"forestry" poems
Kashmir Delirium
Oh People Of Earth! Thankful are we,
For each act of benevolence shown to us.
Your gilded sweet words describing,
The beauty of Kasmir, land and people.
Mention in books and talks of it's riches,
Naming it the Sweet Paradise Of Earth.
The Lord has been bountiful to Kashmir,
Treasure of resources in every sphere.
To elevate each aspect, our wish for life,
As every acre of this land is worth millions.
Full of treasures and recreational value,
Forestry with grandeur and silvery rivers.
The outside world's view is so limited,
Simple folks living in the lap of rich bounty.
Mentioned in world forums and organizations,
But what of the goal of giving us freedom?
What has The UN established in our name?
To measure the pain and anguish we bear,
At the hands, of our supposed benefactors.
The saviours who has us fractured.
But in reality they train their enforcers,
In the art of creating oceans of tears.
The red blood now hidden in camouflage,
The spent shells now gathered and hidden.
The leaders we are told to elect in electoral shams,
Run publicity kiosks and swell friend lists.
Joint conferences to address personal interests
Dialogues that never address the root issues.
Just the formalities and no sympathy,
For the ones burnt in cruel sadistic reprisals.
The hypocrisy continues deliriously unabated,
More augmentation of the security forces.
For a first hand view of deep hypocrisy,
Walk this land, you know as beautiful.
Religious leaders will teach you political artistry,
Sermons full of ambiguity and guile.
Waywardness and narrow mindedness on display,
Political apologists give great lessons.
Religion and religious ethnicity are tools,
That keep minds and bodies in total check.
Gamesmanship by leaders is the rule of thumb,
As promises are forgotten once office is obtained.
When writing of this succulent beautiful land,
Write of the air, pregnant with sadistic practices.
This land is being stripped of worldly treasures,
And the greatest treasure is mistreated daily.
The best of nation is the inhabitants,
Ignored are the real gems of this beautiful paradise.
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 6:44 AM UTC
(from “A Love Song” by William Carlos Williams)
<•>
familiar that apple google and amazon
have me under 24 hour surveillance
e-specially now
as I am in their
geosphere of influence
but sending me a love poem of WCWs that isolates my locale, my intended inebriation status,
and is addressed to me personally (“you”),
that’s just creepy
so charged am I, obligated to oblige,
to counter-compose a love song of mine own,
under the pinot “influence,”
(in a manner of speaking)
which a love taught me to love
what if,
a new love song ecrit,
to an old and loverly land,
a woman-land designed to be desired,
no difference -
kissing a new girl first time,
a wet and unforgettable
compote
when falling
on the neck of your one beloved anew renewed
now I tremble-tread
for the line of great predecessors,
“the land lover scribes”
skilled in natures homaging,
is like a line out the door,
around the corner as if
a new flavor ice cream
has just been isolated and mined and I...
<•>
*I,
but a novitiate
in a far away, wild untamed world
where my nature taken by her nature
cannot deny paying my just due:
selvage
late middle English, from self + edge
how perfect!
“an edge,
woven on a fabric during manufacture,
intended to prevent unraveling”
the pacific coast air
the irregular shoreline - expanding/receding,
god’s own forestry reserve,
the cascades, a goal on the horizon,
country roads where ancient wheat stalks grow wild
all a tonic intermingled, an alcohol to
imbibe through mouth nostrils eyes and skin
all will be my own selvage!
preventing the eastern unraveling disease,
a nearly incurable permafrost low grade
kate spaded infection,
brought along with me for decades,
my loon June companion, now stalling out,
lost from my happy head
a vineyard on every corner,
marijuana growing next door,
rivers that change like children growing up and down,
cheek to jowled property line
live the berries and the hazelnut groves,
god’s hay bales wrapped in plastic
like marshmallows dotting the landscape*
all daring you to say
I could
love
it here
Jun 8, 2018
Jun 8, 2018 at 3:26 PM UTC
I fished a movie
hoping to cast a reel
that catches a keeper
hook, line, and sinker
I waded in line
smiling
the tackle box optimism in my sights
butterfly's in my net
visions of a hotrod
I look up at the marque
with a good cast and reel
my boats singing
a song that's hooked on love
I enter the theatre
among the trees
branching towards my spot
such forestry
I race past the mainstream
hotrod in tow
I take to my seat
setting anchor to a fun outing
as the lights abate
skip to my Lou
at bay
watching the cast make a splash
Logan Robertson
8/2/2018
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 3:21 PM UTC
Walking into the woods
I stared at giant redwood trees
The leaves being crushed under my feet
I sat beside the wise tree and looked up into the moon
Listening to the cries of overhead flying loons
The silence was a sound itself, it was strange to hear myself think for once
I sat there reading and thinking until down went the sun,
I got up and left my small haven in the woods, returning to My meager shelter
Torches ablaze as I returned home
It calmed my inner helter-skelter
Jan 5, 2016
Jan 5, 2016 at 1:33 AM UTC
Stink up the beer house with unadorned putrid self-thoughts.
