"expeditions" poems
*No
land **
for you.
Doomed
expeditions,
oblivion,
Only
a wreck's
inevitability,
Yet
soggy,
dogged,
Your
floating
cheer,
Echoes
in childhoods
infinite,
At water's
origin, paper's
invention...*
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 3:15 PM UTC
In glorious flight owning daylight
You magistrate freedom across
An ocean with your own box
Of twilight that you share
In a land of fish
A moonlit wish
With wings that
Kiss the
Sky
Throughout your expeditions to ground
Your voice is a dynamic sound
None can ignore your presence
What would Pandora say
When you sing that way?
Higher you fly
Distances
Many
Won't
Instruct us to use our heart compass
Open our eyes to perspective
Show us potential to live
When self-doubt is about
Like a grain of sand
May our cares be
Found without
A need
For
The liberty of our latitude
Is the length of our attitude
The way the wind blows effects
The direction we go
Our choices to be
Curiously
Ebb and flow
Waving
Lo
Behold a new dawn of bright feather
Consider the stormy weather
Notice how cloud and sun
Witness the Mother
Nature at play
Survey to
Coastal
Bay
May we find our way as you have shown
Limitless unbounded and flown
So shallow is the worry
No longer a fury
A calming has come
Soaring above
With truth in
Our hearts
Won
Riding the currents of emotions
Soaring aloft mental oceans
Wings spanned in physical worlds
Discover us great pearls
Of wisdom and poise
Joyful in noise
Good solid
Gifts of
Sage
Cleansing our spirits of past trifles
Being careful not to stifle
New growth with every gust gained
A quill, a crest, a quest
A mountain peaked with
Knowledge like the
Pier we are
Destined
To
A gate to become the best versions
Of our outstanding self-landing
Into the stars we have been
The fringe dust of pinion
Divine with the wind
Beginning free
And renewed
With no
End
© tHE tERRY tREE
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 9:15 PM UTC
Passenger seat.
Windows down.
Sun in my eyes.
Love sits on my left.
And there's trust
In the breeze.
We create little expeditions,
Until the real freedom comes.
Adventure glints in both set of eyes,
And we long for that day
When the world is completely ours.
As for now,
We walk on the edge of the limits,
Trespassing sometimes.
The wind blows through our hair
The sun gleams in our curious eyes.
One day we will never be apart.
One day adventure will have no limits.
I try not to complain,
For the adventure will always be there,
Paitiently waiting for us.
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 6:54 PM UTC
perpetual expeditions amidst this hazy twilight,
periwinkled vistas ensnaring me in
buzzzzzzzzzzzz
the sound penetrates my ear drum
black and yellow rabble-rouser
this rambunctious little menace
a pomegranate
eternally ripe, giving me life
gilled, scaled, underwater creature
emerging from the deep, boundless rift
two tantalizing tigers
troublesome, treacherous
and she laid there—
undisturbed, unaware
jabbed in her side by a M1903 Springfield
soothed state rattled, shattered
wincing from the poke of the blunt end of the gun
the sleeping lady slept no more
poor fellows,
how were they supposed to hold on to it without opposable thumbs?
the distressed damsel appeared grotesque,
flailing and fidgeting at the sight of her surroundings
surface rocking beneath my feat,
my trusty elephant’s weak ankles shattering my already shattered stability
i had no more time for such nonsenses
buzzing sounds burned deep into my psyche
the soft-spoken horizon called out to me
calling for me to continue on into the enigmatic expanse
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 12:14 PM UTC
My golden heart beats and beats for you
A thousand palpitations at any given moment
I can feel my chest caving in within every pulse
Filling my head with such evocative dialogue
The salacious sound of your slithering voice
Snakes into my head spreading like an aphrodisiac
You solicit lecherously illicit questions that unnerve my judgment
In our dreams we dreamt of double eclipses
Upon our lips while we slept and slumbered
Our bodies coiled like serpents tangled in tantric passion
With the waking of giants and mythical expeditions
Our hearts would burn the fieriest of red
Ensnared between these silken sheets
Springs tied around every exposed limb
As if we haven’t known the sweetness of sleep for days
Oct 19, 2011
Oct 19, 2011 at 8:28 PM UTC
Cake and ice cream possibilties.
We find many trying to do.
Trying to be please by two.
Just to not be alone.
But behind the disguises is a unhappy soul.
