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CA Guilfoyle Jul 2012
You were born of oceans,
glacial upheavals melting
a temperate forest of raining seas
I climbed your stair step moss
to see night stars mingle with fir trees
I watched through the night
only sleeping when stars did,
when birds came echoing
through your woods,
at first light, in mists of fog
verily I slept  
in forest song
CK Baker Mar 2017
the walls of inside passage
look the same
from sound to straight
tugs and plugs
dot the coastline
as the quartermaster rolls
giving time for evening glare  

pods are in sequence
as the high tail smashes
and jaws at the krill
white bellies and sea cows
bob and weave
as bow heads glide
over haida gwaii  

northern lights dance
and tlingit chant
as the tide settles softly
on savory shores
their getting hungry in hoonah
as the blue back and beating drums
mark the life blood of the sea  

driftwood nets
and sitka spruce
surround the cook house
ravens and tinhorns
man the scullery
kerosene lamps flicker
as clam shells roast
on open flames  

villagers stroll
on pebbled sand
in the harbor of souls
where ships set sail
on might and mass
into the steady winds
of the golden skies

ice fields (to the north)
of kryptonite blue
cutting hills at
a glacial pace
knuckle clouds
above the snowline
where warlocks
craft a hidden trade  

trappers, skinners
muscle shoals
grizzly feasts
in kodiak bowl
determined pilgrims
on a dead horse trail
in search of gold
the holy grail
925 Apr 2015
Cutting across the ice,
Sunlight hair whipping across my face.
With glacial silver blades,
The concern fades.

Feelings erupt as I glide,
Worries set aside.
One foot to the next,
But its much more complex.

Becoming a different character,
But only in the winter.
All good things come to an end,
And I have to say good bye to my best friend.

The feelings come back when I’m on solid ground,
The anger and sadness unwound.
A human who prefers frozen water over earth,
Something obviously went wrong during birth.
With bamboo husks scattered,
My last bones shattered.
We mourn a loss of bliss,
Draped in fear learnt to dismiss,
I call for all to gather.

The stalks once in my heart,
Intertwined; and broke apart.
I never knew how weak I'd gotten,
As my glacial mind defrosted,
And from within; resilience departed.

My thoughts cannot grow,
Pierced by what I do not know.
I'm getting colder,
I am not a soldier,
I'm a victim to the blow.

As the last bit of me was hollowed out,
I spoke the words of hope through my mouth:
"I will learn to accept the pain,
Rather than soaking it in my veins,
I'll filter it to the ground."
I've been looking up what things symbolize feelings, and I've been so excited to write with them.
Apparently, (as far as I've read) bamboo is a symbol of strength in China. I just feel like weakness is such a common emotion, and it takes so much to grow out of.
I hope this isn't confusing.
All feedback is welcome and appreciated!!:):)
Palmer Oct 2016
While the early
Morning mist rises
So do we
The trek begins
Up wooded trails
Flannel red shirts steam
As we break through the clouds
Drinking sweat and glacial water
Bandaged knees creak
Too winded to speak
Till finally warm hands
Touch the cold granite cornice
Of Fischers Peak
East Kootenays Early 90s

#hiking #mountainclimbing #fall #nature
Nico Julleza Jul 2017
A God of everything
From my hopes to my dreams
and even more..

A miracle of the world
from its earthly to the heavenly
everyone adores..

A wonder to my eyes
from man whose blinded faith
he lets them see..

A voice of my song
symphonies of life lose its note
you conduct a new..

An ark of Le voyage
sailing tides of shore to shore
trod waters core..

A blimp up above  
gracing colors of glacial on air
everlasting he care..

A rock of revelation
standing every storm to storm
Avant is his norm..

A shepherd of lambs
from my heart whilst was lost
to him, I found..

A cross to my soul
were Calvary’s sins he bargains
a new life regained..
Tomorrow gonna be Sunday...
God Bless you Poets..
Bring the Lord to any place of your heart..

