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A horror movie scene as the heroine escapes.
Everything is still besides her convalescing breath and the distant, chasing wind.
Not a noise is heard except the fall leave's rattle and the birch wood's moaning bark in the moonlight.
Her body slouches into the protection of a lone shed, and shrouds itself in the aroma of cut grass.
A tense brow relieves and tired eyes close, thankful to receive the momentary peace.

A possible misstep turns the wary peace on end with the jagged cut of broken leaves. The once relieved brow now concedes surprise as wild eyes are cast towards an opaque barricade.
Sly pieces of garden equipment leash the woman's weathered jacket in place as she attempts to stand.
A cackle is heard, a shriek undone.
To spite the brittle wood, that formulaic jump-scare-skeleton-hand bursts through the shed's solicitous walls, set to declare the last of a weary soul as his own.
The wind catches up and spearheads any hole it can find.
It begins whistling around the dim room like a tornado elated to havoc behind a castle's walls.
The tree bark howls, the leaves, now delight.
We learn there is no reprieve for a begging champion.
The camera slowly backs out of the splintered hole, and pans over a silhouetted forest to face the waning moon.
The hero succumbs with muted screams to a gore far below and out of frame.

Our only closure, a silky black screen, with bright white letters, slowly scrolling up.


The end.
Just something I had fun writing, figured not posting it would be a waste despite it not being "poetry", just an experiment I guess. I feel like it would be good, in like, a high-school, short story competition. *****.
I'm not over her,
Though painful,
Without it,

?

The foundation of my childhood home,
Became the foundation,
Of an inferno.
She is the firewood,
She is the flames,
She is fulminating,
Just as a name.

It horrifies me she will never feel the heat,
Nor see the lights,
As this will never scald her skin,
Nor scorch her eyes.
Edited July 2018... This poems really angry, My bad... aha.
CK Baker Mar 2017
fischers rap
on a hot tin roof
bristol creek pools
over rock and seed
english wolfhound (and the barkbuster)
stroll pine lane
vibrant colors
of a cool spring
in cob yellow and
forest green

field mice squander
in cotton wind
goats and ferret
hold seven hour trim
raven and ****
meddle and forage (on a splendid fiaker goulash!)
crickets and frogs
hidden
in swollen grey logs

creepers fill the
cut stone walls
coy wolf high
on a frayed white rope
eagles perched
at trudy’s bend
catamounts laze
on a snow base cedar
(pared arbutus bent  
through a failed ground rock)

brush spider spins
a timely web
brown bears fumble
at the spirit jamboree
quizzical squirrels
crack their nuts
as pillow clouds float
over telegraph trail

12 point dances
on talus and scree
hen hawks float
in a big hard sun
clydesdale and coach
trot copper smith road
(glancing down
on finch and the warbler
whistling through
colander row)

lavender fills
the peat soil box
mountain cats
guard the heavenly gates
black eyed ridge
is wide and open
the country squire hails
this fruitful land
September Roses Aug 2018
Crystal eyes
Fall for them
Over
And over
Drown in oceans stormy grey
Lost in forests emerald green
To get drunk inside and snap away to sober

An underground lake cavern
A still, silver cargo ship docked by the bay
A sky and sea beyond the windows
2pm on a shady spring day



Catching a glint in the light
I find my teeth biting my thumb
Oh god how I love to gaze
In what you use to gaze apon
Targeted towards absolutely anyone with eyes, at all
CA Guilfoyle Jul 2018
All day long with clouds and birds
greens and blues moving through the water
I wish my fingers were water color crayons
to paint these scenes on leaves of paper
to capture water drops on stones, lighter, darker
the sky, the soft rain I taste
all the ways I lived this day.
In the morning to wake up
deep and breathing in
an ancient forest.
Anya Jul 2018
The maiden so fair
In all her grace
The gold leaf in her hair
And snow pedaled face
Night and day we sing
In elegant song
A rhyme to our queen

      And look Oberon!!!!!
Acrostic poem that correlates with another
Alice Wilde Jul 2018
She was born of a forest
And rests her heart  
Shallow in pooled dreams
Dripping further than her tears
Falling to soft earth.

