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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
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
CK Baker Feb 2017
it falls through the glow of the wintery trees
building a cover under the breeze
luminous lights sparkle and hatch
snow pack high on the briar patch

pine cones fall from majestic fir
squirrel and robin rustle and stir
sitka spruce at tunnel bluffs
ravens roost on cedar rough

dusted peaks at hurley pass
snowline cuts the avalanche
fox and lynx are on the prowl
hollow eyes from spotted owl

cool winds up the valley trail
whirling snow from diamond vale
chilling flakes in candle hands
moonlight shines across the land

northern lights in krypton green
the sounds of verve are bitter sweet
curtains hang on a cold dark sky
counting stars, a lullaby
CK Baker Jan 2017
cedar planks line the dim lit hall
morning snow begins to fall
sepia print in a chip wood frame
embers spark from the franklin flame

rustling sounds from bunks below
records play in a tight alcove
bacon grills on the iron sheet
gloves are warmed by baseboard heat

bean bags tossed on colored ****
papka placed as a punching bag
red brick wall with mounted poles
windows filled with glacier bowls

whiskey jack on the southern rail
a frozen patch of wine and ale
pine cones fall in gathering white
brothers bathed in firelight

sleighs are on the table top
canyon road is at a stop
northern winds that bite the face
lines are up the gondola base

cornice clipped on gully goat
the rubber man appears to float
alpine depths are on the rise
peaking sun through parting skies

triple ropes and nordic luge
honored guests from baton rouge
gelande jumps on rainbow drive
nostalgia’s light and warm reply
thomezzz Sep 2018
she liked the color yellow because it calmed her
its brightness soothed her soul
and the sight of a yellow flower
always brought her joy
it illuminated her dark days
and stormy weather
it always seemed to try so hard
to be happy
A quality she could relate to

but one day, she met a boy who liked orange
a color she always said she hated
its hue too close to yellow
but too different to be enjoyed
she never wore the color orange
felt as if it drew attention to her
when she was content enough
to be invisible
in the corner of the room

her favorite color was yellow
and his was orange
but she never liked that color
with its harshness and severity
it reminded her
of traffic cones
and reflector vests
of emergencies
and warning signs

But one day, she realized
he reminded her of the color yellow
he soothed her soul
illuminated her dark days
and calmed her storms
he never seemed to try too hard
but always managed to make her smile

she realized yellow and orange
weren't that different after all
and when the two hues came together
her, perpetually the color yellow
him, forever orange
she felt like the only girl in the room

the colors yellow and orange
started to bleed together
and orange came to remind her
of fallen leaves
and clear sunsets
of butterflies
and sprinkled zest

and in time
as she grew to love him
the color orange started to become
just as beautiful as yellow
CK Baker Dec 2017
trip up the island to see all the folk
monopoly, pong => pig 'n a poke
crystalline glass with dark bitter ale
Santa is looking a little bit pale

cherry red cheeks from a chilled chardonnay
one sailing wait for the talk of the day
drum sticks and dressing are the pick of the bird
chestnuts and brandy for gravy being stirred

brussels and taters are pulled from the bake
pears in the salad bring memories of Jake
sparks from the fire with rich amber glow
grey hair and wrinkles will come...don't you know?

gingerbread man with a white icing smile
candy cane schnapps (with its seasonal style!)
pine cones and tinsel that cover the tree
carols are humming from churches and streets

cold winter nights are the best of the year
chocolate and eggnog await with good cheer
a heavy thick fog approaches the sound
the comforts of Christmas, with joy all around!
Vicki Kralapp Sep 2018
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer,
painting maples in hues of brilliant oranges and reds.
Long shadows of late September streak across the last blades of grass,
as Fall’s stark contrasts light the afternoon.

The seasonal wind breathes cold with the smell of autumn in the air.
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer,
while cottony clouds in a sea of cornflower blue, slowly slide out of view,
chased down by v’s of geese as they race across the sun.

Helicopter seeds line the sidewalks, green and gold, as others float on the wind,
down to join with cones and acorns awaiting next year’s crop.  
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer.
Crows, harbingers of the winter to come, make their sad calls.

Squirrels pause to pack their cheeks with Fall’s fare and scurry to secret caches,
their bulging cheeks filled with fallen nuts and acorns.
Fall greets me with a kiss as summer bows to its chill, as
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer.
Autumn Quatern.