#God #Shepherd #Cross Wonder #Miracle

(NCJ)POETRYProductions. ©2017
Amanda Noel Aug 4
They threw a pebble in the lake,
Thinking it could break
the surface.

It was useless.

That puddle was placid,
Still and stagnant.

Glacial compression
formed protection from the storm,
prohibiting ripples to form.

So those tossed stones,
of debatable trouble,
bounce off me and unto them, like..
shamamama Jun 4
ludicrous without the laughter

sun baking villages of wild flowers for dead bees
bare earth torn to discover luminous oil
what are we doing?
why are we here?

why are the floods pouring from the sky?
Extraordinary tears
from lives spent
no more
to be seen again?

summer mountains
getting covered with winter snow
why are the polar bears
floating on glacial ice away from their livelihood
Why are the seasons changing,
from spring into winter
and from summer into the unknown
why are the whales swimming
to the shore?

Did we rewrite the wheel of time?
did we change the drumming of the drummer
without asking why?

The cotton clouds above me
silently scream as they stream
into the empty sunset
in the darkness of my mind

I have heard to act like we are
walking on our grandmother's face
when we take a walk on our earth,
What would grandmother say
if she were here today?

Stop!  See
the basil buzzing with a bee
let your eyes
fill with the light of hope,
feel it,
illuminate your landscape....

...I remember,
I remember why we are here
and what we are doing

don't let
someone else's
thoughts and actions
tear your earth apart

let the earth sneeze
let the bees breeze
let the sunshine awaken
let the dry rocks get covered with river clouds
let the tears fall,
touch and listen to grandmother

if the old footprints on her face
do not say I love you,
how can this next step say
I love you?
I have difficulty understanding life--how the past darkens what is here now and the future. I write to move through this "not understanding" and to shed rays of light into my mind to chase away the darkness, reveal the jewels of hope.
“Immediately a decisive alluring connection from the onset,  
As our ****** accoutrement deceptive lay’s softly on ground,
As the captivation of our present euphoria lays beneath our skin,
Complacency and beatitude with the enticing joy betwixt us,

I had fallen in love with her as the flowers cling to the earth,
Hearts hewed as one beating with powerful acquiescence,
Convivial contentment to us both as eve slowly turns to daybreak,
Reflex of love there is enigmatic elation never before perceived,

Etiology of twinging with euphoria trail of kisses lingering afore,
As in the charisma of a cold chill of that as glacial trails,
Sensed make our blood run cold now as souls entwined,
May she never leave and forestall a broken nature of being,  

I know that deep in the intensity of my heart you triumph,  
There is invariably space for altruism to reside always,
For all the delectation that once were unified of ours,
I not endeavor to conquer my contemplative devotion,  

Your flowering existence sheds invisible petals as I,
Claim them as something I could own should I keep them?
Or scatter them or are they even yours"

By Andrew Guzaldo  ©  09/01/2019 #165
By Andrew Guzaldo  ©  09/01/2019 Poem#165 #HelloPoetry
John Gallant Nov 2018
Melding of souls,
superimposing essence,
molten, incendiary.

Passion's fire unextinguished.
Tempered to warmth, carried in the heart;
a glow that thaws frigid glacial loneliness.

Solace from sun fueled lava flows,
coursing through etheric bodies ghostly veins.
Pulsating life force into the core and limbs;
covered in cellophane skin.

Fluidic love reveals visible branches,
growing into a web of connectivity.
Radiating rhythmic aura transmissions,
resonate harmoniously, with the cosmic symphony.