She eats rosed lilies
And pickled cattails
All while
Her footsteps leave no absence known
As her lithe nymph body melts into foliage.

And her arms permanently reach
Into the void of
All unknowable things.
Grasping at gossamer threads,
Like thoughts that can't be spun together.
Alek Mielnikow Aug 2018
Her titillating tattoo
tantalizes me deeply,
to the tenth degree. I see
it as I slip her silk dress
slowly down her left shoulder.
A lizard lying on a
boulder, contrasting with her
silky smooth soft snowy skin.

I kiss her shoulder, and she
shudders and sighs a deep sigh.
Goosebumps rise up her body
as a sturdy gust seizes
the moment. The forest we
make love in quakes and shakes
as she shivers and quivers
under the touch of my hands.

My left hand holds her upper
arm, while my right grips her hips.
She closes her eyes, smiling,
giggling in amusement.
I spin her slowly ‘round, and
look into her hazel eyes,
her soft ******* and thighs against
mine for warmth and gentle touch.

I kiss her lips. Strawberry.
And we slide down to the ground.
The scariness we have found
slips away in our grace. We
sinners share our shame, our lust,
and come to a conclusion,
and bust each others doors down,
sweet ****** on this cold ground.
jane taylor May 2016
today i want the darkness
fatigued with life’s
fictitious smiles

the forest
beckons me
to melt within it

disappearing
like mist
in the wind

i could dance on lightning
fall off a cloud
and become rain

i’d mold down your face
as i fall on it
and be one with you

©2016janetaylor
gracie Nov 2018
it's how he's gentle, drawing me close
when I shiver; how he holds my hands,
cold fingers nestled in the warmth of his palms.
how we return to a certain forest, admiring trees flushed
in hues of gold and scarlet; how reality fades away as we walk,
drowned out by the bubbling of a stream.
how I adore his honeyed voice, soothing like the patter of rain
on backseat windows; how the taste of coffee lingers on his lips
when he presses them to mine so softly,
so bittersweet.
how I feel myself falling, but I still run into his arms
because
"it'll be different this time."

but how can I outrun reality?
too close too soon, i guess.
Pagan Paul Jul 2018
.
And her arms enfold me,
I lay my cheek
against her breast.
The shaking starts,
the tears fall,
as sobs emerge unhindered.
Cries from way down deep,
and I hear her heart,
slow, steady, metronomic.
So I follow its rhythm
along a path richly bathed
in warm sunlight.
Through an archway
and across a threshold shrine,
the cemetery of the Ancients.
A hundred thousand names,
carved in marble,
adorned with statues and plinths.
Holding knowledge of old,
and the sound of silence,
like an abandoned library.

The shadow of love hovers close,
driving through midnight mists
and leading me on.
Practising narrative necromancy,
reanimating old words,
giving them life newly born,
upon the first carved marbles,
its names burnished with wisdom,
and the anonymity of obscurity.
There glows one name
in forgotten script
and I know my deepest identity,
the weight of the aeons
flows free into my mind,
histories of the millennia.
I know
my Forest Lady holds secrets
that belong to me.
And she gestates them all,
a coveted pregnancy.

A path-working, an etherical dream,
and her heart skips a beat,
as another part of me
crumbles and dies,
to mingle with the dust
of ancient knowledge.



© Pagan Paul (11/07/18)
.
Pagan Paul Nov 2016
.
Her charms cannot be hidden,
laying languid in soft repose,
cloaked in dreams of night,
to her secret fantasies she goes.

Doe eyes closed in star sleep,
sweet gentle breath from parted lips.
A shift of woven mist she wears,
nestling flirtatious about slim hips.

A moment stirs her silent rest,
a sigh, rises, pours and escapes.
Anticipating beauty, the inner promise,
of doe eyes when she wakes.