For deep within, they know the truth will emerge.
And then the excuses begins.
When going through your joyful expeditions with one.
Truth sets in with the other.
While you hoping they don't find out about one another.
Cake is tasteful and enjoyable.
And ice cream is also favorable.
But they both fades away.
Which eventually the hunter will find out one day.
Unless, the women involved like it this way.
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 8:43 AM UTC
Sun feigns heat
in a clear slate of blue above;
I gaze upon pale, brown hills and fields
through the smoke of my breath
wishing it would at least snow.
There was talk of cow-tipping
when I was in fifth grade,
but cows would've broken their necks.
Ground covered in frozen grass
is no comfort for fallen cows at 15 Fahrenheit.
Our small lake
transformed into a debating ground for skaters and hockey players,
each vying for control over the weekend's
primary source of entertainment.
(The dreadful alternative: afternoons shopping with parents.)
When it finally snowed, a wonderland was made,
a knee-high, get-out-of-school-free card.
We charted expeditions in corn fields, wooded creeks
and stone-colored barns that were beguiling in the white
of Chadds Ford pastures like untended English castles.
Woods like a Pollack of burnt sienna and white,
their only sound is weight of snow bearing down on limb.
Beyond those whispers, just a roaring silence
when I'm still as ice fingers
trying to touch the ground from the roof.
The cats of Baldwin's Book Barn nap easily within,
as we dig for a pearl amongst makeshift shelves
full of hard-bound reads for snow-bound youth.
These felines, grown, need not the words,
but the pages themselves for fine beds.
A blue-white glow from outside casts a cold light,
illuminating prints of Helga and Christina's World,
a reminder to all who live down the road.
On such a winter day, I didn't care to remember
that soon there would be Spring kittens in the books,
and a lake full of children's swimsuits.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 8:16 PM UTC
To the planet called Earth
And its so called overseers:
We are your distant neighbor
From a far-flung star
A thousand times greater than yours.
We don't come in peace.
Certainly, you may think
That your intergalactic
Space bound expeditions
Got us all figured out.
Your futile exploits
Gave you but an idea
That might turn out to be
A million light years away
From such a prized truth.
But we know everything
About your infant planet.
Your warm-blooded race
The silly thing you call Science
And your many weakness.
We have been here all along
Since the ancient times.
Your ancestors offered megaliths
And long tried to build relations.
But we were never pleased.
Your intelligence, though much inferior
Made us believe you are prepared enough
To decode encrypted messages on crop circles.
But even so with your best technology
You have failed us once again.
Humans! Take heed to the signs
And the warnings of our coming.
We have waited long enough
And gave you time to hone your potential
Only to find you stuck in your own maze.
You call us aliens, those big headed monsters
That you amuse yourself in your movies.
But you are the strangest kind of life
That our probes have ever studied.
Your saga shall be recorded well.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 4:36 AM UTC
*the ones warring on the flag of defeat can't be called either troll or parasite... too noble such entitlements, they are the **** genus worthy of ignorance, that they are found roaring on the flag of defeat, when such publicity is allowed of public musing deeper than soft-spoken in one's own room, as transcript of thought made public, ironically without one's geographic coordinates... and what lack of honour to be warring with such circumstances being allowed.*
i shouldn't have written my words among poets,
too many simplicities surrounded them,
with the poets came made surrogates,
a stillbirth, if nothing more
9 months of **** as the new economics
that gave us appreciative homosexuality,
a curbing of the expeditions of population
we didn't blame on Chinese or Blue Indians
due to having inherited masochistic Christianity,
the last greek mythology, THE, LAST!
and no more from the greek tongue! no more!
then the second feat of the suffragettes
that became the surrogates...
and yet, i stilled braved to sing
for the escapist tongue of
brotherhood that the misty mountain's cold
encapsulated... in which i braved
the brotherhood, every, second, counter,
to marriage to a woman...
domestication is no adventure! it's no adventure!
there is no fear and sudden death in
domestication... it breeds cattle! readied for
death not ready! *two dungeons deep and caverns old...
the pines were roaring on the hight!
the winds were mourning in the night...
the fire was red it flamed and spread,
the trees like torches, blazed with light.*
this... this is my ideal afterlife! take your Koran
and terrorism and take a **** in the desert with
the cats for worth of knowing such "exquisiteness"
as it might be worth mining in the dunes of sand!
while the thirst of metalloid and abstract horse-tow
gives your false timing...
and when you take this anger written on the flag
of defeat, and turn to warring with it on your own
flag of defeat... you will be conquered,
slain and tortured, as is my promise, always
honourable.
