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King Panda Feb 2016
I know the flowers better everyday
their twisting stems
their curtain petals
their floating spice

I know the flowers better everyday
their capillary roots
their plum faces
their purple stamens

I know the flowers better everyday
their shaking seeds
their modest thorns
their unabashed lust for the sun

I know the flowers better everyday
I know the sun will rise
I know the clouds will rain
I know my daughter will laugh

I know the flowers better everyday
I’ll draw a fence for flowers
I’ll draw a muzzle for the sheep
I’ll draw a number for the man to crunch

I know the flowers better everyday
I know how lovely it is to feel
grass in between toes
the breath of a boa
the embrace of home

I know the flowers better everyday
I am forty
I am a mother
I love fearlessly
Inspired by *The Little Prince*
jcl Apr 14
It was starting to snow as I entered Pere Lachaise cemetery. The few that had ventured in, were streaming out, as daylight faded, fast giving way to twilight, on this 1st of February night. I had 30 minutes of daylight left, to take the shots that I’d planned for all year.

I knew where I was going, having visited the cemetery in the summer, to scout locations for this moment. I walked up the l’Avenue Principale towards Le Monument aux Morts and took the first right on l’Avenue des Puits. My pace quickened, not wanting to waste a single second, of the dying light.

I crossed path with the the last stragglers, most likely having paid homage to Chopin or Morrison. I was entering the oldest and most forested area of the cemetery. It sent a chill up my spine, not because of the cold February air, but because of the surreality of what was in front of me, a cobbled stone path, lined with old trees, surrounded by an ocean of tombs, fading into the white and gray of a snowy afternoon.

I arrived to my location, the tomb of Heloise and Abelard. I set down my tripod and camera bag. I stopped to take it in. It was eerily beautiful, the snow slowly falling, lightly covering the tomb, the flowers, the love letters, laying around the plinth.

I was surprised at the number of single roses and love letters that were strewn in the yard, between the wrought iron fence, and the the tomb. Even during the dead of winter, young women pilgrim to the tomb, leaving letters and prayers, hoping their love will last forever, in life and in death. Sadness overwhelmed me, as I felt the longing and pain of their and my,  unrequited loves.

I pulled out my camera, turned it on, double checking the battery indicator and exposure. I put the viewfinder to my eye, slowly pressed the shutter till I heard a beep, as the auto focus sharpen the view and my world became crystal clear. I zoomed in and out, composing my shot. I was too close for my lens. I picked up my tripod, turned around, and surveyed my work area.

I moved up the path, three tombs over, next to an old wide trunked chestnut tree, set my tripod and bag down, and recomposed my shot. The snowfall had intensified, to a heavy flurry. The snowflakes were thicker, fluffier, slowly drifting down like dandelion seeds. I was swimming in an ocean of white magical specks. Everything around me was dusted in ******, pure white powder.

I unfolded my tripod, mounted the camera to the head, and verified it was securely attached. I zoomed in and out till I composed my shot, stepping down the aperture and up the speed, till I achieved the dark, moody, feel I wanted. I pressed the shutter and captured the shot.

I was looking through the viewfinder when a woman stepped into my shot. For a split second, I was angry, then confused, then intrigued. I looked up, stepped back from my camera, to see and understand what was unfolding before me.

She was wearing a full length white Lynx fur coat and cap, black leather gloves and boots. She was stunning, breathtaking. Was I hallucinating. Was she real. She hadn’t seen me, as I was behind her, catty corner, partially hidden by the chestnut tree.


She was holding something. I couldn’t quite see. I looked through the viewfinder, zoomed in on her. She held a single long stemmed blue rose in her left hand.  Instinctively, I pressed the shutter, captured the shot, the photo, the image, of this unworldly scene.

It was late, almost dark, what was she doing here. Was she praying, why, to whom, Heloise, Abelard, or both. She moved up to and placed her right hand on the protective wrought iron fence. I took a shot, then another. Then with her left hand, she gently threw the blue rose, time slowed, I pressed the shutter, never letting go, as the flower arched in the air, and landed perfectly, on the plinth, at Heloise side.

