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Ramin Ara Sep 2016
There are many meanings
Hidden in every flower
And grassland ...
May 9, 2012, 7:01:02 PM by ~OmegaWolfOfWinter
Journals / Personal




The rivers of winter ice had melted with spring sunshine's awakening and the noises of the forest announced the awakening of the fauna. a young fox stretched her long legs and fluffed up her tail as she yawned awake. this winter had been a lonely one for her, as she did not have a mate. throughout the winter she had felt the tingling feelings of her ****** urges creep between her legs and she moaned slightly as she felt them creeping there again.  she stepped slowly out of her den and took a cool breath of the spring air, bringing her the scents of the amorous flowers and the frolicking prey. she watched two birds in courting flight above har and she sighed at her loneliness. the fox hung her head low and walked softly forward. at some point she closed her eyes and yet kept walking, a few tears of longing falling from her eyes. the tingling urges grew stronger and she fought to keep them at bay. she kept walking a bit, aimlessly, though. she cried out as she stumbled over a heavy rock.
She tumbled into the nearby brook and felt a sharp stone cut her right hind leg. she clambered on to the bank, shivering and soaking wet with the chilled water. she attempted to stand and felt a fiery sting to her leg. she looked and saw a shallow **** marring her orange fur. "ow... ow..." she whimpered as she walked on. as the sun peaked over her, she felt her stomach's pleading for sustenance and she groaned. she could faintly smell a rabbit nearby and crouched low, going over how to stalk her prey. she sniffed for it and it seemed to be close, on the other side of a group of trees. she flanked around as best she could and spotted the furball. she licked her lips hungrily and pounced. the rabbit was dead in an instant as she tore its throat out. she chomped at it once and then felt a feeling of dread. she gulped once and heard a wolf growl nearby. i'm wounded... i can't avoid it now.
.
she thought. she heard the wolf running toward her and was bowled over by it. when she stopped
Rolling she was on her back. looking up at the wolf, a young grey, white chested wolf, at the beginning of his manhood. he snarled at his prey as she whimpered beneath him. then to her surprise, he sniffed at her and tilted his head, the tenseness of the hunt gone from his yellow eyes. the wolf took a step back and looked her up and down, stopping as he saw something. he spoke softly, almost caringly, "you are female... and in heat... i apologize for interrupting your meal."
the fox looked at him curiously, "You...?"
he glanced at her and finished her thought. "...do not harm females. it is a code of honor i choose to live by."
she sniffed at him, "you have no mate, no lover."
his breath caught. "nor do you, young fox, lest he'd be satiating your body's desires, and his as well."
she felt the tingling between her legs again and attempted to say something, but was stopped. the wolf said, "nor do i wish to take advantage of females either."
The fox replied suggestively, "you spared my life, surely theres some way i could repay you, handsome wolf."
the wolf looked at her, eyes dilated and his breathing rough. he shook his head, "no.. i couldnt. its not my place."
she could feel the urges burning inside her, she wanted to release them, she wanted this wolf to release her. "chivalrous, i see. then, dear wolf, alleviate my longing, my pain, and i shall alleviate your own."
the wolf took a step closer, his own longing feeding his fire. "beautiful fox... your offer intigues me... you- you are wounded..." she looked and saw her leg still bleeding. "let me aide you, dear fox." he took a few steps and lay beside her, licking her wound. with each lick, the pain receded and was replaced by a wave of pleasant ache. the bleeding stopped and he stopped licking, for the moment. he sniffed her, his cold nose brushing the swollen flesh, and as it quivered between her legs, he knew she was ready for him. "my den is close by, young fox."
She nuzzled against his chest and felt his heart pounding. she took his paw and pressed it against her own chest, letting him feel her heart. "you know we cant wait that long, here.. in this group of trees." she gestured to the spot a few feet away. the wolf quickly walked into the tangle of trees, followed by the fox. the wolf had hardly stepped inside the treeline before the fox began nudging at the furry bulge between his legs. "you're not quite ready yet, dear wolf." the wolf whimpered a few times as she licked at it, taking his smooth member in her mouth and enticing it with her tongue. once it was throbbing in its full glory, she licked one last time and said, "now you're ready." and raised herself in preparation for him. he got into position on top of her and with one paw she guided him inside her. she gasped as he stretched her a little. she glanced over her shoulder and
realized that he wasnt that much bigger than her. he looked nervous and she realized something,
This is his first time... mine too... lets make this memorable.. she experimented with different positions, and after finding her favorite, set about making this wolf howl.
the wolf ****** slowly at first, drawing out the ecstasy. only when she began to whimper amorously did he begin to ****** harder, faster. she joined him, as he pulled back, she leaned forward, leaving only his tip inside her. when he ******, she leaned back on him with a wet squish. the wolf's tongue lolled and his eyes were glazed over in sweet agony. he howled softly at first, and as the ****** came, he howled again, echoing with the fox's cries as the ecstasy reached its ****** and rocked their bodies. the wolf staggered slightly at the passionate waves of ******. he pulled out his member and looked at his mate. "come with me to my den, so we can sleep, dear fox." the fox looked at him and nodded, grateful.