Bellows compressed by the vacuum of space,
solar winds stoking the embers.
The heat of the forge loosens the strings,
that keep a cooling heart tempered.
Savira Ralie Mar 14
When the dark settles
Your soul becomes her nightfall
She seeks for your caress
To conclude her ruptures
And house every sorrow

Before the dawn greets the surface of her skin
Before she returns to his glacial, waking arms
William D Hearns May 2018
One glossy raven perched, stately,
atop a snowy hill, on the face of which,
were interposed two glacial ponds of blue.
Between these pools ran a simple strip of sloped marble,
But at the base of this was the most gentle depression in the snow.
In disbelief I observed two rows of strawberries, blossoming,
heavy laden with the richest red.
Each gentle bite of these more delicious than the last.
I continued my survey,
down to a long narrow hill of the freshest snow.
Here I came upon a wide expanse, a plain,
two long, slender berms extended at opposite sides.
But this was no true plain, and all the better for that,
For two equal mounds of snow enchanted the landscape.
The setting sun cast a pink light at the peak of each pale globe,
So beautiful I wept.
As I passed between their valley the snowy distance continued.
I observed an infinitesimal sloping on the Western and Eastern edges.
This expanse, perfect of any true blemish, was punctuated by the shallowest little empty pond at its narrowest width; which only served to enhance the beauty.
The length of this snowed plain was far greater than its width, the edges slowly creeping into the narrowest part before flaring out to a wide expanse.
And there in the lowlands was The Delta,
to the side of which extended two of the longest and most shapely tapering ridges I had ever observed;
each ending with graceful peaks.
But that Delta!
Though snowy, the darkest , shortest scrub had capped its mound.
At the apex of The Delta was a precipice,
on its face a cavern, pink walls glistening with wetness,
at the caverns base, a cave.
Its tunnel, with walls ribbed, was warm and humid despite the landscape of snow.
This is the landscape I cherish most.
MicMag Aug 2018
              (  (  growing gray cloud of smoke and ash  ) )
              (  (  expanding mass of poisonous gas  ) )
                         (  ( billowing upwards into the air ) )           a
                            (  (    dark    omen    of    )  ) ­                   s
                                 (  (      despair      )   )                         h
      (    \           //    )  
                                       (   \        //   )                                 g
                                           (  \     //  )                                     e
                                              \\\  /////                                        n
                       ­                         \\\/////                                           t
                                         the                                                     l
                                    peak's        top           ­                         y
exploding     right off
                       glacial snows melting down                       f
                     lava flows heading for the town                     a
                   terror! destruction! fright erupting out                   l
               extinct beast awakens, roaring primal shout                  l
           mountain trembling, earth shaking, people quaking           s
       in fear and wonder, transfixed by summit torn asunder       
fire and fury blend with the sky as we flee and ponder why
we await this rage from the earth but the beauty makes it worth
all the deadly risks we know we face in living at this volcano's base
I recently visited some stunning towns
sitting at the base of active volcanoes.

I was left contemplating this tension
between the beauty and potential carnage.

(This one doesn't seem to look quite right on a phone.
Try it with a rotated screen.)
Ryzeofthepoet Aug 2018
Never will i ever taste the sweetness of fruits
After i have tasted your lips.
Never will i ever fear what lies in the shadows
After you lit up my world.
Never will i ever feel the glacial winter breeze
After you warmed my soul.
And never will i ever find a better partner
After you came into my life.
I'd like to think I'm an artist

Working at a pace far too glacial to be in the race.

Trying to write this poem is like painting a portrait with handcuffs on;

The architect’s human condition

Calculation, infatuation, manipulation,
a Little Miss Communicating.

Words are incapable of recreating

The way your face illuminated the solitary silence of my darkroom.

A winter solstice in full bloom.

This inversion in theory isn't negative, yet I don't feel satisfaction when my bones start to shutter.

The subject of my matter does not matter.

It's how I paint the portrait.

I’m constantly developing the negatives  
that I hear in my head.

Curiosity created the cat, and slowly, she grew wings.

A hall of fame rage angel.

