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Isabella Apr 2020
Hundreds of wishes, thousands of clovers.
Time becoming so much slower.
Wasted hope, pointless dreams.
Thousands of useless clovers, drifting down the stream.

Wishing you were here right now,
Thousands of clovers drifting down and down.

Further, further,
Until my thousands of clovers are out of sight.
Because, every night...

I'd take a clover, make a wish.
Drop it in the river, watch it swirl like the fish.
Then I'd let it float far away.
I would drop those clovers, day after day.

But it would never be over.
There were thousands of clovers.
Emma Mar 2014
there is a land, of 4 leaf clovers
they wave over hills
and  swim in the vallies

In this land, no one cries
In this land, no dreams die
and three leaf clovers are scarce
because should you break
A four leaf clover
A dream dies
and less birds fly

So, in this land,
of four leaf clovers
everyone steps  over clovers
and dreams don't die
and birds always fly
suicidal twitch Jul 2015
And in this courtroom
So filled with Four Nations
The Sun held her head up high,
Lighting the way for their tales and psalms:

I am the King of Spades.
Righteous ambition is my goal.
The bravery of the Spades is made known to others
Only through such matters.
Perseverance is our path to Victory
Endurance, our greatest desire.
We, the Spades, partner with Father Time
To belong as a mighty people
Forever more.

I am the Queen of Diamonds
The splendor and enjoyment of Life's beauty is my passion.
A Diamond's journey is a one of glorious awe
That no one can compare.
Loveliness surrounds this pretty people
And the Artist shall forever be pleased by them.
Our perception of artistry leaves most in awe
And this fact is forever the passion we strive for.

I am the Queen of Clovers
Survival is the sole lifestyle of the Clovers
In this wretched and unforgiving world
The Clovers must stay strong
Holding the clubs of the ancients,
We prevail
Onward shall we extend our power
The Clovers will remain
Forever the mightiest.

I am the King of Hearts.
The rapid spread of emotional ties
Is what us Hearts long for.
Threads of fate surround our people
Binding them to one another.
Love, lust, infatuation
Oh, these are the things that steady our nation!
So filled with Faith, Hope and Love
Our Hearts shan't fail us
As passion will never cease
To flow in our veins
—ah, yes!
This is the way of the Hearts.

And in this courtroom
So filled with Four Nations
The Sun laid down her head
Whilst the Moon finally awoke and,
Smiled his light onto them below.
This was made by my fanfiction friend called Sam-Chan who gave it to me! :3
k-s-h Feb 2013
There is meadow of clovers,
And if you look further in than one would care to walk,
There are two.
The first and the second converse,
Onwards they always talk,
Beyond understanding that could be true.

They talk of life and death and past,
And always they say as the sun sets,
We are two clovers, together beyond anything.
The rest of the clovers are silent, no ears,
These are different from the rest.
They can’t hear or talk or sing.

Nothing could part this pair,
They swore to always be there.
Day and night, dusk and dawn,
You would never hear them yawn,
As with promises they filled the starry air.

One day a human came along,
To the near center of the meadow.
And simply, plucks one of the two.
And now because of some higher force,
I’m a lonely clover among the full throes,
And I’ve been separated from you.
Carsyn Smith Mar 2014
Someone was wearing your cologne today
So many memories in one breath --
I exhale and find myself gasping for you again,
Breath after shallow breath until I am hollow with you.
It was light enough for the wind to carry it
but it made me feel like Atlas under the Earth.

It was nothing but empty hopes
wishes left ungranted.
As night falls,
and the darkness comes for me,
I find myself gasping for you

Clutching crumpled Tootsie Pop wrappers
And cradling torn Four Leaf Clovers.
Wishing you are far away
The more distance I can place between us,
The safer you are.

Wishing I was in your arms
Craving your lullaby, your steady heart beat,
For selfish reasons.
Take my Tootsie Pop wrappers and Four Leaf Clovers.

I am the very last person who deserves a wish.
Take them and know I never wanted to hurt you.
Wish for a thread and needle

Or a plane ticket to Neverland
Just please,

Don't wish for me.
Ashley Chapman Nov 2018
In a playful vision sent
Your ****** homologue
Of amber shins and pale phalanges
Weaves four-leaved clovers.

In response,
***** spurs
And protean winged descent
To float into your kaleidoscopic star:
Gliding,
Freely falling,
To rest in lace extremities.

There in our bed of sensual feet,
Sunflowers breath,
Whose burnished rotating petals
Gather me in wisps,
Each spiral frond,
Gyring
Before death's voids
Is drawn in purls.

And in pleasures held,
Cossetted in latticed limbs,
A ***** lustrous rich embrace;
Denuded and alive!
And with abandon kissed:

    Bony toes
    Tendons
    Deep arches
    Shins
    Ankles,
    Sweetmeats,
    Light and delicate.

As here between pretty shins
And fleshy silken feet
Our ascent begins
Rising,
From low regions,
To scale new night,
And crown our heights.

This lovers' leap into prismatic
reproduction
In the empty Cosmic wastes
     In a web is caught!
Where feet and toes inspire
Continuity for pointed stars.

As material possibilities collide
The lust for life
Is born in non-existence:
So in our nest of feet,
Mating in the game
With heads thrown back,
Of lust drink deeply we.
A friend sent a mesmerising image taken from a kaleidoscope. In that image so many ideas came together that I was able to put this down. It tells of what I know, the line between life and death, or more succinctly put, between our conscious and the great unconscious. In mind, to love is indeed sublime as it removes us from ourselves and plunges us to meet our heart's desire. Out in the wastes of time and space we also see ourselves writ large where whole galaxies collide and in so doing, the resultant chaos, new stars are born. So I take solas in such thoughts, even if my soul does at times yearn to shuffle off this mortal coil and be at peace and know Truth at last.
Robin Carretti Aug 2018
Something is
simmering  *  
  ****      
His spice the stars*
His cologne heat up the
woods
Lips and taste boiling
The Green Irish Tweed
Epicurean love at
the Italian
Spice Epic Stadium

Here comes the
Sun the__?
Royal Mayfair

strikingly
My Fair Lady
The spice diction of words
Her name is Sage Lady Bird
You could feel her smile
shimmering

Carnal spice knowledge
Savory animalistic
Spice culture ******
Citrusy fancy dress
Not to panic
His Sunday gravy
Italian sauce garlicky  
She could win so pungent
Spicy lady Pagent

The poor stealing the
rich culture
Sage surrender like the Oz
Like Robin Hood

Spice of life this is our life
Top of the sea salt Spy
scouring
You better have a love
Like a deep pouring
Her Sage Genie bottle
on the stove

Her sheerness lascivious robe

The Meditteranean sea with
Four leaf clovers
freeloaders
These cultures and eyes of
strength feature
There is no time to
break up for the love of a spice
Is this the human race
Fresh linens better company
What a primary
Oh! Hail Mary

Those ethnic spices
what a sensual smell
Sage pretty coffee cup show and tell
What a razzle top of her cake
The media takes over all
painted and swirled
Baked spicy finger she dialed

Through her locket heart sake
Recovered love reconciled
The Teddy Rosevelt or Chicago Bears
tight hugs of cultures


Hairy chest his smooth gestures
Culture rough and tough exterior

Like the smile beautiful mind
creature
Beyond to be seen
The Spices computer
world of devices
Strawberry fields forever
But what is forever more love
Crises