* * *
The fox and the wolf walked quietly to his den, set inside a secluded cluster of trees. the den itself was set in the ground, like a cavern, just large enough for the two of them to lie down comfortably. "its going to get cold tonight," said the wolf. "we should... share body heat." he had a faint twinkle in his eyes as he glanced nervously at her. when she tilted her head to him, the wolf looked down at his paws. the fox licked his muzzle and laid down next to him. the wolf's grey fur was thick, and she was  already beginning to feel warmer. she felt the wolf's heart beat a little faster, and he curled around her. his furry tail wrapped around the fox and she purred slightly as she nuzzled him and rested her head on his foreleg. for a moment they lay there, eyes closed, listening to the others' breathing, when he whispered to her, "i never did catch your name, young fox."
she grinned at him, "my name's Sasha, the only fox in this forest. and what be your name, dear wolf?"
The wolf opened one eye slightly to look at her, "my name is Ronan, i'm the last wolf of my pack."
she held him in her gaze a few beats and replied, "i haven't seen many wolves 'round these parts, where do you come from, Ronan?"
the grey sighed and said, "Farther north, over the mountains and into ice country. the food became scarce and the pack withered away, all but me. i treveled over the hills and mountains, through forests and grassland, and i kept going, finally stopping here. what of you? you said yourself you were the only fox in this forest."
Sasha swished her tail back and forth for a moment before, "i was separated from my family during a blizzard. i- i couldn't see anything, and i couldn't hear anything over the wind. i wandered aimlessly in the whiteout, tripping and stumbling until i bumped into something big. then again, i was just a kit and everything was big to me, but i looked up and saw a pair of eyes looking at me. i was so scared the snow beneath me turned yellow.
The monster bent over and picked me up by the scruff of my neck and carried me for a long time. i was so exhausted i fell asleep in its grip. when i woke up i was in a chilly den. i looked and realized that the monster had been a snow-white she-wolf. she sat at the enterance to the den and kept looking outside, waiting for something. when the snowstorm cleared out, she turned to me and said, 'little fox. have you a family?' i shook my head as i realized they were gone. from then on, the wolf raised me and taught me how to survive. then one day a few years ago... she was gone..."
Ronan was watching the fox as she told the story. "i'm sorry."
"don't be, ronan. ever since she left ive been alone. no fox to breed me, no one for a lover. until you came along..."
ronan licked her muzzle, "no need for loneliness now." sasha smiled and was soon asleep, warmed by her lover.
*
The sun rose and shone brightly into the entrance of the den the next morning, waking sasha from her slumber. she yawned and felt around for the grey. she felt nothing. she stood up and looked around the empty den. did he... leave me? a single tear fell when she imagined the possibility. "no.... please no..." she whimpered. her breath caught as she heard something rustling the grass outside the den. sasha shrank back and hid behind her tail, peeking over it slightly. she could hear her heartbeat in her ears and feel it rising in her throat as the rustling got closer and closer. she squeaked, "who... who's there?"
she flinched as a dark mass blocked the sunlight, its shadow stretching across the wall. the mass stepped slowly forward and sasha shut her eyes tight, fearing what might come next. "sasha?" it was ronan. "what's the matter?"
she gasped at him before rushing forward and burying her muzzle in his chest fur. "i thought you'd left me..."
with a paw, ronan stroked the fur on her back. "i'm a wolf, ***. loyalty and chivalry are the only things i know." she buried herself deeper in his fur and scolded herself for not realizing that. "i caught breakfast, i figured you'd be hungry after i interrupted your meal yesterday." she looked behind him and saw a small pile of ****** rabbits. sasha licked her lips hungrily. "its all yours, dear fox." she looked gratefully at Ronan before pouncing on the pile of carcasses, tearing into one and bloodying her maw. ronan watched her with pleasant  affection. the den was filled with the sounds of flesh being rendered from bone and the snapping of Sasha's teeth. she feasted upon the **** until she could eat no more, her belly now filled. two rabbits still lay uneaten, and ronan devoured them slowly, savoring the ****** meat as it slipped down his gullet. sasha lay nuzzled up against him while he ate, toying at his tail and
otherwise teasing at him. he gave her a look of amusement and somehow got into a game of tag with her.
He chased her around the den and she dodged his paw as he reached for her. when he did finally touch her, sasha dove between his legs and poked his furry belly. leaving him with a dumbfounded expression on his face. he then chased sasha outside and they continued their game within the cluster of trees around them. sasha laughed, a liquid smooth, crystal clear laugh. ronan watched her jump around him, the sun's rays catching her fine orange fur in such a way that it seemed almost like fire. he watched her a moment and loosed a soft howl. she's so beautiful... he thought.
* *
softcomponent Dec 2013
we promised each
other a