All poems are copy written and soul property of Vicki Kralapp.
Dried logs at the preserve,
Sleeping trunks
forgotten by the lushness around,
Burnt logs by sunrays of indifference.

Logs near Kitching Creek,
pine needles dangling, soothing breezes soften the air around the logs.

Erected pine trees
stand adamant and firm,
like foremen by the clock of the seasons.

Pine Cones at the crown of the trees;
pine cones by their dried roots on the ashen sand.

A thriving log tries to set roots once again; the nature around it
engulfed its hopes.
Nico Julleza Aug 2017
Crawling down the streets
on pouring rain
darkness cares of creeps
hovering their pain
the lamp post on their niche
thunder blunders a hit
to an abbey
where we used to meet
with white lane trails
and colored vales
a flashback in memory lane

Time used to stop and stare
for a while
to vanish the pain, I bare
and look a step back
from the mile

were we used to melt away
from cones of treats
and giggled from candies
we barely eat
with swirling clouds in play
gazing our hearts
in the moss of grass, we lay

Then a change led you to leave
you cared nothing
but your selfish greed
anxiously I gave all of Me
but just to realize
you gave nothing of thee

As I die
a sign in my heart reside
an echo awakening
a brave woman, a reborn rite
with wiped away tears
and faking leers
she flaunts out her pain

A brave woman
brave enough to begin again
#Brave #Love #Again #Way #RiseAgain #Women

To All the Strong Women Out there, Including My Mom.. I Salute you.
God Bless Poets

(NCJ)POETRYProductions. ©2017
Irate Watcher Sep 2018
the monster,
is black sludge.
He engulfs
all alive,
about the ongoing
where to go.
trf Jan 30
it's a bone dry west
for a cool east summer
i'm steeple chasing baby
from a derby to a dungeon

orange cones on the left
bright beams on a Hummer
i'm flicking off the bird
from nevada to wyoming

get this load off my chest
it burns April like a stoner
i'm a bayou baby
from the streets of magnolia
HA, fuckit. you figure it out
Pradeep Dec 2018
To hear a bird singing  
like a flute has come to life,
to hear the water flow
of its own free will,
with a transparent glow.
Of slices of warmth,
of sun's golden cones
splayed upon.
That's silence.

The randomness of the plan
to arrive to myself,
invite me to me,
unravel me to me,
gift 'now' to me,
grand, not showy,
fleeting yet eternal.

The bird stops singing,
the water stops flowing,
my mind is still,
not seeing beyond now,
not seeking beyond now,
finding a sweetspot,
a crevice
through which I fall
uncaring but aware,
deep into a depth unknown,
into a safe and inviting well
of silence.

In the well of wellness,
dusting off layers
of noise cobwebs,
letting peace heal
me with light,
the warmth just right,
I rise more than I fall,
as colors orange, gold and blue
each a kiss on my being blew,
as in mother's ****,
both of us asleep,
silence our lullaby,
setting us free.

A hammock of calm caresses
soft and polite,
half closing my eyes,
whispering to my nerves,
I am home.
Where I come from,
and always welcome
to revisit
the **** of silence.

Have you ever read the most beautiful famous lines
in the world of poetry,
what a poet's or poetess bleeds.
When you open a book of poetry,
You can almost feel what they feel
your heart is so touched
by those famous lines
that truly come to life.
Oh, how those painful times
where sorrow and misery finds love
painful times of one's life
makes beauty in ones writing of truth.
Hardship is the art of one's soul
the beauty of letting the world know
when pain brought on so much rain
yet, had to learn to dance all over again.
Life is like a poetic seed
what unveils the true soul
of what life has sown
the good and the bad
Yet, we still learn to forgive.
When you open a book of poetry
the prose and the cones
where life still moved on,
Yes, life can make your soul grow weary
yet, make you strong through meager storms.
Yet, life can show you love
and happiness.
Love and life is a gift to us all
were suffering and death comes along
like that old famous love song
the heart must keep beating on.
where delusions and confusions
takes its own stand.
Where the poet's and poetess' heart
creates art to the readers' minds.
Were pain truly dwells
and love and sorrows lived
in a place called the reality of truth.
We live, and die,
yet, we cry, and love
we grow to be strong or weak
we eat and sleep
soon come dreams.
Poet's and poetess write those sad
and painful lines
were fantasy comes to life,
Were dreams can
empowers the mind.
So, what is poetry without pain and love
life would be nothing,
poetry is about life and death
we live it and we breathe it
so why can we not read about it?
each and every day
we see the gray
we see the light of life
we write truth and fantasy
to give rest and peace.
Because this is the way
true reality is,
artists of poetry are what one bleeds
it is the life long stage
we see every day
For the whole world to read
What it is the poets and poetess bleeds
because we are human
just like anyone else
Life isn't an easy place to live
yet, we do our best to live in it
and that is what you call reality
in what a true poet's and poetess write
whatever comes to their human minds.