Do we always lose our stripes
Feeling layered with her cereal
Tony the tiger
Whats great about curses
Sage speechless can feel the
roar spicy mouth
Going South or North
Victorian corset sensual
Guity spice dark side of Goth
Hot desire from both
The pine needles
Christmas time
The mistletoe kissing pointing to the star

Wearing herself out with her
pointed pump shoe*
But losing her spirit what to
endeavor
*The Blue Horizon Spice Rub

The  pub the sky has no limits
to the Stars that twinkle
The Gods to their *****
Rip Van Winkle
Dry Vermouth or the Russian Roulette
French spice Crepe Suzette

"Adam I Apple Dante Jubilee
Eve was more like a neigh
Horse spicy slide Colonel Spicy mustard
Meeting General Lee Sage custard

Her handkerchief
with sage cut leaves
Hearing echoes what gives
Anyone's spice rack
of shoes engraves Sage leafs

Noone really knows for sure
She wore spice deep blue velvet
Jade Ring Brittish Colony
Stuck to her beliefs like a magnet

Eating vegetable and fish
Her best China ever find her dish

How the jade chandelier twisted
Became laughing like two musketeers
New York City love Serendipity
The Queen chair so domineer
'What Debutants"
Crazed like spices of mutants
The anger management getting
the evil out
The shoutbox strong clove spice
Sage was never outfoxed
Her **** jaded uniform
The firefighter Smoky the bear
  eyes of candlelight storm
didn't make it this year
Torn to tears like two
vultures of
the haunted night
He peddles fast
But the fear needs to disappear

Fresh lake smells fresh
as her breath
The culture and media
make tons of mistakes
She knows what she wants
Not a jungle of
poisonous snakes
He knows what he doesn't want
to tell her
Perhaps losing his
bark dog naps
The best part engage her on
Sage with a heart
The fruit her
flesh and blood
The blood on his finger
Her medicinal herbs
of China
The mason spice jar is empty
The full heart needs his half
Cream of the crop
Careless love accidentally
spice dropped
Sensual Chin like pine needles
The exception to the rule more leaders
Remember Every September
to leave your scent
We all have needs we want
Drinking all the flavors of Snapple
*Big waves of the ripple don't you
love her amazing dimples
Sage spice mighty divine but when its mixed love can be jinxed watch out. But just keep singing her "Sage way" her garden is magnificent in every way just pray
Parveen Sagar Aug 2013
It’s a cold and moonless country night
He wanders alone, under dim starlight.
Squinting, he stalls, he trips and he falls,
Through fields of clovers, his fingertips crawl.
An extra leaf he seeks for her delight,
Long he’s walked, endless days and nights.

She watches him stumble from the stars above,
Twinkling, dazzling, burning, to help him along.
She sighs, she calls, over the horizon she sprawls,
Her silk-knit net to break his falls.
Yet he moves on, and on, singing unknown songs,
He read once in her fresh-press books, where he belongs.

Droopy-eyed he reaches a precipitous drop
Far below him, still waters shine, sprinkled with stars
Perilously poised, of this deceit he knows not
Caught in her silken weaves, he trips, dives,
Drips as a drop.
RL Glassman Sep 2017
Atop a bed of clovers
I lie and wish away
the days of burden fallen on me
under willows that softly sway

Under potent clouds and sun
i beg and plead and say:
"let this time and times go on without me
alone, I'll gladly stay"

Without charm and devoid of peace
i taint my every day
so now i wish the sky to hear me:
"Let the world go on and play"

Atop a bed of clovers
I still lie here day by day
I whisper "please forget about me,"
I guess you have to yell when you pray
found this uncompleted in my drafts. figured i would finish it. 2017.
Elliana Jul 2021
Do you remember that first day you picked me up
You had me smiling before I even had the chance to close the door.
You offered me a sip of your red bull
Cuz I’d told you I’d never tried one before.
Do you remember the way we blasted music as we drove down the road
The car shook as we screamed our heads off,
I could feel as my happiness overflowed.
Looking for four leafed clovers used to be my favorite thing.
I would search for hours hoping I would get just one ounce of good luck
Because that's what they were supposed to bring.
So when we searched together
And found not one, but 8 four leafed clovers,
I thought it was some kind of sign
That you were my good luck;
That you were mine.
Raylene Lu Oct 2015
Clovers, big and small,
Soft and rich in luckiness.
Trust would form in us,
Connected like the leaves.

Mud, seemed as smooth as marble,
Splashed over melted chocolate.
Although built brick by brick,
Creativity sped it up.

Tiny lost details used to come from our hands.
Forever fun in bending paper.
Letters flipped over by pen.

Together like the stars and the moon.
Raining sparkles, we were one . . .

Until mountains crashed the charming greens,
Greens filled with pure luck.
They shouted and cried,
Suffocating through day and night.

Nature disobeyed the mud,
Right beneath our feet.
Smoothness was swept away,
By the howling wind.

We got split up into stages.
One lower, one higher.
The mountain became uneven.
One smooth, one spiked.

Great deep cracks began to appear in our circle.
And now it seems that even our stepping stones differ.

No feelings, only doubts.
It has been a long, long time . . .

My dear old friend,
How do you feel about me?
Pink is the colour of friendship. Clovers are the symbol of luck.

You meet a person so like you. You guys do so many things together, and you even have your own code and everything.

Then, one day-and it doesn't matter how.

You guys separate.
(To Hannah Farmer)
Gabe Ouellette Oct 2017
On that half acre of swamp,
there sits rotting wood, countless species of pests and bothers
history of love, hate, pain, and growth,
there sits a home, a house, a building, full to the brim,
with memories? Impulsive decisions?
Just a lot of "stuff"...

Right off the path the lawn sits untouched,
mossy patches, clovers and thatch, weeds and flowers,
ever since i was little they've been there,
ever since i was little Iv'e had such luck,

What happens when they sell that property, does the stuff go to waste?
That "stuff" was born of waste and now when i need luck the most, winters frost sinks those clovers much like the "stuff" in the ditch down the road,
But does my luck sink as well? Or will it grow and bloom next spring into something greater?
The last winter of my life, then it will be someone elses, but who?
For the lonely,
for the loveless,
for the forgotten and overlooked,
for the discarded and trodden on,
for the neglected,
for the ignored and mocked,
for societies weeds,
for circumstantial weeds.
For you outcasts are weeds
the flowers nobody wants,
but
weeds are resilient.
They persevere where others can not.
Often mistaken for weak, but no,
weeds are strong
and tough enough to break through tonnes of concrete
and metal.
Clever enough to find growth in places
others perish in.
Adaptable to every habitat and
brave enough to exist on barren wasteland.
Weeds need only the tiniest of a chance to flourish
For the unwanted,
for the unclaimed.
You are beautiful.
You are equal to every other flower.
You are the Charlock, the Buttercup, the Clover,
the Pinapple-May-**** and so much more.
Next time you see a **** by the roadside,
or peeking out from a crack in a wall,
or between paving slabs in a busy city,
or overgrown in a garden,
or weaving through rubble and debris,
take heart
lonely ones.
You are not worthless
You are magnificent.
I've always loved weeds and have been one for so long. We are many, mo cara, we belong
Megan Harrington Apr 2014
Found in bright meadow
You dance in the wind
The memories you create
Like tying your flowers to create a princess crown

Clovers

Whether you have white or purple flowers
Or just simple leaves
The hunt for four leaves
Brings joy to friends and families
Sarah Feb 2017
In tall pines and
night storms
when we were
close
to over

& hiking with
my long hair
down
in frantic search
of clovers

in our dancing,
& tambourines,
your whiskey drinking
sober -

You live as a
memory
     in
perpetual
October.
JaxSpade Oct 2018
Clovers fall
Down