broken

lawn

mower

so we mowed
the dirt

instead
Jayanta Apr 2014
‘We live with forest’ and ‘forest live with us’!
Tallest tree of the forest is the symbol of our hope,
The Python is our messenger of past,
Blossoming flower of grassland are our depiction of smile,
Birds are the our fortune teller,
Earthworms are our marker,
Butterflies are our messenger of worship,
We design our life with them,
They are our image of clan and family,
We can’t live without them,
Our aspiration is tuned with their respiration,
We are cheerful with them!  
                
Now, out of the blue, you arrived
and say we are poor!
So, you will build industry for us and give job to us!
But for that,
You occupy our land, our forest, our friends and respiration,
We never thought!
‘You are such a pitiable’
That you can’t build anything without our forest,
But you say, ‘we are poor’!
*

Please, go away from our blessed place
Don’t wipe out our friend!
We are rich and happy with the blessing of our friend
There is no need of your industry,
Please go away
Leave us alone we will design our destination.
There is a community called Khasi, inhabitant of State of Meghalaya, India. The Khasi matriarchal society has a cultural system, where they consider forest as sacred. They have clan forest, village forest, community forest in every village.  There is a saying that “Khasi live in forest and forest live Khasi”. Their lifestyle is designed with cycle of nature and nature stewardship is vivid in their day to day life. Now, different groups are coming up to the area, started to destroying the forest in the name of mining and industry. Ecosystem people of the area trying hard to raise their voice, but no one care about it. In every visit to the area I am becoming helpless!
He stood on the grassland of Ledi Geraru.

The sky was a vast expanse of melancholic gray
and the crimson blue light made the night imminent.

Each twilight his feet felt the kiss of the dewy shrub
as he waited for the first star to come out
that in a hushed sweep descended as peace.

He would raise his finger to the sky
and upon the river of his eyes
the star broke into fragments of tears.

He was slowly dying
but a greater him was to tread the grassland.

His eyes weren't found.

Only his jaws still stuck with the beauty
were dug up from the stardust.
A fossil jaw plucked from the badlands of Ethiopia—points to East Africa as the birthplace of our evolutionary lineage.
The site where the jaw was found, called Ledi-Geraru, was a mix of grasslands and a few shrubs 2.8 million years ago.
This write draws inspiration from the above.
Nigel Morgan Oct 2012
She had hung it up from the mantelpiece in her bedroom, so when he entered the room there it was. It was suddenly lovely and he immediately imagined her body flowing into it, flowing from it. Standing close to the dress he brought his fingers to the fabric, touched gently, stroking then, as though it already held her form and substance.
 
Stepping past thoughts of her that so stirred his body he entered the pattern of the dress. It was a meadow in southern Ontario. July, when already the sun had bleached the profusion of grasses: water chestnut and papyrus sedge. He had stepped from the untidy veranda, past the pond, and down the rough track between the fields unmown, uncut, left fallow. As he entered the breaks of woodland between these swathes of grassland, deciduous leaves, dry and brittle from the summer's heat, were strewn on the path, and between the trees clumps of bramble bushes with berries of red and blue, black and purple.
 
There was no wind. The only sounds an underlay of crickets, his footfall, and the sharp mournful cries of geese on the now distant pond.
 
He saw her like an apparition standing motionless at the woodland’s  boundary; her dress at one with all that surrounded her. When he came close and placed his hand on her shoulder he could smell the sweet dry earth mingling with her body's sweat, a hint of her *** as he placed his cheek against the shower of printed pollen amongst the leaves on her back.
 
Back in the late afternoon bedroom he heard her move about in the kitchen, and the spell broken, he turned away and went downstairs.
 
Several days later, as they prepared for bed, she slipped the dress on. As she stood in the lamplight smoothing it against her flanks, adjusting its fall across her *******, he felt himself faint that such a thing of beauty could be a joy forever . . . and beyond.
A further piece from my collection of prose poems 37 Minutes.
Seán Mac Falls Jul 2012
The small grassland hills are dancing.
The sky is blue and the breeze is long,
I reach out, I touch and I look—
Into your eyes, my fingers in your hair.
Some Person Jun 2015
Memories
fade in and out
between sobs

The present
fills in the gaps

We only have so long to remember

Will there be anything more than this?
Will I have another chance?

I begin to walk across the field,
feeling the texture of the grass

Will she join me in another place?
Will she do without me?

I'm across the field,
but I want to cross it again
Racquel Davis Jul 2014
Imagine you are walking
Imagine
Imagine a place
A desert place
Where the heat steals your energy
This endless sea of sand ***** you in

You are imagining a place
Imagine
Gentle grassland
The full moon is enough to keep you sane
The wind whispers your name with a cool and warm voice

Imagine you are falling
Imagine
Barren sand in your mouth
Your face meets the horizon and it kicks you in the eyes as you sink
Your screams are heard by no other except the hand that saves you
And once more you are walking in the desert place again

©Copyright 2006 Written and Edited by Racquel Davis
This is an old poem I wrote in high school. It has been edited many times.
Kaitelka; Whale Mongolic down, first whale which said syndrome, evidenced by their presence, as didgeridoo, as spitting but more hypersonic, hyper cetacean moving his tail, Burguete funds, learned to swim faster than anything, but the Nautilus, not He paid attention to his mother in his care skills, but bad luck that can befall if not moderate their exalting and allergic omitted cases to obey.

So all blue, but little Kaitelka, seeking friendship among their peers, but he put  a tambourine limit gave him leftovers and liked more than a day a thousand years of perfect instincts. So step aside by the fire, and dodged the deafening roar of nymph Satinga; the most ancient senator of the headpiece, always full on its plateau of ******* hydrochloride that resistance, if they pass a thousand years and I do not understand these pairs, I adjusted my engine, but to no avail me, my instincts are diluted and slim as downpour edges left by the wayside in infants and solfa. That Jesus Light was said behind the screen rainbow arch, he takes her hand to Kaitelka, and back by the outer estuary, they attack by instinct ministry of evil.