Rendering the artist

Working in progress
Rei Coman Dec 2018
October 27th, 2018

The leaves have fallen
from the trees,
the sky is grey, like
the ancient, monolithic
glacial boulders.
A soft, chill breeze
blows from the lake
and freezes my
breath in the air.
Summer is fading
into winter,
dying slowly like
a grandmother with
dementia. Mother Nature
no longer remembers
the joyous heat or
the tender leaves of before,
instead giving us
the frigid winds of change.
Like the seasons,
everything changes,
everything fades and dies.
Like the green forest
winnowed down to twigs
by the cruel North Wind.
And it is as grim
as the storm clouds
coalescing ex nihilo
against the horizon.
Ashley Aug 26
There is a chaotic beauty in the way her confidence radiates out of her
A calm kindness in every touch
Passion lights up her eyes
While a fire burns in her soul

She is as wild as a crisp fall storm
Yet as peaceful as a lake on a calm summers day
With a cool candor that can either cut you like a glacial winters wind
or deliver an alluring comfort similar to spring blossoms
This circle must complete
With each of Earth's orbit
It's a cycle that will repeat

But when global warming
Triggers mass glacial melting
From ozone layer's depleting

Where oil spills can ruin an ocean
Being used as garbage collection
Causing every ecosystem's suffocation

More landfills from over-consumption
Still, we opt for deforestation
Resulting in fresh water reduction

In disrupting her delicate cycle,
Can we understand that excess is not natural?
Wounded, it takes her longer to heal!

Like our mother, she has borne us all
Give her love! Must we watch her fall?
Open your eyes! Let's heed her call!

© 2004 - Pres - All Rights Reserved
A Poem About Earth Day (Free Verse)
Once there was an endless day,
of shattered wills and broken dreams;
Raging thoughts of anguish pulled,
through hearts left torn at the seams.

It happened when the world stood still,
with its cold and heartless winds;
Sweeping through time with chilling frost,
a glacial torrent of previous sins.

The Lord had left us for awhile,
to see how we would manage;
Would we just give up our values,
or proceed to live up to the challenge ?

Our prayers held fast on varied tongues,
renewing deep faith and adoration;
For the ONE TRUE SPIRIT who 'd save us,
from such a daunting transformation.

At times it seems as we are left,
alone with our pain and torment;
Yet with faith the world recovers from,
the icy shards of sinful moments.

Forgiveness is totally in our blood,
as we vow to treat each other right;
For this one long day could evolve into,
an eternally bleak and fearsome night.
Graceful swan, your plumage white
you haunt the shadows of the night
on glacial waters of the lake
mute you glide, no sound do make
And I have loved you from afar
Lost to me, my wandering star

And how you danced as wings took flight
You mesmerised with feet so light
on every pirouette you spun
in moonlight’s glow, my heart was won
And still I love you evermore
Lost to me, hard to endure

You are the lake, the stars, the moon
Ethereal music’s soulful tune
Princess of the glacial water
Nevermore a lover, daughter
In death, your voice will soar the plains
Sing for me those sad refrains

Graceful swan, my deep regret
you nevermore shall be Odette.

28/01/19 JG
Ken Pepiton Mar 6
A transfer of energy
ye know, in the higgs,
do we still honor the guy
that idea had? Capital letters confer honor,
in my literary culture.
Honor is not always due.
Higgs did the math, so H is honoring
his attention to detail, there for duty to honor
knowns predicted by men augmented
with reason, conlogique, mit prehensile
minds capable of accounting for believable unseeables.

Despise not the day of small things,
the boson thinglet, math says those ef
fect, in fact, make
mass, any thing that ever matters
at all.

( A syllable at a time saves stitches,
don't run with scissors, beware
the concise)

Whet the Mobius edge,
Ping, inside, outside, one side, one edge, light
glint, bent gravitasish, bouncing,
crissing and crossing at every vector in time from this
particularity, a dimensional dialectic duality,

whys and hows dancing

that's the field at work, maybe,
whence things making matter matter rise up,
may be not.
Real quick decicisions happen
in that field idea.

Nur Herr Doctors, Master Professors of
Sophia's Sacred Secreted Truths may enact the
Matriculate's escape from dominion of higgsian rules
by endowing
hidden treasure, for baksheesh,  in power spells
and chants and cheers and degrees of
blood sworn oathz.