To the ground

Clubs
Over diamonds
Four leaf crowns

Have you a heart
What have you found

Green was all over
And lucky left town

All of the clovers fell
Onto the deck of cards

Upside down
Turning over
Hedron

The smell of vervain
And mixing sober
Ginger under a *****
Dug out

Clovers fall.                                                                                                                                                                                                  
down

A circadian rhythm
With the ground

Such a mysterious milieu
Nascent in the soils
                             Flinging about

Clubs thrown around
The dealer crowds the house

Clovers fell down
Into a theasarus
              Of sound

Have you a heart
What have you found

Green was all over
And lucky left town

Wood sorrel
Revelations
A tousle world
          Unbound

Make yourself a bed
In the clovers fallen down
Mosaic Mar 2015
My elbow pops
Like the way the word
Snap dragon sounds

My freckles aren't constellations
They're reminders that I am not
Dark and ancient
Like my ******* father

My hair
FRIZZY
Like a pumpkin on fire

Voice
So sweet it makes me sick
And now all my teeth have fallen out

My throat swollen
A cave with an avalanche stuck inside
Dead bats
And stalactites like toothpicks
I don't need

Nails
Like tree bark
Hollow in all the right places

Scars
Like a record
Of the way I hurt myself
Put it on Repeat
Till it scratches

Cheeks like high school
Like humiliation
With four eyes perching
Not lucky clovers

And eyes glued on
With one glued on wrong

And knees that I'm constantly falling down on
Zemyachis Sep 2012
They Don't Shut Up.
fwit. fwit. fwit. fwit.
On the Asphalt or Sidewalk
They slip- like spit
I lost my flip-flops
they Tread
So thin.

9/26/12
Camilla Green Oct 2017
Every day the sun stretched over the songbird’s ivory tower.
Nighttime ivy ringlets caught and pulled, like taffy,
sunshine tendrils into rocky satellite white.
She swung sunbeams into starlight
And I thought it'd drone on forever.
//
Every dawn the sun stretched over the songbird’s ivory tower.
Nighttime ivy ringlets caught sunshine tendrils,
pulled them into rocky satellite white, like taffy.
She swung sunbeams into starlight,
And I thought it'd drone on forever until

I realized that sprinkled sugar cookies made hands numb flammable,
that you can't feel them again until they leave the powder blue locker room,
until they're in the car, worried they might melt the steering wheel, when they’re left to figure out why.

Now streetlights gassed with Canadian lypophrenia
make snowflakes float like stardust,
while splintered lilac fingertips trace meaningless constellations,
as they ponder whether daisies can tell
if someone loves you,
                                       or not.

With firefly breath, I wished on dandelion dust
for December's cruel weather to warm,
so we could sleep forever on the concrete floor
and it'd feel like Pennsylvania moss and twigged leaves.
We’d swing dance in the sidewalk cracks
drowning in footsteps and manhole steam.
Saturn would bloom to petal dust in your wake
and you would never feel small.

And I thought cocoa butter was our solace,
that you'd be drenched in chocolate wishes
that turn ribboned skin to soft smile scars.
The Earth would lay enveloped and confessed-
a dripping orb of love and light thrown against
the burning oblivion of the universe.
I pull in the horizon like a great fish net
So much life in its meshes!
I call in your soul to come and see.


With the spring equinox, four-leaf clovers withered and died,
still-lit birthday candles melted into oceans
and heads-up pennies piled into roadway castles,
unwanted, unneeded by someone who forgot who she was.
I thought, for a moment, that I'd been wrong.

Within that rim of rose, there is ungravity and life on Mars.
But this world is a rememory of drought and oil spills,
drowning you in a warm, sweet, malignant blanket
of braided brown hair and tokyo tickets.
To you, my whispering lips screamed for palmers-
for 13 ounces of memories that were never mine,
and still, you slathered it on.

Our streetlights set and the sun flickered out,
the pennies I never reached for, someone else had picked up,
and the clovers I ignored, I now ached for with all my heart.
Eyes streaming, I reached for a shooting star,
but the night does end, dawn always rises,
and my precious last chance melted in my desperate hands

because i fall in love with everyone
and my lips are never chapped
  so now i eat cinnamon toast
   and I paint the sun
    with blackberry juice

In apple-killing cold, stars fade in the amber glow of tiger's eyes,
gray clouds are still bursting with starlight,
willow trees will forever weep diamonds,
and daylilies still steal away sleep.
This one's for you,
Leonardo Wilde Sep 2017
I can see her there, in that field
She’s spread eagle, her beautiful, asymmetrical nose points straight up to the brilliant blue sky,  a few wisps of white in it.
The clovers grow tall, reaching up to tickle the sides of her bare skin, the sides of her neck, her face, her arms, her legs, her cheeks, and a small smile spreads across her face in the feeling.
She’s happy, so indescribably happy, she feels nothing except that happiness fill her entire being, and she takes a deep breath through her nose and exhales slowly through her mouth.
And then her eyes open to a brown man, his eyes closed, and she knows he is in his own field of tall clovers and blue skies.
:;,
jude rigor Feb 2022
sappho greets her as she
would a reflection:
hand against hand, staring into
her eyes. silence dancing
around them as a long-lost love-
r.

enheduanna sighs at the contact
and the quiet shifts as
her fingers close:
as there is no need for language
when her
inanna will grant them
a holy diadem.

-----

eternity reeks
of nights out on the lawn
daisies growing with the weeds
pillowing beneath the two
dwindling women -
hands clasped tightly,
their eyes closed.
...lapis blooming
within the petals
of the undergrowth...

gods slumber amongst
worthy poets occluding,
heart-soothing each
other without words
or sonnets
or divination.

sappho dared to
look out from
heavy-lidded
lethargy,
for she was
yearning:
at dawn

...her honeyvoiced,
    mythweaving
    enheduanna:
    a sweet-shelter
    of temptation
    and goddesses
    who wage
    tender war and
    drink from pools
    of sun...

at dawn
the ancient
divine
poet
gazes
again

and sappho
forgets she
too is nearly
as old

for her lover wears
an invisible golden-
crowned circlet
of springtime
and illuminated
lands.

but she can hardly think
anymore, when
the songsmith of
glory and prayer
is kissing her.

laying in the basin
of heaven and skies
she pours restless
eternity down
her throat.


----

lapis melts
to pink clovers
of fowlerite

no mortals notice

two bodies blending
between poems
rustling tunics
maidens casting
away their  
fruitful

sobriety.

----

poet
dreams
a woman
of verse.

hardly expecting
shallow-breathed
kisses of burning
solstice and
unrequited
love.
for this piece,  i wrote about sappho and enheduanna. both ancient poets, both incredible women who achieved a lot with their poems and lyrics. i allude to some phrases/words from sappho's fragments, as well as verses from enheduanna's poems.

i also referenced quite a few letters from open me carefully, a collection of emily dickinson's letters (what remains of them) to susan huntington, her close friend and eventual sister-in-law. the references are honestly vague and you might only catch them if you've read at least the first chapter of the collection.

also the title is a fragment from sappho, featured in "if not, winter"

here's some info on all of that for some much-needed context.

sappho: (l. c. 620-570 BCE) was a lyric poet whose work was so popular in ancient that she was honored in statuary and centuries after her. little remains of her work, and these fragments suggest she was gay. her name inspired the terms 'sapphic' and 'lesbian', both referencing female same-*** relationships.  