Mildew petrified oaks, disorients the abject warty troughs the disordering of the genetic instinct, if I have to pause my essence, I leave in the hands of Joshua stone from beyond. Where the ticket is worth more to me, but I get the same. Where evil knows well, but tasteless well. Underground, underwater., Kaitelka take any more, wheels come and go, instinct taking shredding herbs near the sea, no longer separates me more. Bright the famous day that rebukes my dreams rather than a whole, plastering, or monument flash highborn of Mongolic loves whales, classless or inheritances acquired record. Kaitelka and in gratitude to accompany my walk, to the junction of Lisbon, walking from room to room, to begin the pilgrimage, his steps were Glup, Glup like a pretty varmint, over the hills she is beginning to the descritery of Satinga, or rather the descritery of Sapiens Hommo, rummaging instinct of love today, then unloved. Native forests make pairings, but separate links non-energy cataclysms, similar to the new alliance valley radial wave, tuned cetacean sonar power can be glimpsed.

The Ministry of Evil is no end to the retrospective marvel at Noe, Isaac or Abraham, or Luther King, is the delayed form of unsettled muscle primo Evo madding to neo Evo updated, and neither bells sound the same, as reboot gray phthisis diseases degenerate and synthetic. The instinct to put your hands into the fire will be lost ..., so more pace to the back of them cutting the seas in arithmetical divisions, if commend my antidepressants depressive relatives, caress the sea in each constipated solstice, I go every night with daisies in my hands defying every cliff, every cave turned into a tavern, killing instinct, when the brain is nothing, sprayed kerosene on stage, to see my beloved before he dies of a blowgun.  

Joshua Stone and Bernardolipus in a crossroad, spin the grazing, the black sheep, is barren, its classic label of Segregated debased soul, but defecated humanoid comment sing out of tune the territory themselves.  Three-step, three-way, Joshua embraces Bernardolipo. Welcome starts. Satinga you slice ferns and wild beast, vomits both diazepams swallowed, do not sleep, dreams transpose half orb. Halos, half halos, iridescent arcades, and warm breezes, must preamble Donated high liking. Soft and warm look, I do not lose my plate potato near my belly, warm adobe cellar. Nymph Satinga of reaction in reaction out of tune and the highlights midwife psoriasis for its reddish dermis by a fungus worming. The re instinct starts to chew his skull, dread end of the border. The cookies Lord is sending us on napkins.

Pre urbane figure born, they appear a hundred suns, so the crowd out who has the audacity to reveal the discrete enigma, the puzzle while the floor moves the seizure ... all stunned waiting for the flash Ritual to start the preliminary stage, the paradigm of unshelled trees, tough tables roll by the church at the foot of flowers crocuses scrolls flat estate. For the baptistery inscrutability warmth your network back double halo on the moon, scrub that level. Abyss where I fall near aspire to the coachman, I go away over time from heaven minute no second in hours where the avalanche of time lose my look to hold any deity that does not prevent the tendency to lose those not facing front, a day like this you do not walk any shadow, nor the Horcondising I would like to Santorini. The Borker wrongheaded, burning a cigar in rib Kaitelka, it provides a stunning scream as the end of the world, giving birth to the sky his beautiful breeding, as a good omen to present to the crowd in the Octagon and pleased transit day often fruity crestfallen fig.  

Adelimpia,  Strongly taken the and Thunder Aunt, washed in the backroom their aprons with Christmas, whose magical and enlightening sense, they were the Three Wise Princes, sons of the same kings of Israel. Sitting on some cobs, heritages from last wheel spikes. On warm evenings mantra Baba Nam Kevalam, I do not stay alone without others to see this magical high flood flow mention aversion in pontificates, necessary, pal meal with wine apocalyptic pale rider, Napoleonic soldier dethroned.

Thousands of hectares grassland in loving with heavenly muddy, as adhering to the force of Sorcery Camphor to move everything to the midnight launch eclipse. Thousands of hectares squirts do not possess any extension ratio, giddiness master eye, losing possession. What is Slice is Caren Lagoon, which is Alhué Village is Polulo mountain near the place, what Pichi of Barrancas... Out of my roles temple or regulators, as night plans still dating Jack, with overall equidistant to all orphan girl lost in the jungle inbenign . Cutting room of breath begins threshing., afar put the trays, and poor saint not to attend, this clever move, all atheists bruised, stiff and deprived of the worst failure smoothness, it´s the earth not plowed,                    
              
Dreams whistles hills ... Ghosts and spurs  ... Elegy opaque optical floors, all at Aunty Thunder dream the same...

If you can call night, inland sea waves have to educate infant’s tsunamis, they live among geological forces off the coast of scudding clouds of ... where she cuts through. Where our conscience, should play down a Machiavellian zero to roll it to the belly of the whale down. Their heavy udders milk, as long as a wild bird dueled, mounted in their beards, but the bird slips for his little body often and disadvantaged, to fall into the enzyme flash neuron meditatively; aspiring meditatively. While tsunamis grow, the mountains grow, decreases Hommo sapiens, conscience, he has left, minus zero exiled to the **** pony pens, to create their neighborhood over the eyes of a pupil of warty lameness. Reborn storm, stately power, Nymph Hetaira, who seduces the ringer smith, golden horseshoe, pal new millennium. His no longer harp, sewing lips ant, threading needles Grandma milking herbs get a grotto, families abandoned, shrill understatement by the echoes of the West, for you my Transients soliloquy turbid straightening of holistic aqueous molecules who want to sleep in my hands.