E pluribus unem is one of 'em, I learned.
Too spiritual a' idea to be allowed
but to them whose cogitatin'
warn't troubled, them
secret keepers,
the civilizeers'ad vizeers in Teflon tenured towers
overlooked some honorable ideas,
Higgs, so what? We all know
Things be that we can only imagine seeing.

Which reminded me, not all bubbles are spherical.

You know. You have seen big long stretchy
silicon re-enforced detergent
bubbles, on TV.

The higgs field of reality is such a bubble,

to my mind. Can you imagine that?
to my mind away

we went as if we were wind, whispers
in the storm.

Settle down. All that can be de
constructed can be de
solved, dis
cerned, de
As re-al ways made where no way was.
Riddle or rhyme, which is easier to remember?
Riddle locks to keywords
Ryhme locks to a sound and sound locks to
tones, frequency
found, perfect peaks and troughs then
keywords unlock the channel
where living and life are wave and particle,
medium and message sent.
If there were shame on your nation,
was that shame on you, like an extension,
or like a pro jected ob jection...

juxt aposit just a point in the field upon which

the story you know is no lie, it mattered and
may rise,

knave to wizard, if you

tell it funny.
funny only hurts when evil people do it.

Be the clown, bounce into the spot,
"Gotdim, gotdimimim, fuggafuggagubbledy boo"

Magi fool, lies about the futil-if-ity of sisting,
in the world, he will eat you alive, lest you know
the word. Or the riddle.

Inspire, expire, that sort of thing, but
spiritual. A trans fer of con
served en
ergy, via demiurge, per
hapmayhap and
magi transisters

regularizing the flow
through the locks, in
for ward
flow, that's all they know.
Our servants who motivate us,
all they do is use our breath and our blood
to charge up the ATP batteries by the billions,
until we cannot withstand the pressure.

A fugettin' consarnation story teller,
who then lies, and sows discord among bretheren,
by adding to and taking from the story,
pre suming knowns unknown are
mere myth the magi invented
mit wit and subtle twisting.

Novices, apprentices,
those ain't allowed to eat pearls 'til they wisdom
teeth come in,
that penultimate major marker, of maturation,
in the gut
brain input-putout exchange system,

once those have changed the way
vortices of taste
swirl words down the eustacion
spiral, then

The frontal cortex kicks in and God only knows
the tune we sing in ryth'm
with the snow flake rhymes framing my window pane.

If there were shame on my nation, like a ***** snow... then a flood,,,
dark, near no light, shame, shame shame... thick, glacial
filth filtering frozen
liar shame, bully shame, lover of twisted rights shame;
war would never melt it.

Thus global warming. Just in time.
“Once I did love her as everyone knew,
And the Elysium can adjure to such,
Globules of love still trickle in my soul,
And benevolence of pain fills my heart,

I loved her endlessly even of her cynically sense,
Sometimes hesitant and at other times resentful,
Loving her regardless of her ambitious benevolence,
As tears is infamously brief the brow of my cheek,

She was the shadow of darkness that hid from me,  
Will a new love me with an obverse passionate fervor?
The globules of anamnesis drip from my heart and soul
Are these pieces of my soul that still cling to her?

Nor can I descent from despair from this I once loved,
Inescapable moments of life are as sure as leaves fall,  
As clouds form before a storm and the sun sets in eve,
As glacial flowers have fallen upon my latent heart,
And from ethereal hopes to a crevice of vicissitudes,    
By Andrew Guzaldo 06/25/2019 ©
By Andrew Guzaldo 06/25/2019 ©  #Poem#161 HP
Lyn-Purcell Aug 2018

The folding screen stands tall in the
Splendid Paramour's room, the glory
kissed further by the sun-dappled
tree light that spilled through her window.
A painted surface of honeyed-gold that
can only be found from a blooming sun,
with edges as purple as her lover's robes.
Or at least it was. Now all she sees is the
shade of countless wine-stains, the shades
of many flowering bruises.