Poppy-eyed and hating others is easy for blue bottled buggers.
A sweet thing for you!
A growing circle of six-legged empty.
Filled to the brim with puffed up space. A white brim with a shiny red exoskeleton.
Oh, what a dreadful sight!
Hair strewn across a face and hooked into the teeth of the blushy lullabied insect screech.
Clear liquid not blood, but blood all the same on an empty stomach with full vein-shot bones.
Not milky bones with calcium-love..
A dead, deficient, cracked, neglected, insufficient skeletal frame, limp.
Yellowed with hate-smoke and old book notes.
Splintered, crazed and buzzed through the gridded bulging eye-window of every single one of those insect like Self-Loathers.
Chosen out of pure sympathy "We should talk more"
.......To the sun, the moon and the stars?
Every star mocks,
Every beam scoffs
and every moon likes to deride on the pain that hides beneath the lies of human bug eyes.
A simply formed pound of vertebrate flesh leaks soft plasma on the scaly moth floor.
Oh how we are dusty and unsure!
Forestry consisting of a Sitka Spruce and of a Japanese Larch was a claim I made from the start.
Over gardens of attention arachnid lurking selfish bugs and even those half winged "friend people".
The bell has rung the scariest of chimes and with every soul wrenching 'ding' a furry fang digs at the blotchy eyed, softly fleshed girl.
Oh such a sweet thing to be surrounded by selfish bugs who spin webs with tear stained tissues!
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 2:19 PM UTC
Laying in this bed without you in my arms seems rather cold, brought about by a desire to hold onto perfection be it for a moment or a lifetime, cherished forever in the existence of this man
And to even think I quite possibly stand such a chance leaves one to think of the courage of a lion
Doubt and confusion run through my mind with the likes of a fire running wild through lush forestry
Even one as confident as I, still do not possess the likes by which to tame the fire, but
Reassurance brought by a smile on her face, with an ability to warm my heart with said smile, keeps this lion’s heart beating with a feeling of purpose to one day
Acquire the heart of the lioness, whose smile ignites the fire burning within the lion, bring humility to his heart and the courage in his soul to always make the effort to try
Sep 17, 2012
Sep 17, 2012 at 12:14 AM UTC
my face shaped hearty
I only see you partly
as you join my nocturnal party
I heard you miles away
your sounds as clear as day
birds of a feather
I cannot figure whether
humans are trusty
when they ruin my forestry
swoop towards your arm
in dead silent charm
my evolutionary armory
are truly my 'viving beauty
I claw down my goal
in aerodynamic prowl
feasting on successive bowl
my ornithologic growl
is my greet to you any howl.
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 4:05 PM UTC
An old tombstone
slinking off into the lake behind it
The tiny graveyard
forgotten by everyone who knew the plots
Forgotten by time
Forgotten by the city
Forgotten behind forestry
Reclaimed by nature
The right corner shattered
Erasing her last name forever
Now 'Cynthia Fe-'
Her swimming tombstone in the back
Reaching to the waters
The calm waves splash against it
I bet she was a swimmer.
"Gone but not forgotten"
Sounds like sarcastic graffiti
But can you be forgotten by everyone
And not lost?
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 10:14 AM UTC
*water streams from between your eyes
puddles fill the cracked streets
my rage is pure like angel fire
a love which nothing can defile
she wets the world with her dampness
thunder cries out for warmth
her shivering shoulders bare witness
to the sun and what was lost
the windy day kept me inside
holding onto this fright
feelings pressed against my chest
i tremble with delight
youthful arrows
morning sparrows
stargazing at night
just because you can do it
doesn’t mean that its right
streets of cobblestones are being shown
the pavement is our throne
home against the cement
dilapidated boxcars
and temples of respect
remove your shoes before you enter
yurts and cabins made of clay
barely resurrect
sustainable ways are coming back
give thanks and respect
to ancestors who deserve our praise
for they never did neglect
their duties to the earthly mother
her love they sought to honor
children of the wilderness at home beneath her cover
canopies of trees
line feline forests with her love*
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 10:31 PM UTC
Confusion clouds your eyes
As I push your hand close,
Closer to the ember that started the fire
My body says yes
As my lips whisper “no”
I want you in the worst ways possible
Just a taste
Of
Ecstasy
The fire caught, I can see it in your eyes
As it welcomes you to a place of no redemption
Your fingers run through my curls knotting at the base of my scalp
“I want you, in every way”
No. I should stop you.
