road
where trunks call instill dreads in gaps and arches
top-loader weave in rhyming dispatches and silk roads
the sons of Cain are heirs to the tongue and busted flush
such is the so raging minds that makes the limps go limping
so whistle me Dixie bring in bullwhips for the lazy men's game
gonna lock up the fillies and padlock the minds for dreads of stallions
Jayne E Jan 2020
I have danced naked in the desert
chased the sun fallen after the moon
I have kissed the tricking serpent
As he slithered slyly thru my room

I have talked to that fat little Buddha
rubbed his jolly belly for much good luck
I have bled deep from gifted slashes
white as a rabbit from all that he took


I have seen those chessmen up stand
show me moves ahead x20 across the board
And won every wager laid paid up in hand
bullwhips &  ancient bibles to add to my hoard

I have bore & freed many burdens heavy
More than your infants soul will ever know
Earned my stripes and paid right my levy
not to be tricked or pulled in by your cold undertow

I have birthed a civilization in my mind's eye
Seen the world laid to ruin so fickle and so cruelly
lost favour aft love was given most truly
It draws a tear from my jaded eye
and from my heart pulls deep the sigh


I have dreamed you pure in one too many ways
Gifted generous from my well of love deep
Still persistent on the aether you try to play
It's all ashes to dust now and not yours to keep

I have made my peace with the mountains
given grace to the deepest bluest seas
persist if you must try to ebb my fountains
for no longer do I need your sick to set me free

© J.C.
This is quite an 'old' write, over 8 months ago...

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