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 7:36 PM UTC
On this side of the bridge,
Between time and eternity,
A foothill to the Necropolis,
Rises the cathedral.
The remains of St. Kentigern
Maintain it, the founding Father.
The spire tops the cruciform
Pointing the way to Glorify.
Within, walls are embedded
With plagues, standards and swords,
Praising foreign campaigns
And distant expeditions
Of long lost brave hearts.
Pilgrims stand silently;
Tourists nod quietly,
Pointing at remarkable achievements
Of Empire, and the young,
Beatified on distant lands.
The fading banners protest:
For this I gave my all, my best.
The stones are cold,
The windows stained:
In the crypt, St. Mungo lies,
The foundation of all
That died.
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 10:50 AM UTC
Never he was an honest man
Who prides himself
On wanton expeditions
In a field of truth
He lies, entangled in conceit
To win that which he desires –
It is only but a game.
Mind not his mental means, nor manner –
Be he sane or psychopath –
But the strategy by which he plays:
Cheat, deceive, manipulate,
Overcome, and conquer your carnal estate.
Twisted tales, spun with golden thread
Crafted by careful practice and confidence
The master of charisma in his own head
Is no Eros, in any sense – Erosive, yes –
He is only what you want but for a brief moment
Be suspicious and expect this ever-real Narcissus.
A lecher he is
A Greek God in wish –
Nay, he only lives in the fantastic,
Though he roams about us
In a surreal bubble,
Where love comes to pass,
He is ever-so subtle
He markets himself as a Rembrandt,
Although more a moke* than baroque,
Something which he could never see
Staring into his reflection so blindly.
At a cost, worth more than his fee,
This cheap knockoff of Sal Dali,
Would sell you his love
For a buck forty-three.
Beware the lecher.
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 3:01 AM UTC
On the lower rung of the ladder she stands wide eyed,
that ambiguous smile on her lips and my yearning
has a mysterious kinship, with the mysteries of the semi-lit attic,
I could discern from the bits and pieces she revealed
with that sly look as we walked hand in hand
through the garden path as slowly as we can.
The ladies in the neighborhood would stand in groups
and look curiously at us as we walk, a sight rare in the village
where movement in thickets were the symbol of unspeakable pleasures!
A shy boy and a girl unusually bold; no demure Indian girl she is!
"See how she leads the boy, knows how to play her tune, so well
sometimes I spy the pair stand together at
the mouth of that dark cave, contemplating mysteries perhaps"
overhearing their words, I would cast eyes down as if guilty.
Beyond the uppermost rung of the ladder, is the attic
I haven't seen it yet, but she is a girl and a woman in one
who could see far beyond a boy's ken, she acts her age
what her nail marks etched on my skin is the map of her desires.
In our stealthy expeditions through winding paths my lungs
get filled with feminine smells that are intense in certain times,
our feet become slow and stop without prompt at shaded corners
scented by musky orchid blooms, where blue beetles
hum amorous tunes, then longing takes many forms of expressions.
She knew the art of looking in to my heart,
through the peep holes of eyes, then I hear her whisper as if possessed,
"You are full of sweet poetry, it's beats permeate to my body
when I hold you closer to my ***** but you need me to make it loud"
In the dark attic where the scent of black pepper and dry ginger raged
she kept her promise, her lips caressed mine,with such urgency
my eyes involuntarily, close tightly and I hear her murmurs
it was her way of bringing out my inner poetry, making it flow out
such subtle power it had, we rolled uncontrollably on the floor,
when we did we sighed together, plunging in to a wonder moment.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC
Masculinum Hyppeastrum,
monstrum;
the man eating
botanica,
the endlessly flowering plant,
had enough of me.
Went to sleep,
or worse,
he perished.
I must have said something nasty
about his size;
doesn't flower anymore,
all dried out,
doesn't do a thing,
his onion is weeping.
Christmas roses,
as I call the girls,
lost the will
to live.
All my,
previously green, flora
is pointing her leafless finger
at me.
I've done nothing,
that's the problem.
I forgot all about my green plants;
the environment is wrong,
there is too much acidity,
and that's my fault.
I will search
under the garden snow
for snow drops,
I left to themselves
two years
February,
my snow tears.