I could, but I don’t want to …
You’re my best friend, and this is the closest thing I’ve felt to love
I don’t want to ruin this …
Just on more touch, your shirt falls off
“I love you” I know
As if that was the signal
The dance of making love begins
My hands find a way of touching every single limb
Your breath is moist as it hits my skin
You smell forestry and tasty salty and sweet
God you’re a drug and I’m the Fein
Inject yourself straight into by blood stream
Making me need every part of you
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 8:59 AM UTC
in the cascades of rain
farthest from any distraction
away from the sight of any pain
cuddled with a good book of passion,
this is what escapism feels like.
sometimes being alone,
without a necessary rhyme or reason
maybe texting one person on the phone
who is easy to talk to isn't an act of treason
because that's what escapism means to me.
in a whole new state or place,
of forestry and oceanic breeze
over a life of hustle and bustle fast-paced
is where I desperately choose to be at ease
for that is my concept of escapism.
with an old fling from the past
in rhythm and in as tune as song and melody
united by a ring to last
for all time and for eternity.
for love in it of itself can be its own escapism with me.
Jun 5, 2020
Jun 5, 2020 at 5:50 PM UTC
Take my hand to continents only known in the books,
the blue maps on tiny tables sat in stacks
ready for the lesson on Mexico, or thereabouts- third this week because
the timetable is weak, poorly thought through and cobbled
together out of half-dressed evenings in the lounges of
teachers; ones once loved by the master and mistresses, leaders
of the well dressed and caretakers.
Take my feet and walk with them, balancing
on borders separating language and currency,
the gymnast's beam looking out over the forestry,
its taller trees than you and me standing upon toes tipping
down towards the urgent ground, urgently warning to stay
upright and stick around, with her holding your hand.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 8:43 AM UTC
those
who has so long been submerged
in the water of the womb-cave
now when the sun rises
would they put their lips in action
the pantograph
the wheat-plants
that has been sowed in autumn
the shyness of the houses
going away farther and farther
how much should i become glum
for those stations
on which i suppose to never put my steps
since taking birth
the same story of huggis and wrappers
i’ve told you to say good bye
to the portman
full of rust
and to make an aquarium
for the flying-fishes
with the water-moon
there may also exist
some social forestry
mr slumber
you can’t keep the good-wishes
arranged properly
so as soon as the eyes get open
the palpitations start
Sep 13, 2010
Sep 13, 2010 at 5:39 AM UTC
The wind howls to the craters of the moon, wondering if its lack of breath is another respiratory disease waiting to happen
As bodies crash into the ocean and casualties increase by every bottled up sensibility
The cracks of cardboard doors fill up the voids of emptiness,
Emptiness of washed up filth and five days worth of street toxic meant for the guts too vacant to feel
Their doors quiver to every knock and exhale, families too hungry, awaiting to devour assurance of safety
Just this once, they are asking for a little more
Than numbered days of handfuls of rice and rock salt, enough to feed the mouths of eight
Teeth clicking to every bite, bones clashing together to prolong the food not more than a mouthful
However this time the clicking doesn’t stop
It intensifies as street light poles plummet into windows and shards are washed away, seeping through soaked doors
They are told to leave these places without titles but this unnamed land is their entitlement and home
Their mother whose tongue is a symphony of lullabies remains silent, hoping for the storm to pass
Lips swollen from biting, she looks at her children with fear in her eyes, tears reflecting the shattered bulb that hangs by the kitchen ceiling
She links her arms to her children’s, grips their skin tightly hoping to warm their shivering exterior while whispering the words “they’ll come for us”
Time elapses and the water rises, their properties enveloped by the disease
Their house disappears along with it, in a downward current of pitch black and rotten forestry
What is left is a family of seven, arms linked and accompanied by the howling wind,
Slowly diminishing with its lack of breath, becoming a nationwide debris
n.j.
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 7:32 PM UTC
the forestry rocking,
the love of esquire beats down,
I take to surest heights.
Of that I have confound.
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 1:41 PM UTC
I recall hearing that term once in high school,
"Urban forestry", a paradox, seemingly and yet,
That is exactly what it is.
Strips of land sanction to be aesthetically pleasing.
For whom, I have not a clue.
I would have preferred a lane or so,
Over the regular 8' by 1' square of trimmed trees.
I also grimace within the grace
Of those knotted furled fists toward a sky asking WHY!?