© Pagan Paul (26/11/16)
.
Lord of Green series, poem  7
.
yuki motokane Dec 2016
heart was the forest
trampled upon on with haste
sawed to halves
now a barren land

you came
watered my saplings
tended the leaves
brought upon me sunshine

with all you could give
like a gardener
had a connection with i
a ferocious fire blossomed

love we called it
but the flames, scattered
like forest fires
destroyed me once again
and yet it didn't matter
Melissa Meagher Jan 2011
Love, I know it is here. It surrounds us all. Yet, it still seems unreachable. Everyday I reach for the branches of the trees but they are too far, too high. The leaves stare at me from above, lingering, but eventually fly by as if they are saying goodbye.

The mud below tries to pull me in and I run. I run past it all. I run through the tall trees and hear empty noises scream at me. But what do they say? What do they want?

I listen more closely. They say nothing. I keep walking until I reach the end. There are no sticks, no brush from the trees beside me. The trees are too tall, and the mud, too drowning. The screams, gone, I am without leaves, without branches, without noise. I am just, there, torn.
Outside Words Sep 2018
I was awoken from a dreamless sleep
     By a boy with short brown hair,
     Who, with an urgent stare,
Told me to head to the showers!

As my eyes creaked open to recognize,
     The orange glow of this unfamiliar room’s lighting,
     In front of me, in handwritten writing,
A page on the wall showed three in the morning.

When I glanced around a room of shared bunks,
     I saw all sorts of people and things,
     Running around with things to bring
To these showers I had yet to see.

In a winding line down a high ceiling’d hall,
     I stood with so many,
     Who like me, hadn’t any
Idea what was going on.

With a whirlwind flurry of commotion
     Steam crawled from the showers and water sprayed,
     As we were told in a big disarray,
To wash off the place from whence we came.

In a neat little stack, I was handed my clothes
     A tunic, with a sash
     And a captivating mask
To “celebrate our exciting return home.”

Down dark rustic stairways, I watched like a child
     The vibrant light and affinity,
     Radiating with enchanting divinity,
From the otherworldly people and creatures below.

Through that noisy, jolly crowd,
     We were led as a group
     And the boy said with a whoop
That we were all to stand up and dance.

His eyes glinting with excitement,
     The brown haired boy explained
     That our spirits would be ordained
Through a celebration of our inner light.

Onto the stage I was led
     As I stood with my class,
     Nervous amongst the mass
Of silent, numerous spirits before us.

As the boy hit the music
     I felt something from deep inside
     Rush out like a tide
And through tears of joy, I danced.

It was at that gleeful moment
     That my friends and I,
     Realizing we'd died,
Knew we'd returned to the forest.
© Outside Words
King Panda Jul 2017
I’ve forgotten
to be anything but
space—so enraptured
with the black that
the forest was
less than a goose pimple
on earth’s flesh.

I have ignored the
eighth notes
hanging from the pines.

I have forgotten
the snowbirds and whipped
winds.

I have numbed the needles
pocking skin through
my jeans.

I have forgotten green.

I have forgotten green.

I have forgotten green.

now
the light of frozen
flies dims
in your mouth.

now
love washes out
in seasons.

now I eat
sugar-frosted buckthorn.

And I see you
ready to touch
through one
hundred leaves
and foliage.
mari Mar 2018
i wish i could
call you
a forest fire,

wish i could
call you a thief
or a liar.

i want to scream
that you were an
avalanche,

that you buried me,
and never gave
me a chance.

i would curse
the mountains
that bore your back.