For colour,
I have lemons and limes,
green and yellow;
sitting on a traditionally,
blue, hand-painted
Chinese china platter.
River Yangtze
is still running through my mind.
Chai,
Lemon tea and lemonade.
~
Author Notes
*Flowering plants from Bahia : Hyppeastrum sp.
From the 1970s, many plant novelties from Bahia
came to light with the expeditions carried out
by Howard Irwin and collaborators
of NYBG (USA) and by Raymond Harley
from RBG-Kew (UK). This provoked a renewal
of interest, among botanists, in the flora of Bahia*
(3-1-07)
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 3:43 PM UTC
By Arcassin and Lorena
LL : There's lights flashing somewhere...
I know,
I've just been blind
Capturing insanity
Demons they fool me
They'll pull you close, then grind
Fetal position
And now,
Nothing can be fine
And nothing's alright
Stretch
My
Bones
Again
There's lights flashing somewhere...
I know,
I've just been blind,
AB: i can see it beaming from afar...
We heard,
The sounds must be solar,
I plead insanity,
Updates from the sinning tree,
We would have the greatest time,
Crazy expeditions,
Well how?
No need to sigh,
Just get thru the night,
Take,
It,
All,
In,
I can see it beaming from afar...
We heard,
They must be solar.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 12:44 AM UTC
why why why
i cannot get into your mind
too distracted, too kludgy
humbled me three times
too busy running
why why why
i cannot seem to ever find
the solace in solo expeditions
deficit without you by my side
too busy running
from my pretty eyes
Jul 27, 2024
Jul 27, 2024 at 1:00 PM UTC
I do not remember my father as a demonstrative man,
but, hobbled though he was by a pre-war psyche,
we never doubted the depth of his affection for us.
His love of nature shaped our own perceptions of life
and his love of sport showed us the path of true competition,
that the essence is not to better others but to better oneself.
He transfused the ocean into us so thoroughly
that we will go to our graves with salt on our lips.
At all the painful pinnacles of growing
my father was there like a crampon you know will not fail you.
A towering lighthouse in his hat and dark suit
as he led me through the convent gate on my first day
and gently cut me adrift in the cruel seas of education
where the nuns patrolled the playground like killer whales
in search of seals.
He went ahead to each new town to make things ready for us
when I started boarding school he let me go in confidence
he bailed me out of scrapes with the law,
he was as certain as the mountain of his beloved Taranaki
and as solid as the beams of a whare runanga.
When I returned from overseas
my father and I found a space in our lives
where we could really get to know each other.
Through a winter that sparkled
he led me on odysseys into his soul
through the walkways, forests, rivers and coastline
of the city of his birth
which will, one day, witness his death.
If I were allowed only one memory of my father
it would be this: seaweed expeditions.
The northeast winds blew a bounty for his garden
onto the reefs around Belt Road
and at low tide we descended with our gumboots and sacks
to gather the fleshy harvest with its nitrogen-rich pods.
He had a system.
We heaped the seaweed on a number of high, dry rocks
then bagged from first to Iast to allow time for the seawater
to drain and the burden to be lessened.
I watched him as he moved around and about as deliberately
as a crab,
gathering the morsels,
bending to scoop the necklaces from the sea,
the sun's purple fire in the white, white, white of his hair.
He had seaweed in plenty at home,
it was the experience he craved.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 6:54 PM UTC
i'm your "Pluto"
i may get lost away from your all round system,
but my absence will no way allow
your hands to position 'an another',
nevertheless your heart beats for the'other' better.
i'm your "Pluto"
i too have quite a complex and mysterious world,
some parts yet not revealed but,
my heavens will ask you to retain for the hour,
when every treasures will be unlocked by you,
"memories exploding with entitled expeditions",
that's what your dreams are and mine
is to "materialize all yours".
i'm your "Pluto"
and you are my spirited sun,
and my round around the sun is discrete
not the same like others do,but "rare" as you are.
i'm your "Pluto"
and my surface is extremely cold,
it's a hell me as
life sustains only for certain period,
and with those lives i have a lots of thoughts,
that i share with myself all the day alone.
"you look cool,hope you stay here forever and ever."
i'm your "Pluto"
and you are my "Charon",
with you together till death do us apart
will the "together planet".