After a much calmer gardener had pondered the same word
Underneath his humming chainsaw
(Though probably for a more debatable material world)
Amongst other cuboid amputations.
Not to mention those solid soldiers
Whose attention is really standing dead in plain sight until
Wrinkled pavement is not enough ground to hold.
Then our hero makes local news in an inhumane, absolutely atrocious,
Final act of trespassing, vandalism, homicide, and suicide.
Of course nobody saw it coming.
Undetected and decayed for half a decade.
With so so many Ys it is easier to yelp for for those Xs
Crossing against our assumed perfect grids and parallels
To those stories of stacking passed from older cries
For HELP! Though those did not settle quite so well
So I proceed passing over a particularly loud leaf
Amidst this dry pondering
And snap out of the whats and whys and wheres
To take another look around at my illustrious
Urban Forest.
Unto a more practical pensive test,
Which side of that phrase,
Burdens the winning emphasis?
Well, still warblers and sparrows to inspire a song
For how this within time shall also pass along.
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 6:48 AM UTC
This land in midst of mazed vales and meadows,
Of lofty icy Himalayan peaks and forestry.
Unique are the means utilized by the power players,
Be it the Islamists or Hindus on either borders.
Claim of their right to rule this land of the free,
A people distinctly different from their ideals.
Compassion for us seems long forgotten,
As we are constantly crunched beneath boot heels.
Where forth must we look for our liberation?
Has our God also forgotten our stressful plight?
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 8:15 AM UTC
My father.
Old sailor.
Old farmer.
Old carpenter.
Old interpreter.
Old archive of facts
And history. He knows
Our ancestory by heart down
To the 1600s. Born 1946, 68 years
Old today. Bought me my first pen,
My first book, taught me English
From the age of five. Told me I
Had the gift of language and
Expression. And that I was
A stronger boy than any
Anyone had ever seen
By the time I began
To learn English.
I owe him credit
For every word
I have written.
Weak now
With age and
Bad lungs, I still
See him as a giant
Handling a chainsaw,
Smelling of forestry and
Gasoline and winter, smiling
At me with eyes deep blue from
Seeing more ocean and sky than I
Ever will know with my own.
His name to me is pappa.
After a few pints of his homemade
Wine, I sometimes let him beat me at Armwrestling. Then we laugh like
Old friends, remembering how
The roles were different back
Then. I am glad I stopped by
For a cuppa on this day. He
Would never ask me to.
Happy Birthday, pappa.
I'd cut a decade from my lifetime
To add a single year
To yours.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 3:22 PM UTC
It’s the billionaire’s coup–Trump, Putin and Musk.
They’re bleeding us out, from dawn until dusk.
Consumer protections, arts, farms, forestry–
the billionaires say they’re not necessary.
From the money they save, the tax cuts will come
to the billionaires, the millionaires, their daughters and sons.
Balance the budget, so they can all have some.
So many workers deemed useless and lazy,
such as nuclear engineers–whoops! Are they crazy?
Shredding all of Congress’s appropriations
and thumbing their noses at all other nations.
Except Putin’s, because, he’s one of them--
the billionaire’s club of rich white old men,
who share dreams of ransacking the whole world, entire,
until all of it ends in storms, floods and fire.
Then off via SpaceX past the Milky Way’s limits.
No, that’s not possible. But deep down they’re dimwits.
You can fool some of us, all of the time,
You can’t fool us all, and I’ll end this rhyme:
We’ll protest, we’ll sue, we’ll go out on strikes.
And if the time comes–their heads stuck on pikes.
Feb 15, 2025
Feb 15, 2025 at 12:50 AM UTC
Consider for a moment,
a straggler of life;
his bag of misfit materials;
the empty train car he sleeps in, when he is lucky.
This, to the world,
is my soul to me.
A snowy field of minimalism,
tainted only by the brief, yet constant,
glimmer on the horizon.
In this vision there is truth,
and hope,
There is truth,
and hope,
in loss and in lacking.
For as stragglers do wander,
their dreams provide homes to thoughts,
and warmth to sadness,
and medicine for wounds.
There was not always this brilliant field of white.
Before it, laid the maze of forestry,
the hovering shadow of fate.
Within the trees was confusion,
and within confusion was pain.
But, with the bright blizzard of chaos,
came the simplicity of love, and therein laid acceptance.
There are those who must chop trees to see the sunlight,
and there are those who simply find the fields of snow,
laying pleasantly within the reflection of the sunrise.
This, to the world,
is my soul to me.
Wandering acceptance,
caught in the mess of falling trees.
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 3:43 AM UTC
Tokimonsta - Little Pleasures ♫
The waves are as turbulent as can be
But I'm still sailing.