I released the shutter, still looking through the viewfinder. She placed her left hand on the wrought iron fence, bowed her head, just stood there, in the darkness, in the snowfall.

She pulled her right hand away from the wrought iron fence and wiped her eyes. Was she crying.

She slowly turned around. I pressed the shutter, held it down, for a continuous shot. I saw her face, her raven black hair, her incandescent blue eyes. Like a cannonball hitting me in the chest, I realized and recognized who she was. It was her, the woman from the metro

She looked up, turned her head, and looked directly at me. I zoomed in, framed her face, continuous pressing the shutter. Her face expressionless, her eyes aglow. Had she seen me. I don’t know. She took a step, turned her head, and walked back up the cobbled stone path, and faded into the night, into the falling snow.
Lyn Senz Nov 2013
amiss asunder
that is me
no sacred care
no destiny
how dare
I plunder
endlessly
this wonder
that I see
when I'm under
its decree

they live for whence
a special dream
a chain-link fence
kids baseball team
their little one
will run and scream
the wonder
that he'll be
when he's under
their decree

and getting old
the growing fear
that all her gold
will disappear
the nights so cold
her days despair
no wonder
she can't see
when she's under
gold's decree


©2011 Lyn
Jack Chicago Apr 2015
there's bars on the sky
razor wire around the moon
each star under lock and key

every eruption of laughter
seems forced
running from something
toward nothing

i can see my shadow
on the other side
of the fence
dancing in freedom
he waves hello
as i wave goodbye

"RUN"
i tell him
"YOU CAN MAKE IT"!
still he follows me across the yard
and back inside...
I wrote this at the beginning of a jail sentence. My shadow was free. If only...
Pagan Paul May 14
.
     I stare down at the plate of toast and beans
     wondering why this was never part of my dreams.
     Looking for the future with an illusional pretence,
     hoping good apples will fall on my side of the fence.

And as the fork dances slow
around the legumes in spirals,
the tedium of a wasting life
bears the burden and scars
of missed opportunities in paralysis
and the colour of once bright lights
          glow black,
shining a shadow into the void
covering the bruises
that were once achievements of worth,
     now tender patches
          of failure.
I drop the fork ...

     … pushing away the plate and leaving food uneaten,
     my desire for its nutrition fought and beaten,
     Looking at the apple tree with sombre regret
     maybe its fruit will fall and save me yet.

And disappointment
is worse than anger,
it begins with the stench of loss
the nasal whiff of
what if …

And what if the little apple tree
drops all its fruit down to me?
Would I recognise fortune on my side
or fear the illusions and run to hide?


© Pagan Paul (17/02/18)
.
Marisol Quiroz Jun 2018
ill never forget that night.
we were laying in bed,
eyes closed and half asleep,
teetering on the fence between
the world of wake
and the world of dream.

we’d been quiet for awhile now,
understandable in this hour of the night.
the room was lowly lit
by the dim glow of light
cast off computer screens,
and the air was filled
with white static sound
and your soft rhythmic breathing.

eyes closed,
i could swear you were beside me,
half convinced by the hum
of the speakers softly snoring
that i’d roll over to your body,
even though i knew
you were far away from me,
sleeping alone across the sea.
but it was something i could believe,
nearly there,
slipped into sleep.

and suddenly
you split the silence,
waking yourself up,
you called out my name with urgent pace
and i mumbled a reply
as you pulled me awake.

you spoke again,
and the words spilled from your tongue like nectar
and dripped from your lips like honey,
said with such haste
like you couldn’t get the words into the world fast enough,
as though holding it in any longer
would bring down the world burning.

it was then in that night,
one of many moments yet i’d find,
that i knew i was going to love you forever,
and
no matter of land or sea,
of sun, stars, or skies between,
could ever change that,
or keep you away from me.


―  “i love you more than anyone or anything i have ever loved or ever will,” 12:37 am, 10.08.17, what you said to me.
Vicki Kralapp Mar 2018
We live in times of greatest fear,  
and hear the echo of the past,
in words of those we can’t ignore,
and lessons of historic years.