(i wish,i worth every single letter of it)
Mar 3, 2020
Mar 3, 2020 at 9:39 AM UTC
Under the tree
Under the shade
I sat me down and wrote my poem
In the heat of noontide
The braze of summer
Reminiscence of my trials
Under the tree
Under the shade
I stood and sat
Stood and walked around
Aimlessly in heaviness
Wondering how, why and what for
Under the tree
Under the shade
I sat with my pen
And wrote my song immortal
Recounting my quondam thralldom
The genesis of my exodus
The Numbering of my lapidation
The Levitical ministry of providence
The Deuteronomic prospects of victoire
The Joshua-like expeditions and vigils
That brought triumph on enemy
And lead my feet to Canaan
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 9:32 AM UTC
Your face
Sooooooo **** cute.
Your lips.
soft. Oh my god...so soft
Your eyes.
Perfect. So bright and full of life
Your hair
The way it blows in the wind got me worked up, ***
I love every thing about you.
Your voice is so soothing
I could be in the middle of gunfire,
Hear your voice
And
relax
You cary me away into another world.
my wonder woman
Perfect in all ways...
Better than wonder woman.
Better than any woman.
If i may,
Can i say,
You are hot.
****
Beautiful
Stunning
all of the above
Your personality is unmatched.
I tell you this alot.
But only now have i chosen
To focus
On you
Further
And see
What my eyes see
As well as
What my heart sees.
I love you.
My dear, dear Angel.
Just knowing that you love me
Sends me to the moon
(That was cheesy af)
But its true.
Baby,
Oh my god
I love you
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 5:23 PM UTC
A life long lived is a life filled with nothing but emptiness,
A life well lived is a life filled with exotic wilderness.
A life complete is a life well nourished,
A life with love is a life filled with fresh water.
A life with joy s a life filled with intoxicating perfumes of fresh flowers,
A life filled with expeditions is a life filled with hope.
A life filled with hope is a life well lived,
A life filled with graciousness is a life filled with extravagances.
A life filled with mercy is a life filled with joy.
A life filled with extravagances is a life filled with expeditions.
A life filled with fresh water is a life filled with graciousness.
A life lived in an exotic wilderness is a life that is complete.
A life that is well nourished is a long life that is filled with fulfilment.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 8:14 AM UTC
on the way back
from Inverell
I had the foot at full throttle
the coppers were secreted
behind a clump of trees
as I whizzed along with speed
they detected my rapid pace of progress
and in no time
they were tailing me
flashing red and blue lights
caught my view
at that point I knew
I'd be served with a ticket
for driving in a manner
far too ****
but when the policeman
pulled me up
he gave me a stern warning
not to be low flying
down the road
and on future expeditions
over the tar
remember to watch
the weight of the foot
on the accelerator bar
you just never know
where the law is hiding out
as it can hit you
with a speeding fine
most stout
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 6:39 PM UTC
When I was younger, I would dig holes in
The backyard, hoping to find some treasure
Or arrive in China. I would dig, dig,
And dig until I got bored or was told
To stop, but would soon be back out, trying
Once more to arrive in China or find
Some treasure. My expeditions could be
Put on hold, but never stopped. When I took
Breaks from digging, my desire to find
Something (like a water droplet on the
End of a spigot: building, building, and
Building until it becomes so heavy
That it drops off and plummets to the ground)
Would grow, grow, and grow until I could fight
The urge no more and was back out, digging.
Feb 25, 2011
Feb 25, 2011 at 8:01 PM UTC
If you were me,
you would be making the world a better place.
Or thinking about making the world a better place.
Someday, after you learn being me makes you
********
Really, dead center on the spects, carazy smart
seri-al-owzly simple minded
regarding pre-literal ideas that few, if any
besides you, me now, ever literally take for granted,
for God's sake.
Right, that's some good to be done-
set that blasphemin', God-blamin', goofball free.
If you were me,
you would be hoping nothing you are thinking
is really doing what you are thinking. But it did.
You ever been in an angel bar? I know where some are,
if I were you,
I'd take the dole and hang out widimall day. They are
here to serve. It's in their contract, and they love
leading expeditions into the unknown unknowns, ain't
never been this far before.
Okeh. That did it. Conway Twitty, I could not
have guessed...
Serious poetry, Nietzschean twit. Is laughable.
If you were me,
you would know this is in the cycle. This is whatchamightcall,
the way home, the short version-cut.
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 9:06 PM UTC