Good beverage, good consciousness nursery. Sleepily he walks by the barbed wire of stupid sort of busybody in thickness bolognese, or bandoneon, pilaster grandson male, to Vizcaya sailing or North Toscana, where after a barricade, Piedmont jumps to the south under Pichi.

They are falling water molecules on Maitén tree, or Tomato Adelimpia bow, and on the fibrous and head hair grass grandmamma Anna. Junks greet Bernardolipo, which was fishing with his wounded eyes, but the rub his mouth on the back of Kaitelka, calcium verve in carrousel turned. Line up the right hand, bottled lady Juana, he stretched to crush cilantro, but no ... or both...

Reigns for ?, to allocate a stop along the way, West Side Story Pichi. We are a few steps from misting dawn of propionate Stoics lash the oppressed people, clear water, singing  ... neuron in neuron, the cell last neuron, with the bow remained foul-mouthed, to shuffle, or Kawashkar Chilean Indian the slice of the leg, looking shoe children who roam the street without a blanket. They close their eyes, tears of shame. Here you are ecstatic stiffs arrows bows, feathers swaying in edgings shields tangled, hordes of haggard eyes flamed flames that no impudence and, which limp to a scoundrel that stuns resistant to fall on the sand. Show your dream, that dream bathe.

Continues the fierce Primor, falls brochures from red heaven fall prayers stammering to advance on this land saga, fall rustic donatives of grandmamma Mayor of coelum, Joshua insomniac in his tabernacle, defoliating his tome skip and jump down the estuary, before every misstep, holy water to step, a smile the Loica rural place Or a caress to the cheek moon in the arms of a blackbird, manacled to a rasp, stove teapot levitating top where grandmamma Adelimpia wheezes. Hail Mary ever ******, the other day, I heard that in September, flapping fall on Fiddler praise, perhaps mediate, for bad talking, founder of my undying love of life joined empty verbs on clovers where I to live forever, pre, pre paella prize moaning on my shoulder osteoarthritis crucifying collapsed tree. Nightmare builds a ship to reach Legion Mary. Centerfold, guns, howitzers, dissident’s ovaries ... final pages, declamatory winds ... perhaps agonizing leg expectantly... Or delusional feet of premature mortality, which brought pray to heaven, earth ... at soon I have to forget. The earth gives me the cheese, and bread sandwiching it goes...

Between him and earth coelum I doze my motive piece body, my shepherd Beetle Maximilian of Auschwitz sprayed me holy water the Vistula, I kneel down my hinges, and my hands for pray by pure attained effort, ***** great feat, who believes fall the abyss, and just below the earth tremulous, bell, first-throat yawning, loose cassock sounds a rainy morning, falling in the forest priority to see all morning, brimming with couplets of snow.

Continue to fall aqueous molecules, Kaitelka divides the estuary waters. Sheets of – Talami rural high lawns and wise water, South of  Pichi. Follow the dream, and just needed to uprighted the cabin, roaring gallop, wake up tomorrow morning sweaty dancing aqua, font of Lourdes, the four simultaneously open their headlights eyes, unblinking as echoes swimming duck feeding their young in the obsidian lagoon. Rock palafitte a piece of coal painted black each carriage serene, going from the Cantillana Mountain. Blasphemes morning fall roe bellowing wind annoyed tongue, windless striding through the window, thunderbirds mistress thousand flanks, now mount the besieged strands of colloidal solid. Elegy, opaque optical dreams, and drovers days nearsighted, soon saved our lives...

The never End.
hiperverb and imaginery poetry, based upon the eternal endless realistic living and non  logic  retoric literature.
copyrigth JOSE LUIS CT  2018
A sportin' death! My word it was!
An' taken in a sportin' way.
Mind you, I wasn't there to see;
I only tell you what they say.

They found that day at Shillinglee,
An' ran 'im down to Chillinghurst;
The fox was goin' straight an' free
For ninety minutes at a burst.

They 'ad a check at Ebernoe
An' made a cast across the Down,
Until they got a view 'ullo
An' chased i'm up to Kirdford town.

From Kirdford 'e run Bramber way,
An' took 'em over 'alf the Weald.
If you 'ave tried the Sussex clay,
You'll guess it weeded out the field.

Until at last I don't suppose
As 'arf a dozen, at the most,
Came safe to where the grassland goes
Switchbackin' southwards to the coast.

Young Captain 'Eadley, 'e was there,
And Jim the whip an' Percy Day;
The Purcells an' Sir Charles Adair,
An' this 'ere gent from London way.

For 'e 'ad gone amazin' fine,
Two 'undred pounds between 'is knees;
Eight stone he was, an' rode at nine,
As light an' limber as you please.

'E was a stranger to the 'Unt,
There weren't a person as 'e knew there;
But 'e could ride, that London gent--
'E sat 'is mare as if 'e grew there.

They seed the 'ounds upon the scent,
But found a fence across their track,
And 'ad to fly it; else it meant
A turnin' and a 'arkin' back.

'E was the foremost at the fence,
And as 'is mare just cleared the rail
He turned to them that rode be'ind,
For three was at 'is very tail.