Wars and their rumors speak to us,
of violence and the end of days,
as voices whisper in the lines,
of those we join in nightly news.

We stop our ears to those who plead,
for us to listen to their truths,
and point our finger for mistakes,
at those who have the most to lose.

We hide our eyes from blatant facts,
because they don’t affect our lives,
and so become a puzzle piece,
of people's war against itself.

The voices held in mortal screams,
of those beyond our backyard fence,
with children paying for our greed,
the future of our lives foretold.

But now with nowhere we can hide,
from evils living in our world,
our future lies upon the truths,
that are so carefully concealed.
All poems are copy written and soul property of Vicki Kralapp.
Skywlkr Feb 9
Makes No Sence Building Such a High Fence but Just as My Life Wondering what's on the Other side is Kept in Suspence,
Makes No Sence You must Need Defence From People Laughing at Your Expense,
This is Gonna Get Intense if they Continue With the Offence,,, Well.....
Let the Laughing Commence,
If There Feelings are so Dence it is Them Whom Live In Pretense,
So Why Should They Be Allowed There Two Cents
When They Got no Sence Mabey They Should Be Thrown Trough That Fence!!!!
Don't hide from those judges and hold no grudges because sometime there just fudges
Tapan jena Nov 2015
That was the day she broke down the fence
to fly towards her secret sky,
to cause a hundred veils to fall each moment.

To move further with sheer confidence;
was certain to leave her nightmares behind,
she was untiring and keen.

Finally the time has come to reclaim her life.
A little bit of Rumi and a little bit of my mom
Bang! Bang! Bang!
T'was like a never-ending siren.
Wirh trauma engraved minds
blood on their hands
came bravery
in each man's heart and soul.
The battlefields were their cage;
they got themselves in
but couldn't get out.
Snowflakes sprinkled down from the sky like fallen men,
while the soldiers waited like sitting ducks,
before coming face to face with death again.

Still. Still. Still.
Without the squealing bombs
and earth shattering shells
all seemed to be oddly still.
For the first time in forever
almost as if they were frozen in time.
You could feel the silence
that hung over that wasteland
on the very night
of December 24th, 1914.

Tension, curiosity and confusion
wafted through the British trenches like incense.
and those three feelings
were the only things that loomed in the sky
until an all too familiar tune filled the night...
Sweet, muffled melodys filled the air
as a German silent night
was being sung everywhere.

Tranquillity took over each soldiers heart as they realised in that moment
it was Christmas days start.
Though they longed for their families
something felt true
as German symphonys whispered
through the cold nights gloom.

And soon,
the Englishmen had all joined in-
sounding somewhat like a broken choir- but to them
it was amazing.
An astonishing moment when
something felt right
and something felt fair
and that was the hope
they needed to share.

Voices. Voices. Voices.
Bouncing off the walls of each trench
of both German and Englishmen
from both sides of the fence.
The song 'silent night'
hung in the breeze
just like twinkling lights
laced around a Christmas tree.

Loud melodic Voices,
Flooded through the battlefield.
Soldiers grinning from ear to ear
while their hearts sung wonders.
But little were they sure
that singing wouldn't be the only alien sound they heard
that Christmas day or more.

Footsteps. Footsteps. Footsteps.
Feet crunching on the crisp leaves!
Englishmen were cautiously fumbling to see out of their trench
only to find Germans
wearily emerging from their wire...

In that moment
every weapon was lowered
and suddenly
possible peace approached. 
Soldiers then
from both sides of war
came out from their place of stay
and were civil
for what Christmas they saw.

As dawn broke
Christmas day approached
hands were shook
smiles were shared
and a glimmer of hope
flew around in the air.
Football, cards, carols and more:
christmas bought them all together
as snow fell heavy on the floor.

Loyalties didn't count for that day,
however all those hours after
once that first bomb went off in the distance,
It was like an alarm.

The alarm going off and saying
"Wake up! Wake up from this dream,
and go back to harsh reality".
And it was safe to say,
that not one of those men wanted to wake up.
But it was not an alarm-
as much as it sent the same message-
It was a warning instead.
A warning that they had to go back to their duties right away.