One each of the panels, chrysanthemums in
bloom, ever so vibrant; pomegranate red,
mimosa gold, mint green. Her slender finger
stroked one of glacial blue, while her eyes
fell on the one of wedding white, pure and
innocent. She recalled a dream she had the
night before. She was standing in a barren
field with many holes; her obsidian hair,
long straight and loose, her lithe body in a
simple white robe.

She saw faceless figures made of silver vapour,
all speaking secrets into various holes before
they ceased into nothing. From their buried
words bloomed chrysanthemums, each singing,
each whispered, joyous thoughts to heart-
wrenching songs. Re-opening her eyes, she
walked behind her folding screen, out of gold
light, into the purple shade. On the back was
hand-painted with plum blossoms that decorated
the cloak of snow. On the floor, a simple
embroidered pillow.

Upon the simple table, her four great treasures;
an ink stick made from animal oil, printed with
"For you are my eternal pledge of beauty," she
heard her lover coo, but she shook the thought
away. Next, a black ink stone that was carved
with a dragon and phoenix - a painful tug of her
heart; brush made of goat hairs; tip was soft and
flextile; "Paint your mind for me, my love," he
cooed again as she bit her lower lip.
And finally, small sheets of paper. "Born only
from bamboo," she muttered so bitterly.

"My sweet Meihua," she felt his palm on her
cheek. "None will replace you, my Splendid
Paramour. Ever so noble, always so virtuous."
And after the memory came the pain; her lover
was a dragon, none above him but the Gods,
but his beautiful face distorted for he had a
dragon's temper; the dripping wine-stains,
and blooming bruises.

She began to grind the ink-stick on the
ink-block, until she had a small silk-oil
point. Raising her brush, she dipped the
tip in the ink and now, she would paint
the words of her mind. In the comforts of
room, soundless, she painted her heart
that remained unhealed.

In the her lover's arms, the Dragon's
arms, she had hoped to be his Empress,
his doting phoenix, that would rise
through the skies, forever entwined in
a dance of love, soaring through nimbus
big and small. But alas, that would never
be. Not anymore...
The wine-stains, the budding bruises.
Her path strewn by fellow Consorts
long dead, with silk wrapped around
their throats, or poisons on their tables,
or even crimson flowers leaking out of
their sliced wrists.

She wrote and wrote on, blinking away
the stinging from her eyes, casting her
her dreams of being a Worthy Consort
aside, as she would with her name,
the one he granted her, 'Meihua',
the dragon's flowering plum. But if
she did, what would she be?
A girl, a ghost that bears no name.

"He saw me as virtuous," she said, "he
saw me as noble, until..." That accursed
moment, the wine-stains, the sprouting
bruises. She shivered even though her
palace was warm, but to her, it was cold.
Forever cursed to be cold.

Without the dragon's presence, she felt
so alone. No family nor friend - no soul
in sight. Naught to talk to in her blight.
For now he cursed Meihua to wither and
"My love," she whimpered. "My love,
Return. I would do anything for you to

Once she painted out her heart on the
bamboo page, she pulled a dagger from
her billowing sleeve.

Fate had closed her chapter,
it was never meant to be.
Years and tears of love had
made her blind in one eye.

There was ALOT of turmoil I needed to write out.
In other news, this is my 700th poem! ^-^
This was inspired by a folding screen I saw in a museum once (from the Tang Dynasty, I believe), and it was so beautiful! If only it could talk...
And I was inspired by the Four Gentlemen, too! ^-^
Hope you enjoy it! I'm planning on continuing The Letter,
so hopefully, it'll be out tomorrow! ^-^
Thanks again, everyone!
Lyn ***
Ken Pepiton Feb 19
Bottom of the stack,
first shall be last

each line has the potential to lead on, read on

confer, compare parallel ports pulsing in

goodness knows wrong ain't ever right,
nevermind whys and hows when
nows calling you by kind
ask attention

read this, you are the few,
other than me, I know you allone,
Dear Reader, whose name you alone
may now know

in your one
integrated, tooled-up, read-up, curious
and curioser
words hold whole thoughts in harness,
letters let them live,
writers make them work,

poets pay them mind to find reason and
metre in the spiral of knowing
growing steadily meeker
as peacemakers take

the call as op
fortunate. Good for goodness sake and
no measurer yet devised,
no witty invention,

can make you listen to patterns
scattered in the noise,

time keeps its steady pace, irreversible.