i would do
anything to
bring you back.
Aniron Jul 2017
I abandon the path and mark my visit
deep into natures greens and hidden groves
how the beauty of everything intoxicates me,
and consuming it all leaves me only with no sense:
speechless and bewildered, like a baby.
words seem but a lost cause to me ;
it is almost as if the ferns and its charms
don’t want to be spoken of –
not even a praise.
upon astray land I leave my trail
up the thick pine hill, down the lonesome glen
I sit desperately, in search of only half a word –
it makes no difference at all.
a hint, a hum of frigid air
deep twilight falls upon me like a star
and I fall with it into my own silence.
the hypnotizing haunt of crickets in unseen places
numbs me, almost becomes me
and I become them, like everything becomes
the other thing that lives in its own way.
and just hearing the wise creek babbling,
the traveling breezes’ secret murmur ;
I know I have been unaware all along.
the poem was never mine to write:
I have only to listen.
Seanathon Sep 2018
You are ember with less orange
You are tree bark true and brook trout at play
You are earthy as the hollow dell in the Catskills still
Turning as the waterways

You are ever moving, always slight
Looking back over those delicate shoulders of yours
To the footprints of me
And in the time spent therein not a day’s older

I don’t know her name
But I know what I see
Passing. Glances. Scent of trees.
Pagan Paul Oct 2017
.
Come! Come! One and all,
come to my woodland hall,
attend ye all mid-winters ball,
in friendship harken to my call.

Paths awash with candle light,
in the branches burning bright,
such an enchanting magical sight,
to guide you gentle through the night.

Friends with whom to drink and eat,
cuddled warm in a sylvan heat,
while dancers fling to keep the beat,
songs are sung, lovers meet.

And by a fire in a little glade,
words are spoken, promises made,
the Bonding tree with hearts displayed,
brings memories that will never fade.

.

And when the party is at an end
I'll lovingly embrace my dearest friend,
and quieter than what lies beneath,
whisper sweet poetry to my Lady Leaf.



© Pagan Paul (04/10/17)
.
Poem 6, Series 2 of my Lord of Green collection.
.
Robin Lemmen Aug 2018
Sometimes I feel like a sunflower lost in a sea of roses. Drowning out my sunshine with endless streams of red. Killing my words with the poison of your laugh. Bleeding out my confidence, replaced by curious venom.

Sometimes I feel like a tree lost in the comfort of the forest. Handing out leaves to cover up bruises. Letting me die over and over again to bring me back around every fourth season. Roots deep in the ground, no way to escape now.

Sometimes I feel like a monster in a halo of angels. I am the reflection of your nightmares hiding in broad daylight. I am the devil’s daughter pretending not to care. Claws sunken into my back whispering words of despair.

Sometimes I feel like a book lost to a world of imagery. Words to give lost to the ones that don’t care about it. I am a song in a foreign language begging to be understood. I fight my mind with movements captured on a screen.

Sometimes I feel like I am screaming in silence. Begging, pleading, dying. All with a smile on my face for we only care about what others don’t know about us. What the world sees.

Sometimes.
The deer trail is more still than quiet
Scents becoming louder than vision
Eyes close in deep temple breath

There is no more beautiful rain
     than forest mist
Sprigs of fog that are at once
     barely seen barely felt
Bundled moss like hyssop soaked
     in holy
     flicked with urgent intent
     soft wet sprays make clothes
     my nakedness
A baptism that fills my lungs
     with the spirit I belong
> May The Forest be with You.
> As published in Dark Horse Appalachia
> As published in The Indiana Gazette
> Listen to me recite Forest Spirit at
             DarkHorse7 on Bandcamp
September Roses Nov 2018
The woodsman in his daggered cloak
Was given the gift of death
He killed his daughter and he killed his wife
And laid his dinner above their heads
He set out into the night
Set through his tears hard spirits
A scythe he weilded in the dark
And danced in drunken sadness
His blade flew blindly round him
A bird of prey guided by the foolish
He knew not what his actions would do to him
He thought nothing of the mark he'd brandish
And once he saw the truth
Far done was the damage
So much so that he drowned himself
In more liquor and anguish
You see in his drunken demise
The woodsman chopped down the screaming birch trees
Each holding a child
Inside its branches and leaves
The darkness watched in joy
As his precious gift did its work
His blind drunken puppet
Bringing terror unto the earth
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