Poetic Judy Emery © 2000
Copyright © Judy Emery| Year Posted 2000
Jesse stillwater Dec 2018
Mushrooms popping
up everywhere
moving pine-cones
like unturned stones
not even the weight
of lapsing maple leaves
can keep them down
as they reach up for sun

Four legged soul-mate
friskily passes them by
on her way to sparse
apples the deer didn't find
looking for a moment
to feel sun's slithering balm
where the mushrooms
bask in a warmhearted calm
Jesse — 2018
a walk outback
a minute ago near sunset
Mary Velarde Jun 2018
I sometimes look back at 6th grade classroom settings
and i wonder about the times
i would raise my hand low enough
to be seen,
but high enough to be acknowledged
that i tried.

I reminisce about the times
when the words could’ve easily
catapulted out of my mouth
but there had always been bright orange road cones
placed on my tongue
with a permit;
my signature on them forged by
the things in my head that cause me to tremble
when i ask for directions without practice,
if i raise my hand without practice,
walk around without practice,
do some-*******-thing on my own without practice,
practice, practice, p-pr-practice, don’t stutter,
practice, perfect.
I sometimes fold my paper in half
because i know what its like
to take up too much space.
Turbulence always equals
plane crash.
Chances, to me, were always either just one, or only ever finite.

But he’s got that infectious laugh,
and he held my hand
the whole cab ride back home
until they stopped shaking.
When he wraps his arms around me,
I begin to understand that vacant parking lots
never stay empty for long and sometimes ringing car alarms
are better than the silence I pretend to love.

And I didn’t get it.
I didn’t get how people could be so courageous.
Anxiety has a weird way of
making the process of falling the scariest
thing of all instead of the actual landing.
But those brown eyes had reminded me that
love lullabies our troubles to sleep.
Love turns the quiet into a symphony
of voices of all the people
whose heart you keep in your palms.
Love turns the trembling into a warm embrace.
Love never had to be a home.
it was a resting place
even for the restless.
This piece is meant to be read out loud.
LexiSully Jun 2018
As I looked down, the cobblestone was alive,
Dancing to the music of a live band,
Walking with wandering tourists,
Laughing with children eating ice cream cones

And there I was, watching silently,
Apart from the soul,
Yet beating right along with the heart.
Isolated mono-crops can’t control our hunger.
Monkeys with guns shoot at their lovers.
Punish them with lightning.
Turn them into upside down ice-cream cones.
A conversation with hundreds of overtones.
Harmonics are fire, night-time is a liar,
and we already gave you
everything you desired.
Aléa Boodoo Jan 29
Can we be friends again?
I used to think I could never just be your friend.
But we can. Before all that other **** occurred.
Is it a one-sided hurt? You looked fine the whole time. It’s absurd.
Every night since, I shed one less tear. What is now easy, was once hard.
This is my way of telling myself that I can’t bring you back with a letter, or card.
Did you dream about our end? Did you practice or rehearse?
Since when does forever mean temporary? Hearing your name always made it worse.
My forever is infinity. When I said I could love forever, I meant it.
Why couldn’t you imagine a future with us, meanwhile I had always dreamt it.
I’m still learning to forget. You. Us. The Misunderstanding. The summer trip.
The summer of fried chicken, and waffle cones. Ice cream, but not a single chocolate chip.
You made me run into the thing I’ve been running away from.
We ended up becoming the exact thing I tried hard not to let us become.
You were helping me control it, but the you started adding to my stress.
Is it bad that I want to forget out beautiful mess?
I wasn’t your first. You weren’t my last.
I admire how you made love, and heartbreak look easy, but how’d you move on so fast?
We were good while we did last. I’m not broken anymore. Someone else gave me a cast.
I’m proud to say that I live in the current year now. No longer in the past.
You swam with me in the ocean of love, but left me drowning in all the feels.
I only want to go back to when I didn’t question if love was real.
So I’ll be refilling my heart with the love that you did steal.
Don’t get mad when you see someone else causing my broken heart to heal/
So forget about me. And I’ll try to forget about you. But I’ll still question if love is real.
Rei Coman Dec 2018
Doesn’t it ever get old?

