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CK Baker Feb 13
Dry veins branch the dead gulch
cinder cone set on a marbled tan scape
fanning sands sketch, ephemeral
fossil plates fold under columns of gray

Mountain back steep at the crevasse
sinkhole spots form on parallel nine
sulfur pipe stems from molten ash
aching shrubs and crumbling spines

silt fields cover the foothills
swayback shed at the whipple tree barn
tumbledown shacks form the patchwork
from goat canyon ranch to big bison farm

Salt lake fractured with amber
sickle-bush cut at the bowline knot
half-moon traced by the viper
oxbow streams, and valley grot
P E Kaplan Apr 2014
First I spied the neck, sagging innocently enough,
one might even say blissfully, reflected in the glass laptop.
The phrase "whodunit" came out of nowhere,
and a low, silky, voice whispered,
"Aw, don't stop before the good part."

The villain left a few clues; the wispy hair strands;
some scattered age spots, skin tags, a few moles,
listless, crinkly, skin pale, lightly pimpled,
and a weird, wrinkly crevasse teased,
"Aw, don't stop before the good part."

Totally hooked, curiosity piqued; southward I spotted
where a once perky treasure "chest" was hidden,
two solemn, half-empty grain sacks, laying sideways,
basically lifeless they lazily muttered,
"Aw, don't stop before the good part."

The final chapter, the mystery solved,
no crime, no villain, nothing stolen, just flesh alchemy.
Where once a taut, flat, plateau of supple skin, resided
now a lumpy, bumpy, flabby belly, murmured sweetly,
"Boston Creme Pie and a cup of tea would hit the spot."
Corey Jan 3
The heaviness of the night
is lifted
with the brightness of the sun
shining down on new opportunities

Pouring over the world
ever slowly
and into every crevasse,
like liquid gold;

honey, You deserve it wholly
The golden reflections of
the brightest moments
Dawnstar Mar 2018
i like very much the sound of
my bones beneath your bones—
although comparatively softer
than mine—still made from
protons and neutrons and electrons,
all deservingly placed
in their element.
i like bonding with you,
and bridging the black crevasse;
hold me warm,
so i'll forget how
water feels in solid form.
Updated Jul. 15, 2019.
Detached Aug 2018
Oh how I long to hold thee taut.
Surrounding myself with heavenly grace.

Engulfed by thy warm flesh, savoring every touch.
Memorizing every crevasse, every inch. Yes it is a must.

A must to lay mine eyes upon this devilish angel I call my Queen.
For she is both my curse and blessing.

I have my doubts, this much is certain. Oh but rest thine heart, it is in thee not.

My demons they torment me, to say the least; because it's your happiness I do seek.

For if I am not your desired release from this barbaric world, show me one more mercy, I pray thee.

If you are not my Queen, there is no excuse to be, tell my demons to be free and please, please devour me.

The agony I could not withstand, not even for a moment. Your absence, oh God your absence, I...I could not bare it..
croob Oct 2018
dear me, where to begin?
a chasm appeared in my backyard;
a cavernous crevasse, ******* in surrounding squirrels.
the grass around turned brown and marred
and our oaks fell to the underworld.
by force of fussy gravity, my heavy wife was hurled
into this ceaseless cavity, junk food for earth unfurled.
i gasped - alas! - my gal won't even get a hearse,
and curse that cursed concavity,
but perhaps i made it worse.
what should i do?

-desperate in detroit

dear desperate,

thank you for writing in.
that hole (inside your heart) must hurt.
heed my sage advice, good man:
fill that big guy up with dirt.

-wisdom william
a revision
Honey tastes slow, glowing like amber
Trapping touch in a heady crush of warm
Nestling between my ******* where sweat pools, delicate
Dipping fingers into pots, swirling, lingering
Licking the syrupy sweetness
Craving the rose scented dark and the musk

You, above me like summer
Creating me from the flesh of your hands
Describe me with your kisses, unwrap me with whispers
Suspend the rules of us between my lips
Breathe your will into words that glint with
Consequence, etching heat into flesh
Charge the oxygen around us with sweet almostpain
That draws out my ghosts, blood over flames
Leading the Moon out into the depths, into the crevasse
Wallowing in my softest curves as you
Follow me down to the forest bed and
Claim my world as your Fetish

And if I open to your insistence, slowly unlaced
Kiss me in obscenity until I speak in tongues
Silence me with your sternest hand of fire on flesh
Bring my bruises to boil beneath your gaze while l,
Shyly revealed by your voice,
Try to cover my eggshells and hush my moans

You, beneath me like summer
The seed will grow where l place my kisses
Divining water from your ancient well
Suckling the slick pomegranate flesh
Until the star on your forehead is burning
Shudderfall down into night, into my storm
Collide in me, where the clouds are heavy with rain and lust
Leading the Moon down into the depths, into the crevasse
Melding desire with Fate as you
Meet me down on the forest floor and
Claim my love as your Fetish

Wrap my body in silken cords that sing of you
Handfast beyond gesture
My flesh, your manifesto
Losing her
meant losing myself
into a crevasse
of dark shadows
memories that once
were moments of complete
are now faded coffee stains
on the kitchen table
Whittney May 26
what’s the fastest lie to come out of your mouth when you’re standing on the edge of a mistake that could catapult you into a crevasse even the most experienced alpine climber couldn’t escape—-and once you’ve gotten stuck, would you cut through the tendons of the lie Or would you continue to dig down deep and end up on a Jules Verne adventure tale fueled by a fib—-maybe it’s a small untruth, like the tiniest microorganisms under the microscope- a micro lie- one that will make you trip over your tongue like a pebble on an otherwise clear path——it makes you fall, maybe scrape a knee or an elbow, then you forget. Until the scabs start to itch, and when you scratch them, they bleed the truth
annh May 26
Beyond the shanty town of Midtendrift, where the moneylenders ply their trade among the aimless and avaristic, lie the ice prairies of Ensomfelt. The region is a barren wasteland whose boundaries are flanked to the west by the bottomless crevasse of Issorg and to the east by Lake Hjertestorm.