[some phrases/words from this piece were taken/inspired by "if not, winter" - a collection of fragments of sappho's lyrics and poems].

bio source: wordhistory . org

enheduanna: (pronounced en-hoo-d-ah-na)  was an akkadian-sumerian princess, poet, and priestess who lived around 2285 BCE. not only was she the first author on record - she was also daughter to king sargon of the akkadian empire, a powerful woman figure, and the backbone to a synthesization of two newly unified cultures.

she is acknowledged to have penned the first known example of poetry, and wrote 42 hymns that were read across the akkadian empire. additionally, she was the first named poet to refer to herself with the "i" perspective. through her writings, she combined the akkadian counterpart (ishtar) of the sumerian inanna into a single goddess that brought akkadians and sumerians alike together. though this first served as a culturally-conscious and politically driven move, it morphed beautifully into enheduanna's lifelong relationship with inanna.

enheduanna's success and works as the high priestess at the temple ur helped bridge a gap between self-discovery and religion. many of her hymns and poems - especially "the exaltation of inanna" gave a human connection to gods; something far more powerful in the long run, compared to the old ways of gods growing the land, mixing the sea.

[i ripped all this out of a research paper i wrote a few years ago. enheduanna is my niche special interest and i find her life and story so utterly fascinating].

open me carefully: emily dickinson's intimate letters to susan huntington dickinson

susan huntington gilbert and emily elizabeth dickinson were born within days of each other in December 1830. they may have known each other from girlhood; they certainly knew each other from adolescence; and they had begun to correspond by the age of twenty. their relationship spanned nearly four decades, and for three of those decades, the women were next-door neighbors. together, susan and emily lived through the vicissitudes of a life closely shared: susan's courtship, engagement, and eventual marriage to emily's brother, austin; susan and austin's setting up home next door to the dickinson homestead; the births of susan and austin's three children, and the tragic death of their youngest son, gib.

in open me carefully, we see that emily was not the fragile, childlike, virginal "bride who would never be" writing precious messages about flowers, birds, and cemeteries from the safety and seclusion of her bedroom perch in amherst, massachusetts. dickinson was devoted to her craft, and she was dedicated to integrating poetry into every aspect of her day-to-day life. she was engaged in philosophical and spiritual issues as well as all the complexities of family life and human relationships. she knew love, rejection, forgiveness, jealousy, despair, and electric passion, and she lived for years knowing the intense joy and frustration of having a beloved simultaneously nearby, yet not fully within reach.

Emily Dickinson Archive

NY Times Archive
Kasey Lorenzini Mar 2013
Life won’t wait
An echo from time past
Still haunting in it’s sincerity.

Two steps forward
Rocking backwards
Keep pushing ahead
Can’t stop to breathe
To think
About the desire for just
One
Small
Sip.

The Ambrosia
Delicious firewater,
Replaced by the bitter taste
Of ground beans

Life won’t wait
She doesn’t care if I fail.
Tomorrow is another day
Tomorrow, I might not step back
But tonight
Tonight I seek--
Need to quench that desire.

Dusk is approaching
The sound of revelry rampant
A holiday to drinking passes by
And here I stand
Watching the crowds
My head in my hands
Counting the minutes,
Lying that normalcy
Returns with the dawn
Of just another day in March.
WIP? I would appreciate any feed back.
Emily Miller Mar 2018
Four years old.
Four years old is the perfect age
To know enough about yourself
And not enough about the world.
To know everything you absolutely need to know
Before the world strips it away
And replaces it with a fake sort of knowing.
Four years old,
Old enough to recognize something that will drive you
For the rest of your life.
Four years old was I,
And four years old was he,
Mattie,
My Mattie,
When we met in the sticker-burr ridden play yard
Of a daycare,
And at four years old,
We became peaceful companions,
Slower,
Quieter,
And just a bit more odd,
Than the rest.
At four years old,
Mattie had a silliness about him,
And a funny way of talking through his missing teeth.
At four years old,
We avoided the violent, flying swings and sprinting, shrieking children,
And we scoured the outskirts of the yard
For four leaf clovers.
Mattie was a four leaf clover.
Incredible,
Unique,
And found by chance.
Because Mattie’s silliness and funny voice and missing teeth
Were not simply because we were four years old,
But because
Mattie came from a mom
Who couldn’t stop.
Mattie’s mom couldn’t stop doing drugs,
Not for a single day.
Not when her belly swelled with Mattie inside,
Not when he came into the world,
Breathing the air she did,
Drinking the milk she made,
Mattie’s mom couldn’t stop.
He was buried beneath clusters of clovers,
And his four, perfect leaves were nearly withered away,
When his parents found him.
His parents,
Two incredible women,
Who had so much love in their hearts,
They couldn’t help but let it overflow
Into the cup of a small child with bright eyes and dwindling breath.
Mattie,
My four leaf clover,
Is happy today.
Today,
Mattie,
No longer four years old,
But a man,
Is about to be a doctor.
My four leaf clover,
Who looked to his mothers like the most beautiful child that was ever born,
With the sharpest wit
And the most brilliant smile,
At the end of the day,
Is simply another clover.
His beauty and his value,
Are what we give him.
His rarity, his singularity,
Is something we create,
Something we fashion for him
Out of love and acceptance.
To this day,
I lean down and examine patches of clover,
The image of Mattie,
Gently counting leaves with chubby, toddler fingers,
Burnt into my memory.
And to this day,
I hold in my heart the hope,
That I will meet a child,
My own Mattie,
My own rarity,
My own treasure,
My own little four leaf clover.
Amitav Radiance Jul 2014
Busy bee eyeing the flowers
Seduced by the bright colors
Probing with the proboscis
Hairy body covered with pollens
Visiting the clovers and hollyhocks
Also in love with Dahlias and roses
Returning with the days fill
Honey sac full of nectar
Returning to the honeycomb
They are ‘Bee-ing’ happy
With all the sweetness
Just Bee Happy
rk Oct 2020
the memory
of your gentle breath
as your hands
found my hips
in a symphony of clovers
pulling me in,
consuming me so easily
it was as if
i had been molded
just for you.
Nico Julleza Sep 2017
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
Drowsy, as the eyes of mine sleeps
a joyride of fantasies, a jumping of sheep
so, the pages turning mama would red
while my feet are falling and
my arms up my head, hands unsaid

with a gentle rock and a soft abye
I'm off to dream land as I fly
silk of red swooped to the entrance gate
a little slip, a little slide till it fade
and gently I landed at the pearly lake

A boat by Venice caught me alone
with the breeze scented, so cold as snow
and Grims hoisting a whooper
a sure one they'll never throw
passing here and there and off they go

storms of Neptune came up the sea
big waves flung, I swung towards east
clovers led me to an isle and said
"How Lucky you'll always be"
no more thunders but just all reverie

A twirl to the woods, exciting it be
with beams of the moon
and the stars sitting on the tree
lights flashing, a calm of ebb
the spiders glistening, an artistic web

dream land is promising
like vines that whip and crawl
bearing fruit to bless us as we call
with roses of red, daisies blooms at dew
mama's lullaby at once, I knew
#Dream #Land #Mama #Lullaby #Adventure #Nature

Sleepy Poets.. Here's A Masterpiece for You. Enjoy Dream Land

The Boy Hasn't Awaken. And the Journey Continues Soon..