'Ware 'oles!' says 'e, an' with the word,
Still sittin' easy on his mare,
Down, down 'e went, an' down an' down,
Into the quarry yawnin' there.

Some say it was two 'undred foot;
The bottom lay as black as ink.
I guess they 'ad some ugly dreams,
Who reined their 'orses on the brink.

'E'd only time for that one cry;
''Ware 'oles!' says 'e, an' saves all three.
There may be better deaths to die,
But that one's good enough for me.

For mind you, 'twas a sportin' end,
Upon a right good sportin' day;
They think a deal of 'im down 'ere,
That gent what came from London way.
Seán Mac Falls Feb 2018
.
The moon undresses you, little bird,
Your eyes are indigo skies without stars,
Your breath is summer grass after shower.
How you hold your arms before the night,
A lance of milky sheen and flailing bliss,
Your arms arrest as they softly surrender
And your ******* overflow in moist shores
Of white sand and shells, little ears to kiss,
I am drowning in your curves on the waves
From the sea, delirious with eye of moon,
Drunk with wild ocean as it consumes me,
Your hair is new grassland to run through,
Windy as a child breaking for the beach,
I latch my fingers to yours like driftwood
Tangled in kelp, the salt we share, steeps,
Is **** and deep and our lips are shucked
Oysters, blind, iridescent, sliding with eyes
Into the famished throat of ***** heavens.
.
Nigel Morgan Jan 2014
I

I learnt this week
that time and distance
can be friends to memory
their respective lengths
only wet and sharpen
the edge of love

but for us dear friend
we hold hard to hope
that we may
one day soon
share the present
and live each moment
in each other's heart.

II

Hearing you on Holkham beach
- whose soul is greater than the ocean
whose spirit stronger than the sea -
did I doubt for a moment
that you, though buffeted
by a cold east wind
would never age for me,
nor fade, nor die.
Nor you for me (she said)
Goodbye, my love,
a thousand times goodbye.
Write me well (she said)
and turned and ran.

III

The Reedham ferry was but a river's width
and yet I stood at the water's brink
and watched the reeds quiver in the wind,
watched the rain splatter on the puddled path.

All around to the human eye
this valley, a plain of grassland
broken only by reed-fringed pools,
was a gentle, unpeopled, easy place.

The absence of relief left
no fixed frame of reference.
Places apart from one another
would concertina and merge.

Tempted to cross I waved a no
to the ferryman in his quayside hut
then turned and walked quickly
back down the long, low road.
Acknowledgements to Mark Cocker and Tom Stoppard
Edward Coles Jan 2014
The veil lifted
from the mechanical slaughter
of the coastal engineers.

Waves crash in that soft,
whispering hiss. The sound that
is usually betrayed, contorted,
through terabytes of purchased bliss,
of a meditation wrought in sickness.

Freed of employment ties,
I stand at Earth's compromise.
Wavering boundaries broken,
conquered, and regained once more.

Cyclical, cynical, tempered battle.
War-torn property rolls in the throes
of the Moon, endless, gentle
discrepancies between land and sea.

I dip my hand in the brine. Long
written of, rarely encountered
in my daydream, salt unreal on the tongue,
only when spoken.

This roar, the old marginal sea,
it obliterates the pneumatic sounds of the
yellow-coated henchmen of progression.

Slaves, breaking backs to build roads
for the already-fallen pyramids,
already stolen marble coat and golden
spinning top,

we've dug it all out.

And the lighthouse winks. It winks
through the fast shadow of January's afternoon.
No land at the horizon, instead a sheet
of hostile, infertile water, and clouds
to stifle my lungs.

Oh, lighthouse; my childhood's end,
now but a lack of time taken to notice
you. You spindle-spin the light, powerful beacon.

You roll back the decades,
to times of ships and books;
of journeys born and placed
over profit's end.

This journey, this journey now so brief,
once dug by many, once an undertaking,
now one quiet train ride away.

Like a prophet, I strive. I strive
to notice Earth's balm,
the Mother and protector,
of all terrestrial innocence.

Bind me not in gravity, nor in debt.
Instead, let me scale the North Sea's
surface. To join the glamour of the
fairy-lit, tough Norwegian liners,
grey like Scottish shores.

Boundless power, opulent force
in a decaying town. City street lights
stretch up to bring the folk under the
dentistry light.

The groynes will hold this beach
like a girdle, as a holster of sand,
a harness for erosion, whilst the
traffic sounds signal lack of footfall;
mounted failure.

But, for evermore, the waves sing to us.
They sing the truth: that they will remain
long since our passing, long since the stench
of fumes; long since we've given up
on the fall.

With this and lightened body, brought
to betterment through cannabis and
Astral Selves, I turn to my life
and remember it well, as a fraction
of the entire self.

Kiss blown to darkened waters,
the paternal, cooing waves and whispers
of ancient whale, I turn back to the sand dunes
and hardy grassland.

A hotel stands at a distance,
privileged guests with fluorescent luggage,
and half-filled parking spaces,
whilst the Romans still stand in ruin.

That lighthouse weeps its goodbyes,
the sand drags me back in my prints,
knowing me, identifying me – careful police.
They sing, “Oh former tenant, Northern heat,
gentle visitor, help us cleanse your feet!”

Clumsily, I stagger back to my lifetime's
worth of worries. Back to the conglomerate
of blackened, distorted figures, sculptured
rain-soaked children, standing with feet
indiscernible from the globe beneath,

locked out of motion.