Those who come to wander this no-man’s-land may find that they disappear from the earth for a time - from themselves, and from the memory of others. Relying only on inspiration to guide them, they pass this way unseen, their weary feet making shallow graves in the freshly fallen snow.

The rocky outcrop at Engeldrøm marks the gateway to the in-countries. Nestled beneath the foothills of Mount Håp, this is the place to which souls lost to the world of ego and ambition return to take up their torch and remember.

During the long northern winter, the sky above Håp is an expanse of indigo ocean punctuated with an infinity of lamplights. Among these lanterns which float free of the earth, the North Star shines the brightest. It is here that you will find your journey’s end and a treasure trove of truth, forged in fire and sealed in ice.

Apologies for the bastardised Norwegian:
Midtendrift - Middle Drift
Ensomfelt - Lonely Field
Issorg - Ice Sorrow
Hjertestorm - Heart Storm
Engeldrøm - Angel Dream
Håp - Hope
AD Mullin Feb 16
I am of vulnerability
fun and

I am of devotion
tolerance and

I am of perseverance
deviance and

I am of purging
worth and

I am of polity
me and

I am of humour
kin and

I am of the salt of the earth of the wind of the fire of the driving rain and the glaciers crevasse.

Who am I?

I am one of your tribe
and I need you tonight.
There's something about you
I sit betwixt the laughters,
The margins in between,
Moments unnoticed,
Those easily ignored.

Attention is drawn to instance,
But must be dragged to dereliction.

Worming within words woven,
Cowering in the safety of kissed teeth,
Solace secured as someone scrutinises how to silence the silence,
Grateful for the respite.

Squeels from the pit of my stomach,
Causing only echoes back from my tongue,
Trickling crude treacle, trawls south back through my throat,
Finding no refinement, reclaims residence in my centre.
Waiting to rejoin the cycle and another all clear for launch.

Traceless transaction as interactions lapse,
The regenerative amnion of your “awkward silence”,
Perspectives polarised,
Unwittingly burying me in the hole you endeavour to fill,
Unable to comprehend the precipitous crevasse simple shovelling could not plug.

The ever exhausting pantomime,
forcibly cast.

So I take shelter in intermission,
Where no one need pretend,
At peace in my own trenches,
As unpleasant as it seems.
No need to scale the embankments for a fool’s run at no man’s land.

Though still a subterranean prison,
The siren call of Stockholm glistens in the gloom.
My magpie’s eye lays yellow bricks forward,
Through a self destructive syndrome,
Easing the path with each retreat.

Remortgaging contentment,
Time and time again.

Addicted to appeasing that tidal will: subconscious.
Welcome the bailiffs later,
To collect debts of regret,
Postponed event horizons,
When I’ve no injunctions left.

If only absence bellowed as loud as laughter.
You would hear me.
Emery Iler Jan 25
Hovering, its gentle, gleam a'glitter,
Sun rays hugging so daintily the plains of grass
That it could have been akin to quiet coveting
Of their transient green so far from its grasp

Then, as if in secret rising from the earth's coat,
From blades made chartreuse with sunset's caress,
There lifts a drunken, blanketed quiet that fill-
In preparation for the night- the land's every crevasse

Upon the branches arching, merging, enweaving,
Where the last few robins had been orchestrating,
The leaves give their tiny bodies up to the fading breeze;
A waltz so natural both need not bother hesitant contemplating

In dappling, splotching, sparks of amber scintillating a hue,
The trees too the sun embraces; the shades of sunlight
Creating a calico on its surface, still dull greens and greys amidst
Its autumn forgery, aureate bleeding bright

Nocturnal symphonies crescendo in harmonic chirps, croaks, and hoots;
As sunlight spools it's last golden threads to defy it's cruel god or master,
Who reigns, an even more kingly victory, wins last of battles, drags the sun down
To horizon's prison- subterranean capture.
Inspired by the odes of John Keats, I think modern poetry may have lost a hint of the same sort of grace, cleverness, and beauty he was so talented at creating.
L B Nov 2018
The snow has a hand in it
as it gently covers all
the russet cheek of fall
With its myriad of hands

Snow opens up a place
among the covering leaves
Rests its palm
along the warmth of earth
sinks its fingers into heaves
and waits a moment

Winter is an expert
at November's need for lenient fondlings  
He remembers
edging for surrender
of a dying spring
His touches linger
as the earth quails at the gate
with shivering cries
she tries
to pull away

Cold desire overwhelms her
Cold insists
His swelling frosted fingers
force into the earth
in every way of water--
freezing crystals can desire
They imagine how to dilate
to winter max

She tries not to--  
Heaves up her hills to block his way
He stops her  
with his white-fist wind
his frozen grip  
Depths so patiently insist
Such weight smothers all
With drifting swirling tongue
He fills her once-warm mouth
Settles into empty nest of limbs
and lets the wind drive him
ever deeper

into the need of winter
Regretfully consensual.  What else can we do with winter?
SpiritHeart67 Apr 27
These mountainous gaps
Between what I know is right
and should be
and what actually is
Leave me gaping in doubt,
uncertain we will ever be able
to transverse this crevasse
Spanning the distance from you to me.

I won't ever allow for less from you
than we deserve
and know you are worthy
of offering me.
I try to balance
and accept your capabilities,
remember just cuz you have it to give
doesn't mean you will,
accepting with Grace and Love
that which you do.

If I do not walk this tightrope carefully,
I know there is no net to save me...

— The End —