all parallel paths cross mine, eventual.

vente vide vince but (vente was the size
of my coffee, I think) I think,

history waves a banner, see

it says many wrongs
did not come
past last lie believer ceiving a source

of knowns unknown re

making, fect per effect ual, right,

the basic idea.
You have need of patience,

curios and kachina songs and liter
ary urges from words

once stuffed with meaning, right, like
each word is a clay jar,
a vessel for a thought spoken right,

as my servant, my re
feree confounding my accuser for ever,

in a word. Hide and watch, or sing and shout.

The basic idea claims any word may be redeemed,
but the utterer must give account for every idle word.

The house-dweller,
the non-nomad, who labors,
who efforts,
who sweats and frets and fusses over seed
sown in history
must first partake the fruit.
Not ever must an idle word be

let alone to fester in rot for lack of
a taster to test the truth,
a darer
of daemonic algorythms pulling

the very air, air, atmostfear away oh,

the arctic ice is adapted to by the
basic idea that things survive
as life lives, within the
field named
worms hold out promises

the arctic ice is the scab being
ingested slowww glacial slow, soon

weather will find the pattern.

All things work right,
nothing works wrong.

Lemme say,
for a while, as defined by mortals,

we taught. We words took no other pose,
played no role save to hold
ideas taken by men to serve a human plan.

That quest ion. How ahye? serves as well, but

Sup says more. What is up? op
positive to down, related to spins named
charming and strange for reason

known to a very few.
Some where in there, is a base, a standing place for idle words to plead a purpose sufficient unto the evil of the day. Any idle word, fittly spoken, can be as "apples of gold in pitchers of silver, or is that pictures of silve?
It’s so vehemently deafening!
This cacophonous howling in my head,
Is reverberating in the depleted chambers of my heart.

Where a fire once flickered bright,
The hearth in my soul is as glacial,
And barren as the winter sun.

I reach out to you for the contentment,
And limpidity you once gave me.
And so, I come to you naked,
In my virtuous conations of fervor
And acceptance.

But you, my love have become,
Somber and contorted with hatred.
The beauty that you once had,
Has become ensnared with thorns
That seek to cut me.

But what can I say?
Your touch is memorable.
I can feel your fingers on my skin,
Tempting my secrets out,
Swaying me to believe in the darkness.

Your lips kiss poison into my veins,
Which make me swoon further into your embrace.

So I gave up, I let you in.
My legs wrapped around your waist,
Your lips on my neck,
My hands in your hair,
Your hands on my body,
My mouth on you.

I sold my soul for your betrayal.
The darkness never felt so  good...
Thomas Goss May 21
Fragrant fields

invoke your opening shutter:

you build stamens into white resonance.

With the tilt of the lens

you hold back your breath

to halt the photo-blur.

The army of slime mold cells below

silently begins its glacial escape

as your mouth softens in anticipation

of capturing a pristine moment.

The scattered forest tops

shade your eyebrows

with the vertical upheaval

of decades-young canopy.

Can you see? In the clock-stop

stillness of a camera’s blinking eye

you tighten your grip on yourself

while still kneeling lightly

on the floors of nature.

Thus you open places that appear

all at once before you,

and culminate in the narrow beak of a winter bird

that rests momentarily on your shovel

before gratefully returning

to the archeological dig near your feet,

where it exhumes, then eats,

its breakfast of worms.
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