To them, I understand their isolation,
their helpless gravity in a heavy world.
To them, I return to artificial light,
where will suffers, where lungs heave,

but for all this I am glad,
of the sweet ocean-side reprieve.
To the tune of "Red Lips"

Lonely in my secluded chamber,
A thousand sorrows fill every inch
of my sensitive being.

Regretting that spring has so soon passed,
That rain drops have hastened the falling followers,
I lean over the balustrade,
Weary and depressed.

Where is my beloved?

Only the fading grassland
stretches endlessly toward the horizon;
Anxiously I watch the road for your return.
Evergreen soldiers at the whim of Alraus
I've had a recurrent dream of the enlisted warriors
abandoning their post , occupying the fertile grassland
in a chess type move to gain control
Free of shade , of root-bound thirst , of choking
moss gathering unchallenged in overpopulated arbors
A celebration courtesy of the Robin Knights , the Chickadee troubadours ,
the Cardinal gentlemen at the Court of Queen Chestnut
Slash , sugar , loblolly and white oak
Persimmon , hickory , honey locust and dogwood
The myrrh of gardenia , magnolia , honeysuckle and tea rose
Earthen red clay , white sand , black loam and kaolin
Grasshopper cellist , cricket flautist , a chuckling crow with a
Spanish guitar
The toad trombones , a bluebird violin solo , a mockingbird reads
a touching poem that even sways the worker ants into a brief pause
The Old Forest becomes pasture and the grassland young woodland
The dove cue the night , the katydids croon to the moon ,
the bullfrogs 'pooka-dooka' and the lovers swoon* ...
Copyright October 20 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Michael Hoffman Jan 2013
Every morning
I feed the mewling cats,
chug my hot instant coffee,
sit at my rickety linoleum kitchen table
and peer hopefully out my thin window,
through the cracks in the glass
beyond the rusted screen
into the acres of wet trainyards and commercial blocks.

There in one non-descript grey building
underneath the watertower
beside the Sheriff's substation
a band of laughing saints
craft delicate malas of lapis
and manzanita windchimes
while diaphonous angels all a-hover
manifest vast verdant grassland prairies,
great ocean waves, sunsets
and spring flowers hidden in rock crannies
where nobody will ever walk,
and they launch grand air balloons
bulging with epiphanies
that may drift my way.
Chandan sharma Sep 2010
Glorifying amidst the snowy mountains bestowing
rivers  with a splendid shine searching a land
to shower its warmth in a dense grassland,
sun rises with the dawn
like  the spring blooming life in the lawn.

Cold on the cemetery lay like the corpse,
the flower in concealed corner of the lawn.
Life rejuvenates it to exhibit its charisma.
With its exquisite grace,
life fills the daffodils
blooming merrily in the meadows
with the exotic flush of odor enchanting thee .

Life of seven ages leaps and exits slyly like a stranger.
Neither the witty nor the wisest nor do the philosophers
can bamboozle the fate, neither can they preconceive
the lot ,the fate has in store in each slot
hence live the life with fullest enthusiasm and zeal,
the chariots of life bridging
the expedition between birth and rebirth.

Struggle the chill like a gladiator
stand undeterred by the worldly woes.
Life is symbolization of bluebells,lavenders
hedychiums planted on a deserted road,
blend of happiness and agony .
Surrendering to agony is pure escapism.

Each has to surrender on the altar of death
a day or later ,
but till life why not worship the life
like an idol enshrined in the temple
so when thee are asked of
satisfaction in the heavens high
thou may not quote "alas it could have been a day later"
rather thou may be the most enlightened
devotee to stay in the state of bliss and utmost salvation.

Men say life is mortal
But life is eternal you see,
the life is like a divine cascade of holy waters,
one drop dies ,other rejuvenates to life.
Till the nature lives, shall live
the men and generations yet to come.
Life is pouring like the nectar from the heaven's brink,
quite insane it would be to not drink the summary of life.

                                                          ­                         BY CHANDAN SHARMA
Mary Gay Kearns Apr 2018
Often we approached the bay over high ground
Taking the track from Totland between the heather
Where the small blue butterflies dusted the grass
With a fluttering sparkle and the gorse spoke yellow.
The climb to the top was arduous with many stops
Sitting on prickles, the scent of sheep buzzing
Around our ears and nostrils and filling sandels.
A rest refreshed with that thermos coffee hot on lips.
Then in an instant we came out of shadow to meet
The white glare off the sea and a downward decent
Across grassland filled with thistles
To drop
Through style and gate and down onto the road.