The Boy's Name Was "Drew James Everdream"

(NCJ)POETRYProductions. ©2017
You were forever finding some new play.
So when I saw you down on hands and knees
I the meadow, busy with the new-cut hay,
Trying, I thought, to set it up on end,
I went to show you how to make it stay,
If that was your idea, against the breeze,
And, if you asked me, even help pretend
To make it root again and grow afresh.
But ’twas no make-believe with you today,
Nor was the grass itself your real concern,
Though I found your hand full of wilted fern,
Steel-bright June-grass, and blackening heads of clovers.
’Twas a nest full of young birds on the ground
The cutter-bar had just gone champing over
(Miraculously without tasking flesh)
And left defenseless to the heat and light.
You wanted to restore them to their right
Of something interposed between their sight
And too much world at once—could means be found.
The way the nest-full every time we stirred
Stood up to us as to a mother-bird
Whose coming home has been too long deferred,
Made me ask would the mother-bird return
And care for them in such a change of scene
And might out meddling make her more afraid.
That was a thing we could not wait to learn.
We saw the risk we took in doing good,
But dared not spare to do the best we could
Though harm should come of it; so built the screen
You had begun, and gave them back their shade.
All this to prove we cared. Why is there then
No more to tell? We turned to other things.
I haven’t any memory—have you?—
Of ever coming to the place again
To see if the birds lived the first night through,
And so at last to learn to use their wings.
KathleenAMaloney Sep 2016
Lions Gateway
Sumerian  Locket
Made from  a Boys Curly Hair
Worn upon the Head
Of A Lions Let
Decisions Fearless Walk
Swaying Boldness
Thru Valley's
Parched Fertility

For Scripture is Not Subject
It Is Wrought
By Pen
Is Prayer A Blessing

Clovers Miracle  Life
Carried Upon the Shoulders Live
UnAccepted Ending
Children Mine
Gracous Holy
Gracious Holy

Our
Harvest
UNLIMITED
This Vine
Shall Be
And Evermore
Free Life
For Those
Who Welcome
Her
Within
Them
316

The Wind didn’t come from the Orchard—today—
Further than that—
Nor stop to play with the Hay—
Nor joggle a Hat—
He’s a transitive fellow—very—
Rely on that—

If He leave a Bur at the door
We know He has climbed a Fir—
But the Fir is Where—Declare—
Were you ever there?

If He brings Odors of Clovers—
And that is His business—not Ours—
Then He has been with the Mowers—
Whetting away the Hours
To sweet pauses of Hay—
His Way—of a June Day—

If He fling Sand, and Pebble—
Little Boys Hats—and Stubble—
With an occasional Steeple—
And a hoarse “Get out of the way, I say,”
Who’d be the fool to stay?
Would you—Say—
Would you be the fool to stay?
354

From Cocoon forth a Butterfly
As Lady from her Door
Emerged—a Summer Afternoon—
Repairing Everywhere—

Without Design—that I could trace
Except to stray abroad
On Miscellaneous Enterprise
The Clovers—understood—

Her pretty Parasol be seen
Contracting in a Field
Where Men made Hay—
Then struggling hard
With an opposing Cloud—

Where Parties—Phantom as Herself—
To Nowhere—seemed to go
In purposeless Circumference—
As ’twere a Tropic Show—

And notwithstanding Bee—that worked—
And Flower—that zealous blew—
This Audience of Idleness
Disdained them, from the Sky—

Till Sundown crept—a steady Tide—
And Men that made the Hay—
And Afternoon—and Butterfly—
Extinguished—in the Sea—
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2015
it's not the case of irrationality with the usage of pronouns as a way of being assertive away from the existentialist dittoing of the pronouns; even if i utilise the pronoun to be a noun or a verb via dittoing, with the framework of an esp. exemplar "irrationality," i am still, after all, the speaker of the noun and verbs, and the keeper of them; i am not irrational to the extent that i ditto myself outside of other categorisations of words, since dittoing myself within the pronoun category opens the accusation that i use all other words with ambiguity while allowing no moral ambiguity into my actions - but there is a clear morality to the use of words as the worthwhile exchange of meaning, in newtonian sense in the least and foremost not going beyond the dropped stone or insinuation of passerby engagement into games - but clear crisp cut - silk scarf tagged twelve quid was sold on the haggle for ten quid - so that haggling wasn't an ambiguity, but the price of the scarf was! so how many sexualised insinuations have i heard with impromptu to no action?! too many! all of them declassified from furthering action because of too much innuendo and nuance of that famous disguised dialectics lost - known as the death of god. cartesian in existentialist terms, thinking presupposed as the notation via "i." thought no longer as an existential certainty... but because of the dittoing of pronouns... an... ambiguity! well it was originally an ambiguity, but why excess pausing to counter? the english are a nation of shopkeepers... yes... and the french are a bunch of nosy café patrons with rude lovers disguised as bartenders muscle aching to munch the next croissant in drag and feel sexed up gagging.

verum, ego scribere similis rumi*; scribbles and similitude -
worth an afghan worth of eyes in syria for an afghan girl
saying to her loved up something or other:
see it come back, god forbid you hear the calculative laugh
of augustus on the way back, just while europe resigns from involving
the remnant slavs like libyans or syrians or hebrews in the original format
of strength: let the hebrews deal with them
in their own vatican - we need to curb north africans
and the mid-middle-eastern olives
when taking over the northern peoples for economic harvests.
but then the madman laughed without ordinance and impunity -
he laughed augustus' rationalism into the grave of choking chock fudge brussels
with spare tonsils eating nothing but cauliflower and lard -
elsewhere in movie via ghent; or was it in bruges or
was it in brussels starring jean claude van damme?
i call it... writers went mad on excess phonetics never readied
or introduced - except with magritte wearing a diaper
rather than a full james bond when painting.
i heard it was a proper heist to keep the police numbers handy,
i had it all tanned in argumentation for hued brown in the nordic
special; oddly enough no nordic special sailed for a sinking of the vasa
with predestination - airport was nice - we argued then -
we're not a continent of north harmonicas with jokes
between mythological four lead clovers and oak real canada threesomes.
well i was a continent with croatian and scandinavian,
i'm not originally a mc donald continent - although that 'MADE IN CHINA'
helps to resolve all future wars with the silkworm beginning:
rodeo in the haven of horse's burp and fall of the cheap spain due to tourism -
old continental had corrida - new continent has rodeo -
somewhere between the ****** and maidens came oceans elves for a bet on
who could write a horse out from riding into a blunt metal clasp of stirrup eager sounds:
or a twenty aged colt sounding like an eighty year old nail wrinkled with rust hammered.
blunt metal won, horse gasped for air, the ***** was taken home with stitches,
the maiden was taken home with a groom in stitches also, although
stitches of old age prior asked for in her meringue dress to suit: wrinkles;
but hey! there's **** in between! who's the loser, the aviator or the aqua puncture of thought?
but still augustus laughed it off with nero on the waiting list of possible re-encounters;
israel received the southern cicero of the roman empire,
while the rekindled empire got the north-eastern and northern part of
the unexplored without saints travelling elsewhere,
and for that it got implosions, with the schengen approval reminded
to cloister the leftists eager to holiday in syria on unesco cruises in sand and sheep ****
of kept marble - for that cocktail party convo, and next day article in the new yorker;
shame on you for using children to ploy en masse morality of guilt
to later reproduce the hydra with so much racist cribbing
of a seahorse riddling perpetual dynamos
as to imagine the future cot rock-a-baby-jihadi saladin:
the fire is in his own house, runs with a
              flaming matchstick to his "neighbour's house"
to start the fire rather than trying to put the fire out in his own house.
honestly? sounds a bit binary in bangladeshi.
Susan Hunt Feb 2011
One day, at least a million years ago,
I lay in a patch of sweet clover
mixed with grass grown plump and soft
The dew of the evening was wet and cold.