To always be green,
to forever grow new
needles and cones,
until the day that
they tumble to the ground
for the last time?

Doesn’t it become
tiresome to stretch
ever towards the sky,
like a living skyscraper
without an architect,
building itself upwards?

Don’t your roots get sore
from centuries of digging
through soil and stone,
and the winds trying
their best to topple
and uproot you?

Or perhaps I am just
a foolish human,
a **** Sapiens
trying to comprehend
the slow, steadfast
and eternal ways
of the growing trees.
A Rivers Aug 2018
People refusing to let go of imperial dreams
Allowing laws to follow draconian themes
Posh toffs front modest behaviour while consorting with models in brothels
Squatters reck hovels on streets lined with chip cones and empty ***** bottles
Tribal influences come from across the water and is fuelled by reporters
Forming fissures between mothers and daughters to leave our communities smaller and smaller
Framed in the forties as resiliant civilians of a dominion that saved millions
Yet we haven't died the hero so have we lived long enough to become the villain?

Regional differences exist with no damage to unity
Friendly jips and jibes create dialogues of behaving co-operativley
As much as they want you to believe this is a land of strife where your as likely to meet a greeting as a knife
Tolerance is rife and social progress is the direction in which we all try to strive

Oh and the West country is the best place in the world and London can lick lick lick my *****

A star-shaped
patch of snow,
achingly white,
rests against the base
of the little white
pine, wrapped
in glittering
golds and reds, gifts
for the Christ Child.

No claw or paw
or beak or wing
has touched the snow.
Only a hidden pitch
of grass pushes
it skyward.

It shirks
its shrinkage
of the pine.
It will not
winnow until
the bright star burns.

I pass the snow
and think of nothing


Lightning split
the hide
of the 80-year-old
oak that shaded
our little tan house
each summer.

Its bark ripped
apart like
life leeching out
of its crooked limbs
in sap-soaked
streams of sorrow,
making room
for the little white pine
to thrive
in the dead of winter.

Nature is not
our friend


The pine prays to preserve
some piece of the oak
I used to love. Its needles,
like shark’s teeth,
fend off friend and foe
alike, granting it
the right to grow
wherever it likes,
even here,
at the foot of giants.

Dead, the pin oak loans
its beauty to no one,
boasts only of its hard,
straight wood,
an abiding abode
for birds and squirrels
and barking boys.

I climb to its top
each Christmas,
straining toward
the Epiphany star.

The tree sways, and
I think of nothing


The burgeoning pine
pines for such power.
You cannot cut it
without exposing
its darkened knots,
like aging spots
on my hands
and face.

It rises bright with
anemone-like cones
dappled on its coat
of single color:
      ever young.
      Ever gone,
my pilgrim oak.

I stretch toward the star
of Bethlehem,
dreaming my way
to Heaven, saying No
to the punishing
star of snow below.
Hanging high
above the Earth,
I sense the Christ Child
in my branches.

Wet, wild grasses
brush His cradle,
push me skyward,
His star my home
Written on a rare Epiphany Sunday.
There is dirt on our phones
So we polish them with our bones
Combine pine-cones and pyramids
To see the stars in your eyes
They are dry like the desert
But perhaps we are thirsty eagles
Advancing along the edges of oblivion

Keep yourself clean
And dream of my heart
We never parted
We just left each other alone
For to die happy is to find your home
So comb the sand
And do handstands alone
When you remove the demands
From your sentences
And speak in sweet undertones
You'll see the feelings
That you've already known
From here to there we've grown
Into our houses and homes
I'm waiting for you to return
Like ocean waves on better days
You once sprinkled water upon my soul
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