My sky cries with thunderous roar amidst the wailing waters...
...but I'm still sailing...
Battleships galore,
my blood is on the floor.
but the Lord is my witness.
My troubles are my fitness,
for I am conditioned for greatness.
...fluctuating...
forever fluctuating,
how can I be made for such seas?
Such quests weaken the body but it's truth that strengthens the soul!..
surely it is true that this pang is painful for the sake of some sad sacred purpose.
...but...
Where is my truth ?
where is the truth?
Why is there even such confusion ?
should truth not be universal?
if not is it not just perception?
how unjust !
Are we losing our truth?
Are we losing the truth?
Has our perception become deception ?
To know,
lose your mind watching the inception
see what a wonderous con it is.
Just like you i also doubt...
like the lotus lost in a sun yet looking for the Son.
like Ali looking for his lion.
like Buddha looking for his beach
yet lost in a rain looking for his tears...
suddenly,
...an Ocean...
Set your sail for a heavenly shore,
surely you trust journey??
For Heavens sake,
trust your journey I urge,
It will all make sense in the end if you lie with the kiss of truth.
Through the motions sickness,
In hope for brighter days beneath the rain.
we've all been dealt pain,
but no matter how unfair take what you're handed and let love forever be your mantra.
I'm in the honest hour,
and Melancholy moons seem to be setting in once again,
but still i'm hoping that I will one day see the Son from through the rain.
"Blessed is the man who perseveres under trial, because when he has stood the test, he will receive the crown of life that God has promised to those who love him"
Future of forestry - set your sails ♫
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 4:48 AM UTC
I'm a tool pondering skyscapes.
Fondling a memory
Left behind
On sunset marquees.
It raced into the horizon like
A toad on the road.
A neon dream waving farewell.
Exploring mindsets:
An act in caressing
Bloodbath tesseracts.
A roundhouse rollercoaster,
Spinning at velocity of perfume
Hitting nasal perforations.
Core memories surface along spine cutlets,
No longer intrinsic
Doubt.
I'm settling for more.
Time is a moment
Too long to endure.
Hindsight is
A parson's lake passage;
A mad monster yet to be tamed;
A grain of salt to a fresh wound made;
Moments of grace from a fake great ape.
Blue morons slide
Into Mormon jovial footsteps.
Derided ice forestry into
King's cloaked ancestry.
A sad fisherman sailing
Ceaselessly out to sea.
And yet here I am
Talking to you,
Eyelight through obelisks
In hotbox barricades.
Hiding behind
A past of newspapers.
Headline reads 'ONLY DEVINE'
'TRADE REIGN WARNS JEWELS'
'PRINCE THREATENS ECONOMY
... AND CROWN.'
Wipe the frown,
Draw the sword.
Don't be ignored anymore.
Aug 22, 2017
Aug 22, 2017 at 5:17 PM UTC
Oh the songs my heart hums of late are new to me...alas i wish this was so. but I used to hear others hum this tune when I was smaller and rebellious, with no taste of blood in my cheek or on my collar. now my hem is ***** and worn, and fractious memories of other lips pressed to mine... can i toss these and replace them with whatever texture your ****** forestry implies? nuzzles are tasteful, when my tongue is out dear. if only a precursor, let us wander (skirtless) and fitzpleasure abounding not even gently when we combine talents and hum to the moon the new songs we've learned from hating eachother.
(i only hate you for finding my heart and for making me give it to you) but i forgive you for not being here
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 5:17 AM UTC
Brown flakes chipped from the mantles, fall
Outside chaos sweeps, shattered bird calls
Paths and trails invade, disrupting the norm
Arbor day stuck mid-waist, smothered once more
There's catastrophe in the canopy
Silence of defeat deafens the forestry
Help me, help you, I tip my ranger hat
Lets emancipate the earth from man's wicked combat
The world's confused, so liberate and understand
Clear your mind from this innate, tradition of can't
Ignore heavy mists blinding your eyes
Demand a deep breath, stand for your rights
The damage must come to an end
The world's in your hands
Unite nature, beast and man
Together as friends
Apr 13, 2012
Apr 13, 2012 at 1:12 PM UTC
I.
She is held by long arms of vines,
belted by dark flowers:
a living column surrounded by broken maples,
shadowed willows,
and daisies of ink.
She is still as stone
and whispers like rain,
soft and wet syllables beneath gray skies.
Many creatures hear the noise;
few listen to the words.
Help, she cries.
II.
They come, at last,
to save the forest.
But she still stands,
toes rooted deep in the dirt,
her bark unmarred,
and they cannot see
the rot within.
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 8:33 PM UTC