In the summer I was sweating
and the sun was  sweltering hot
I sought refuge every evening
A magical lawn in every night,
I'd look to the stars in wonder.

When I lay down, it stretched all around
I was endless and so was the field.
It fit me I knew, everything was perfect.
And then, my body would separate
from myself, I began to wander.

Dear Friend:  Have you ever watched a plane explode?
Right in front of your eyes? Even in a dream?
Knowing what is happening, yet also knowing
there is nothing you can do to change it?
From the sky, it arrives. I look up
out of the corner of my eye
Just in time to watch it disintegrate,
just in time to witness their demise.

The bodies and metal floating down
don't look dangerous, but they could be...
if they land on me. but, I'm frozen.
It is dark and light in the sky
at the very same time.

I take in the great shock, the horrible sound;
from all the rubble that is raining down.
Is heaven coming to me?
...or am I heaven bound?

Next to me falls a piece of debris
its force spins me around.
I start my jagged crawl on my stomach
to a hopeful higher ground.


I try not to rip on the scrap all around.
But inevitably, I scrape a gape in my leg;
I've no reason to yell, I do not feel it.
It was like I was watching the future.

I wish I could see what is going to be
before it happens in front of me.
I strain to stand up on both feet
But this is no longer an option for me
Walking is now a lost luxury,

I hit my forehead on an errant piece of metal
It does not belong in the wonder of the four leaf clovers;
in this green pasture where sodden grass surrounds.
Me, as I drift between sleeping and dreaming,
I cry.

With the grass, my pillow under my head,
Once again, I begin to dream.
But, I’m woken by my whimpering
As I wake up; I let out a small sigh

I look up from the soft, safety of my grass blanket.
My eyes bleary, watch the white puffs of cotton
as they sail across the dark blue sky.
The clouds are reflections of my thoughts;
my ships, sailing across the ocean blue.

They pass freely, so close to me.
They reach down and touch me.
I smile.
But still, they move away.
Into a world beyond me, they dance.
I wish I could fly off and dance with them.
I turn my head and see a four leaf clover
so close to my eye, I can only focus on
that one four leaf clover, as it looks back at me.
God is with me. He chuckles in a gentle way.
My conscience is keen, listening as He speaks to me.
I take in His words completely.

“Child, Life will always be as it is today.
Death is not evil, life is not pure.
Do not lose your sight of me.
What changes is your belief in me.
I recognize your wild eyes, your grimaced frown.
Darling, don't give up, you have now been found.
Magically I breathe life into your mouth.
Yes, gently, gently, you slowly calm down.
You are in my arms, I am with you now.
Let your tears fall on the grass’s green
Let the four leaf clover soften your face.
I promise I am here and I will never leave
You are now forever bound in My grace.”
(©Joint project between G…and sjhunt-bloodworth 08-29-10)
HRTsOnFyR Aug 2015
Here the waves rise high and fall on the icy
seas and white caps chew the driftwood logs of
hemlock and toss them wildly upon sandy beaches.
The steep mountains rise straight from the sea
floor as the December sun shines through the dark
clouds that hang heavy with snow near the top peaks.
Blue icebergs drift slowly down the narrow channel.
This volcanic island is one of many that are scattered
along the coast of Southeastern Alaska.
On the South end of the island is another
tiny island and on it stands an old lighthouse,
a shambles. It has a curving staircase and an
old broken lamp that used to beckon to ships at
sea. Wild grasses and goosetongue cover the ground
and close by Sitka blacktail feed and gray gulls
circle. There is a mountain stream nearby and
in the fall the salmon spawn at its mouth. The
black bear and grizzly scoop them up with great
sweeps of their paws, their sharp claws gaffing
the silver bodies.
Walking North along the deer trail from the
South end of the island are remnants of the Treadwell
Mine. It was the largest gold mine in the world.
In the early 1900's the tunnel they were digging
underneath Gastineau Channel caved in and the sea
claimed her gold. The foundry still stands a rusty
red.
The dining halls are vacant, broken white
dishes are strewn inside. The tennis court that
was built for the employees is overgrown with hops
that have climbed over the high fence and grown
up between cracks in the cement floor. The flume
still carries water rushing in it half-hidden in
the rain-forest which is slowly reclaiming the
land. The beach here by the ocean is fine white
sand, full of mica, gold and pieces of white dishes.
Potsherds for future archeologists, washed clean,
smooth and round by the circular waves of this
deep, dark green water.
Down past the old gold mine is Cahill's house,
yellow and once magnificent. They managed the mine. The long staircase is boarded up and so
are the large windows. The gardens are wild, irises
bud in the spring at the end of the lawn, and in
the summer a huge rose path, full of dark crimson
blooms frames the edge of the sea; strawberries
grow nearby dark pink and succulent. Red raspberries
grow further down the path in a tangle of profusion;
close by is a pale pink rose path, full of those
small wild roses that smell fragrant. An iron-
barred swing stands tall on the edge of the beach.
I swing there and at high tide I can jump in the
ocean from high up in the air. There is an old
tetter-totter too. And, it is like finding the
emperor's palace abandoned.
There is a knoll behind the old house called
Grassy Hill. It is covered with a blanket of hard
crisp snow. In the spring it is covered with sweet
white clover and soft grasses. It is easy to find
four leaf clovers there, walking below the hill
toward the beach is a dell. It is a small clearing
in between the raspberry patch and tall cottonwood
trees. It is a good place for a picnic. It is
a short walk again to the beach and off to the
right is a small pond, Grassy Pond. It is frozen
solid and I skate on it. In the summer I swim
here because it is warmer than the ocean. In the
spring I wade out, stand very still and catch baby
flounders and bullheads with my hands; I am fast
and quick and have good eyes. Flounders are bottom
fish that look like sand.
Walking North again over a rise I come to
a field filled with snow; in the spring it is a
blaze of magenta fireweed. Often I will sit in
it surrounded by bright petals and sketch the mountains
beyond. Nearby are salmonberry bushes which have
cerise blossoms in early spring; by the end of
summer, golden-orange berries hang on their green
branches. The bears love to eat them and so do
I. But the wild strawberries are my first love,
then the tangy raspberries. I don't like the high-
bush cranberries, huckleberries, currants or the
sour gooseberries that grow in my mother's garden
and the blueberries are only good for pies, jams
and jellies. I like the little ligonberries that
grow close to the earth in the meadow, but they
are hard to find.
Looking across this island I see Mt. Jumbo,
the mountain that towers above the thick Tongass forest of pine, hemlock and spruce. It was a volcano
and is rugged and snow-covered. I hike up the
trail leading to the base of the mountain. The
trail starts out behind a patch of blueberry bushes
and winds lazily upwards crossing a stream where
I can stop and fish for trout and eat lunch; on
top is a meadow. Spring is my favorite season
here. The yellow water lilies bud on top of large
muskeg holes. The dark pink blueberry bushes form
a ring around the meadow with their delicate pink
blossoms. The purple and yellow violets are in
bloom and bright yellow skunk cabbage abounds, the
devil's club are turning green again and fields
of beige Alaskan cotton fan the air, slender stalks
that grow in the wet marshy places. Here and there
a wild columbine blooms. It is here in these meadows
that I find the lime-green bull pine, whose limbs
grow up instead of down. Walking along the trail
beside the meadow I soon come to an old wooden
cabin. It is owned by the mine and consists of
two rooms, a medium-sized kitchen with an eating
area and wood table and a large bedroom with four
World War II army cots and a cream colored dresser.
Nobody lives here anymore, but hikers, deer hunters,
and an occasional bear use the place. Next door
to the cabin is the well house which feeds the
flume. The flume flows from here down the mountain
side to the old mine and power plant. An old man
still takes care of the power plant. He lives
in a big dark green house with his family and the
power plant is all blue-gray metal. I can stand
outside and listen to the whirl of the generators.
I like to walk in the forest on top of the old
flume and listen to the sound of the water rushing
past under my bare feet.
In the winter the meadow is different: all
silent, still and snow-covered. The trees are
heavy with weighty branches and icicles dangle
off their limbs, long, elegant, shining. All the
birds are gone but the little brown snowbirds and
the white ptarmigan. The meadow is a field of
white and I can ski softly down towards the sea.
The trout stream is frozen and the waterfall quiet,
an ice palace behind crystal caves. The hard smooth-
ness of the ice feels good to my touch, this frozen
water, this winter.
Down below at the edge of the sea is yet another
type of ice. Salt water is treacherous; it doesn'tfreeze solid, it is unreliable and will break under
my weight. Here are the beached icebergs that
the high tide has left. Blue white treasures,
gigantic crystals tossed adrift by glaciers. Glisten-
ing, wet, gleaming in the winter sun, some still
half-buried in the sea, drifting slowly out again.
And it is noisy here, the gray gulls call to each
other, circling overhead. The ravens and crows
are walking, squawking along the beach. The Taku
wind is blowing down the channel, swirling, chill,
singing in my ear. Far out across the channel
humpback whales slap their tails against the water.
On the beach kelp whips are caught in wet clumps
of seaweed as the winter tide rises higher and
higher. The smell of salty spray permeates everything
and the dark clouds roll in from behind the steep
mountains.
Suddenly it snows. Soft, furry, thick flakes,
in front of me, behind, to the sides, holding me
in a blizzard of whiteness, light: snow.
This is a piece my grandmother had published in the 70's and I was lucky enough to find it. She passed on a few years ago and I miss her with all of my heart. She was my rock and my foundation, my counselor, mentor and best friend. I can still hear the windchimes that gently twinkled on her front porch, and smell the scent of the earth on my hands as I helped her **** the rose garden. I am glad that she is finally free of the pain that entombed her crippled body for nearly half of her life, but I wish I could hear her voice one last time. So thank God she was a writer, because when I read her poems and stories, I can!  She wasn't a perfect woman, but she was the strongest, smartest, most courageous woman I have ever known.
Arcassin B Oct 2014
By Arcassin Burnham




