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"deforest" poems
Memories are like fire, they can execute or inspire, satiate cooked on a plate, deforest when filled with hate. Running like lava through varicose veins, embers smolder ready to ignite, or extinguish the remembrance.
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Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 7:11 AM UTC
Memories
She stands leaning against the wall, wearing a camoulflage shade, and she admits, it's the new fashion. She looks at me and winks - "See, this is my camouflage. The one you prune and deforest is me."
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May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 4:20 AM UTC
Camouflage
Disgusted now that America is busted For voting in sewer rats and gone to bat For making this into an autocracy, Working to gut democracy and replace it, Deface and deforest all of the best Then sell off the rest of the planet From the water to the granite Leaving only inedible gold Shoved into the the wallets Of the national pickpockets And liars while they set fires And burn down the country With their hatred and bigotry Unchecked by the lazy populace Too stupid to know what danger is While it is marching into their homes Making every state a danger zone. The traitors who own the industries Hold a gun to journalist monopolies So that artificial realities are sold As socialized necessities To people who prefer tabloids To history books and crave bromides For this time it is the Christians That fiddle while Rome turns to ruins And ashes surrounded by those who fought While a complacent half of America did not. I am sickened at the laziness, The political father of craziness Has let this horror happen to this, The country of which I was always proud, And sick of how loud the rats are That they have taken destruction so far That we may never recover again And start to elect countrymen Instead of men to own the country Without a scintilla of modesty And treat fine people shoddily Merely because they can. Who needs that kind of man?
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Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 6:30 PM UTC
SICK AND SADDENED
I feel I am still the hero The hero of hope and calm With thorny branches and green leaves No matter, the snow fall No matter, the hot sun Always standstill till the death With the hope to bloom with flowers To serve the mankind with fruits No matter, they cut me No matter, they deforest me. I feel I am still the hero. No bother of future No thoughts of past I just grow to make you thrive To restore peace with yourself Oh! People look over me Do not make yourself sick Sick of losing hope and calm Make a promise, cultivate me Take a vow, decorate me I will gift you the power of calm With peace within you I feel I am still the hero I feel I am still the hero
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Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
Hero
a bongo twist and cast this strip that gleefully carom through pastures where shepherd has fallen asleep while they deforest the fringe only to carry their cold shoulders with frills     that spy with Putin
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Sep 1, 2017
Sep 1, 2017 at 8:01 AM UTC
Bongo Barry
I'm back in the world Where nothing makes sense Except this existence In past/future tense In utopian Andes I see ancient temples The Inka my children Move mountains to meet you Build cities to greet you Like Yavin 4 Rivendell Fairy tales come true For Shangri La lenses Through which I have seen through Become the cascading And fuego throat truth spew Of my stoic peaks Where too much green to see blue Is wild and thriving In time is the essence The stench of surviving The sweet effervescence My love evanescent All relative bliss In a world luminescent A powerful cleansing Of flowerful jungles And showers replenishing Buzzing bee bumbles Who ride like the winds As they uplift my wings In a chorus of eagles To harpyist strings Yes indeed we're a breed That is rare and in need Of a high elevation To teach and to lead To share and to spread Every bountiful seed We are young and incredibly gifted and freed By the journeys we take To mortality's edge Then we leap from the faith Of a bungee jump ledge For these trips into falls Are immortal in dreams So sublime and surreal In our consciousness streams As we turn up the offspring The life here it teems And we are the Mother Earth's Ends to the means The rust in the gears Of deforest machines Who dare cut us down From the summits we've reached When transcending the limits Of Heavens we've breached
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Jun 19, 2017
Jun 19, 2017 at 9:11 PM UTC
The Beauty of Banos