Smiles, frowns,
and sad looks all around.
Frohe Weihnatchen!
Merry Christmas! 
And all went back to their grounds.

A Christmas spirit was spread that night,
which might have been enough, 
to save a mans life.

Back to work,
it was war again,
but they never forgot,
they made a friend.
Whatever the rules,
they knew it felt right.

Silent night.
Silent night.
Silent night.
A peice on the Christmas truce in ww1. May we remember those who lost their lives as we read this, and may they all remain in peice, with pride.
Bison Apr 2016
And I knew what I was
When you called me disgrace
I was the sun exploding into space

And I was knew what I was
When the light broke through silence
Like that great hound through my fence

Drown out
Out
Out
The fear
Fear
Fear
Of day
Day
Day

So let's burn
And turn
Into ash
Like the skyline
You pine
But never ask

If I knew what I was
Linus Stevenson Jun 2018
Let me tell you a story
Listen and learn
There was a Shepherd, a good Shepherd
Kind and loving, courageous and strong
He had 100 sheep
and the sheep loved the Shepherd
And so when one sheep wandered
The good Shepherd left the 99
And went after the one

And you might think you know this story
But I'm afraid it's not what you think
Because I am not the one...

I am one of the 99 left behind
Waiting for the Sheppard to return
Trapped by the walls of this fence
The posts and wooden planks
That contain us
Being lead by the very sheep that are
We walk in circles around the pen
Around and around... circles
Eating up the food we have
We begin to eat each other
And as demented as that sounds
It's true
Biting and gnawing
Bleeding and bruising
We turn to other sheep for nourishment
For truth... for guidance
But we are sheep all the same
Another one of the 99 left behind

Sheep is what we are
Be careful not to tater your fur
Careful not to tear or cut
To show the underneath
The skin that doesn't flatter but
Burns with the red of your hate
Your pride... Your sin

When will the Sheppard return
And open the fence
Lead to new grass
and water

There are sheep I've never seen before
Black sheep.
have you seen black sheep?
Yes sheep with spots but these sheep
They are black from head to toe
Their snouts are long and
they have sharp teeth
Strange that they have not hooves but paws
Appearing as wolves wearing sheeps clothing
They are mending the fence
The fence! It's broken!
Suddenly we realize we are not safe
Quickly, grab your hammer and nails!
Let us work with these black sheep...
to mend... the fence... around... us

Who built this fence?
Was it the Sheppard?
Cloudy as my memories be of the man
with the scars in his hands and side
This does not resemble his work
Who... built... these... walls?
These bars... This cell
With no key and a steeple?
Oh God, who built these walls?
No it wasn't the sheppard.
The walls he built had doors
And windows to let the light in
No... We have built these walls
The 99 left behind were not left...
We left.

We left the fence! The pasture!
The place of love and safety.

We are not the 99 left behind but the one
We are the one who wandered and strayed
And seeing that we were in territory unsafe
We built walls without doors
that trapped us inside... in darkness

Sheppard,
Search
Find us
Break down
These walls
Rebuild them
With windows
To let the Light in
Gina Old Nov 2015
In the old house up the hills -
Yes, the one that gives you chills
Whenever you walk by its fence -
Lives someone who, no offense,
Looks like she'd puts kids on grill.
Children, puppies, all she'd ****
For food.

Lady who, probably, likes to
Know the places each kid hikes to.
There she, later in the day,
Waits for village kids to stray.
Some will die and some live on.
Who? That really depens on
Her mood.

Some say that she used to snitch,
Others say that she's a witch!
Nobody was ever in
The house whose walls are made of skin.
Nobody would ever dare
To set their foot on the porch where
She stood.

They'll never know that her kitchen
Smelled like flowers, most bewitchin',
They won't see her paintings, neat,
Her living room where you could meet
A fire giving warm embrace.
And alongside her fireplace
The wood.

Now, if you got in, you'd stare
on stinky fish bowls, everywhere,
whose cloudy water calls for changing,
and rooms in need of rearranging.
But since you never really tried,
No one knows the lady died.
Yes she's dead for good.
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