Did you ever consider segregating,
The good ones from the *******,
The devils and gods,
With trending honorables,
Or symbolic presses,
Call it lame meetings,
Random trending would be my guess,
I'm ******* crazy,
In reality I need a physical test,
Fail it then then turn it in,
Then tell every in class their all ******* pests,
Like I said I don't need your pity,
Nor your sympathy,
It was the end of me,
But also the beginning of the new me,
I will never rest,
I just need some time to think,
While this blows over,
Being hated by many,
But no luck with clovers,
Violent black kid in America,
Do I sound like a good person,
Mistake me for a fool,
Leave you with one of my curses,
So strum away lady,
Cause I'm not listening,
I'd rather be frozen in block of ice,
Then be trending.
#fuktrending
Lori Jean Jan 2011
In a special land not far away
a tiny town of Leprechaun's play.

The air is pure, the birds all sing.
There is happiness in everything.

The glitter dust has a magic shine.
There are no clocks, there is no time.

The four leaf clovers sparkle bright.
The sun shines always, there is no night.

The rainbow tells them God is near.
He has blessed the little people, here.

This land has gold and jewels galore.
They know that love is worth much more.

They take their powers to spread their cheer,
they leave their land and visit near.

They give a wish to a special few.
Once each year, could that be you?

They pick a child with a special heart,
one who cares and does their part.

They never hurt, but always play
tricks and jokes are just their way.

So if you catch one, let it free,
take your wish and let it be,
SO NEXT YEAR IT CAN VISIT ME!
Written for my darling girl when she was in grade school on St. Patrick's Day.  She is now 21 years old :o)
Copyright Lori Jean Vance 1997
Kaitelka; Whale Mongolic down, first whale which said syndrome, evidenced by their presence, as didgeridoo, as spitting but more hypersonic, hyper cetacean moving his tail, Burguete funds, learned to swim faster than anything, but the Nautilus, not He paid attention to his mother in his care skills, but bad luck that can befall if not moderate their exalting and allergic omitted cases to obey.

So all blue, but little Kaitelka, seeking friendship among their peers, but he put  a tambourine limit gave him leftovers and liked more than a day a thousand years of perfect instincts. So step aside by the fire, and dodged the deafening roar of nymph Satinga; the most ancient senator of the headpiece, always full on its plateau of ******* hydrochloride that resistance, if they pass a thousand years and I do not understand these pairs, I adjusted my engine, but to no avail me, my instincts are diluted and slim as downpour edges left by the wayside in infants and solfa. That Jesus Light was said behind the screen rainbow arch, he takes her hand to Kaitelka, and back by the outer estuary, they attack by instinct ministry of evil.

Mildew petrified oaks, disorients the abject warty troughs the disordering of the genetic instinct, if I have to pause my essence, I leave in the hands of Joshua stone from beyond. Where the ticket is worth more to me, but I get the same. Where evil knows well, but tasteless well. Underground, underwater., Kaitelka take any more, wheels come and go, instinct taking shredding herbs near the sea, no longer separates me more. Bright the famous day that rebukes my dreams rather than a whole, plastering, or monument flash highborn of Mongolic loves whales, classless or inheritances acquired record. Kaitelka and in gratitude to accompany my walk, to the junction of Lisbon, walking from room to room, to begin the pilgrimage, his steps were Glup, Glup like a pretty varmint, over the hills she is beginning to the descritery of Satinga, or rather the descritery of Sapiens Hommo, rummaging instinct of love today, then unloved. Native forests make pairings, but separate links non-energy cataclysms, similar to the new alliance valley radial wave, tuned cetacean sonar power can be glimpsed.

The Ministry of Evil is no end to the retrospective marvel at Noe, Isaac or Abraham, or Luther King, is the delayed form of unsettled muscle primo Evo madding to neo Evo updated, and neither bells sound the same, as reboot gray phthisis diseases degenerate and synthetic. The instinct to put your hands into the fire will be lost ..., so more pace to the back of them cutting the seas in arithmetical divisions, if commend my antidepressants depressive relatives, caress the sea in each constipated solstice, I go every night with daisies in my hands defying every cliff, every cave turned into a tavern, killing instinct, when the brain is nothing, sprayed kerosene on stage, to see my beloved before he dies of a blowgun.  

Joshua Stone and Bernardolipus in a crossroad, spin the grazing, the black sheep, is barren, its classic label of Segregated debased soul, but defecated humanoid comment sing out of tune the territory themselves.  Three-step, three-way, Joshua embraces Bernardolipo. Welcome starts. Satinga you slice ferns and wild beast, vomits both diazepams swallowed, do not sleep, dreams transpose half orb. Halos, half halos, iridescent arcades, and warm breezes, must preamble Donated high liking. Soft and warm look, I do not lose my plate potato near my belly, warm adobe cellar. Nymph Satinga of reaction in reaction out of tune and the highlights midwife psoriasis for its reddish dermis by a fungus worming. The re instinct starts to chew his skull, dread end of the border. The cookies Lord is sending us on napkins.

Pre urbane figure born, they appear a hundred suns, so the crowd out who has the audacity to reveal the discrete enigma, the puzzle while the floor moves the seizure ... all stunned waiting for the flash Ritual to start the preliminary stage, the paradigm of unshelled trees, tough tables roll by the church at the foot of flowers crocuses scrolls flat estate. For the baptistery inscrutability warmth your network back double halo on the moon, scrub that level. Abyss where I fall near aspire to the coachman, I go away over time from heaven minute no second in hours where the avalanche of time lose my look to hold any deity that does not prevent the tendency to lose those not facing front, a day like this you do not walk any shadow, nor the Horcondising I would like to Santorini. The Borker wrongheaded, burning a cigar in rib Kaitelka, it provides a stunning scream as the end of the world, giving birth to the sky his beautiful breeding, as a good omen to present to the crowd in the Octagon and pleased transit day often fruity crestfallen fig.  

Adelimpia,  Strongly taken the and Thunder Aunt, washed in the backroom their aprons with Christmas, whose magical and enlightening sense, they were the Three Wise Princes, sons of the same kings of Israel. Sitting on some cobs, heritages from last wheel spikes. On warm evenings mantra Baba Nam Kevalam, I do not stay alone without others to see this magical high flood flow mention aversion in pontificates, necessary, pal meal with wine apocalyptic pale rider, Napoleonic soldier dethroned.

Thousands of hectares grassland in loving with heavenly muddy, as adhering to the force of Sorcery Camphor to move everything to the midnight launch eclipse. Thousands of hectares squirts do not possess any extension ratio, giddiness master eye, losing possession. What is Slice is Caren Lagoon, which is Alhué Village is Polulo mountain near the place, what Pichi of Barrancas... Out of my roles temple or regulators, as night plans still dating Jack, with overall equidistant to all orphan girl lost in the jungle inbenign . Cutting room of breath begins threshing., afar put the trays, and poor saint not to attend, this clever move, all atheists bruised, stiff and deprived of the worst failure smoothness, it´s the earth not plowed,                    
              
Dreams whistles hills ... Ghosts and spurs  ... Elegy opaque optical floors, all at Aunty Thunder dream the same...

If you can call night, inland sea waves have to educate infant’s tsunamis, they live among geological forces off the coast of scudding clouds of ... where she cuts through. Where our conscience, should play down a Machiavellian zero to roll it to the belly of the whale down. Their heavy udders milk, as long as a wild bird dueled, mounted in their beards, but the bird slips for his little body often and disadvantaged, to fall into the enzyme flash neuron meditatively; aspiring meditatively. While tsunamis grow, the mountains grow, decreases Hommo sapiens, conscience, he has left, minus zero exiled to the **** pony pens, to create their neighborhood over the eyes of a pupil of warty lameness. Reborn storm, stately power, Nymph Hetaira, who seduces the ringer smith, golden horseshoe, pal new millennium. His no longer harp, sewing lips ant, threading needles Grandma milking herbs get a grotto, families abandoned, shrill understatement by the echoes of the West, for you my Transients soliloquy turbid straightening of holistic aqueous molecules who want to sleep in my hands.

Good beverage, good consciousness nursery. Sleepily he walks by the barbed wire of stupid sort of busybody in thickness bolognese, or bandoneon, pilaster grandson male, to Vizcaya sailing or North Toscana, where after a barricade, Piedmont jumps to the south under Pichi.

They are falling water molecules on Maitén tree, or Tomato Adelimpia bow, and on the fibrous and head hair grass grandmamma Anna. Junks greet Bernardolipo, which was fishing with his wounded eyes, but the rub his mouth on the back of Kaitelka, calcium verve in carrousel turned. Line up the right hand, bottled lady Juana, he stretched to crush cilantro, but no ... or both...

Reigns for ?, to allocate a stop along the way, West Side Story Pichi. We are a few steps from misting dawn of propionate Stoics lash the oppressed people, clear water, singing  ... neuron in neuron, the cell last neuron, with the bow remained foul-mouthed, to shuffle, or Kawashkar Chilean Indian the slice of the leg, looking shoe children who roam the street without a blanket. They close their eyes, tears of shame. Here you are ecstatic stiffs arrows bows, feathers swaying in edgings shields tangled, hordes of haggard eyes flamed flames that no impudence and, which limp to a scoundrel that stuns resistant to fall on the sand. Show your dream, that dream bathe.

Continues the fierce Primor, falls brochures from red heaven fall prayers stammering to advance on this land saga, fall rustic donatives of grandmamma Mayor of coelum, Joshua insomniac in his tabernacle, defoliating his tome skip and jump down the estuary, before every misstep, holy water to step, a smile the Loica rural place Or a caress to the cheek moon in the arms of a blackbird, manacled to a rasp, stove teapot levitating top where grandmamma Adelimpia wheezes. Hail Mary ever ******, the other day, I heard that in September, flapping fall on Fiddler praise, perhaps mediate, for bad talking, founder of my undying love of life joined empty verbs on clovers where I to live forever, pre, pre paella prize moaning on my shoulder osteoarthritis crucifying collapsed tree. Nightmare builds a ship to reach Legion Mary. Centerfold, guns, howitzers, dissident’s ovaries ... final pages, declamatory winds ... perhaps agonizing leg expectantly... Or delusional feet of premature mortality, which brought pray to heaven, earth ... at soon I have to forget. The earth gives me the cheese, and bread sandwiching it goes...

Between him and earth coelum I doze my motive piece body, my shepherd Beetle Maximilian of Auschwitz sprayed me holy water the Vistula, I kneel down my hinges, and my hands for pray by pure attained effort, ***** great feat, who believes fall the abyss, and just below the earth tremulous, bell, first-throat yawning, loose cassock sounds a rainy morning, falling in the forest priority to see all morning, brimming with couplets of snow.

Continue to fall aqueous molecules, Kaitelka divides the estuary waters. Sheets of – Talami rural high lawns and wise water, South of  Pichi. Follow the dream, and just needed to uprighted the cabin, roaring gallop, wake up tomorrow morning sweaty dancing aqua, font of Lourdes, the four simultaneously open their headlights eyes, unblinking as echoes swimming duck feeding their young in the obsidian lagoon. Rock palafitte a piece of coal painted black each carriage serene, going from the Cantillana Mountain. Blasphemes morning fall roe bellowing wind annoyed tongue, windless striding through the window, thunderbirds mistress thousand flanks, now mount the besieged strands of colloidal solid. Elegy, opaque optical dreams, and drovers days nearsighted, soon saved our lives...

The never End.
hiperverb and imaginery poetry, based upon the eternal endless realistic living and non  logic  retoric literature.
copyrigth JOSE LUIS CT  2018
C X Rutledge Dec 2014
Here I am, drunk again.
So long friend.
I can't recall how many times I tried to reach you. Or how many time my student became the teacher, but I'm drunk again.
Remember all those bottles left unshared.
Got my brain in a snare.
Remember how I tried to care? But I'm drunk again.
Tip the top til it topples over, this stables staggering, are we sure it's sober?
No, no, November was waiting but we're still just debating. Am I drunk again?
Killed you with water, drownd you with tomorrow's sorrow.
But we're you listening?
This fires raging but still contained. I promised I'd stay sain, if only to show you.
If only to hold you.
If only I was sober.
If only you would stop smoking those sick clovers.
But I'm drunk again.
So long friend.
Drunk :p

— The End —