Love Mary
13 lines
Miraj Mar 2013
Into the valley of unicorns,
with innumerable horns protruding,
a plethora of dazzling white mass roams
the grassland,so pure,so innocent,
the abode of dragons,the red-winged beauty
concentrating their breath on a cave high
above the snow covered mountain,
and beyond it’s fiery veil rises
the freedom of a thousand phoenix
which soar high above the violet sky.
O my beautiful mind,to whom do you
really belong? you surpass all my
narrow visions and bring me to this
paradise,I get lost.
In the ocean of pearls and diamonds
glittering in the sunlight,my torn
and tattered body of Desire submerges-
like a salt-doll,my docile materialistic Self
who came to measure its depth,dissolves,
I cry with joy.
It is then that my Independence breaks
the barriers of a century’s history,
and my Bliss is cursed with the most
horrific beauty.But O my beautiful mind,
how do I sustain you? for I am again awake
in my bed,left only to savor the token of
Freedom that you leave by,I wonder HOW?
Luke Jun 2016
these foothills
rolling in pine and
grassland meadows,
where silvery lupine
follow the melting snow,
hint of the mountains to come
in spiny crags that
catch a cumulus pocked sky
cottonwood tufts rain
this day after solstice
J Arturo Sep 2013
nothing lives at 14,000 feet.
on the high pass the last land
the grassland we'd drag our sheep
to briefly graze between the valleys of
colca, and puno.
focused in motion, heads low
wrapped round in many layers when we'd sleep.

in dens, in dark, in distrust of stars
and worn old men of mists each night,
that toothlessly bite,
at broken brown stone, gums
hopeless, hungry, salivating and desperately white.


nothing lives at 14,000 feet.
but rocks dreaming cold rock dreams.
remembering when babel fell...
fists first ****** from young rubble, to find
that hands are hands and hands can climb.

nothing lives at 14,000 feet.
but the livestock we'd drag
and keep alive, tireless
because towers are brought low
but hills only grow
and there are coats to stay the snow.


but to pass through this place we
knowing tempt death, incur
the wrath of Abraham blaspheme
the Word and the Way and
the rich air and pastures,
from which rocks are raised
to keep us from the heights for which we lust.

in old history, obvious.
forgot. spoke only in folk songs.
ritualized in rote laws.

but in secret, memorialized.
as solitary, at the highest point
each passerby takes pause...


stares down at the earth from the sky,
kneels, in the dust, picks up
three, four, not more, small brown rocks
to place at maras in defiance and triumph.

superstitiously stacking little stones.
as if to say,
"here lord.
here is something you can knock down.
here is something you can bring low."
You walked into my life
And strode over my feelings
Crushing
My heart
In every step
Throughout the path
You traversed
My blood marked your way
When you ran back
To the entrance
Fearing I would value you
A little too much
Scared that you would fall in love
A little too much

But Alas ain’t I the little girl?
Who had once sent a prayer up above
“Watch over him, Lord!”
And you struck me down with your words
And your actions so well constructed
And I?
Being the little girl as always
I didn’t even try
To chain you down with the fire of my love
What if it burned you down?
What then would be the remedy?
I didn’t even try
To drag you back
With snarles of seduction
Or little sweet nothings
I didn’t even try
To smoke your cigarette
And kiss your lips
To match your taste

I just watched you
Walking across
A patch of grassland
When you mistook my tears
To be
Mere dew drops


Dear darling friend of mine
Some day you will find
A star shining bright up in the sky
Beckoning you to love
Not to criticize
Dear darling love of mine
And that day you will realize
That the sparks of success raining down on you
Have already been paid for
With the life of a little girl
Who
Loved you a little too much
Who
Cared about you a little too much
Who
Let herself fall down thirty storeys
In loving memory
In French, "I miss you" isn't really said. They say Tu Me Manques which means "I am missing from you". I came across this word in tumblr while going through my feed. It is - indeed - a very intimate word and since I am detaching myself from most loved ones, I hereby say TU ME MANQUES MAYAA
Christine Ueri Jul 2015
Japanese temple trees no longer line the way home.
I left them behind.
But my mind still strolls that avenue,
and I still see
the light catching on the bare branches
and the sparse leaves of Autumn in The Grove.

The Woodhoopoes are still nesting
in the temple trees next to the gate
I don't enter anymore.
Their iridescent plumes
still shimmer green and blue
as their vermilion scimitar bills chatter
in the to-and-fro, to-and-fro
sway of their familial ritual.
What cacophony when one has won
itself a fat gecko—the chicks won't go hungry.

I left the haphazardly arranged feathers
in the wooden frame of the French doors
I no longer unlock and enter.

The two cereal bowls
left on the table
where we did everything
have been reduced
to one.
And the table simply is.  

Now I work among veteran soldiers—
Old Pigeons with crooked feet
caused by all the lines
they've crossed, all the twines
they've tangled with, but Pigeons,
they survive without their feet.

And instead of temple trees,
buildings line the way home—
concrete and steel constructions
among long ribbons of asphalt and . . .

From a distance,
up on the third storey,
it looks like a jungle out there,
but no, on the ground,
up close, it is just human.

I still keep the Owl's feather away from the day-birds',
but I no longer collect more feathers.

No, instead, I tuck symbolic quills behind my ear.

Sagittarius serpentarius

The image of the Secretarybird towers
over the rest of the symbols
on the Official Documents I peruse.
Contracts.
I walk away, tucking the quill.

In the land of the blind, there is a one-eyed rule:
close the other eye.  

I feel the rhythm of keys beneath icy fingers,
eyes tearing from the glare of the monitor,
retracted quills rising—  
unseen antennae erected on the back of my neck—
a human lie detector.

Type, type, type:
repudiation,
subrogation,
violation . . .

Hit the letters with the power of the word.

Noisy little twitter-bird to my left,
on top of her office chair,
she’s raucous like a hysterical Mynah:

"****-****-****-****...**** everything!!!"

Absconding the scene,
I stamp, stamp, stamp
AR numbers, CAS numbers, verified.

The African masks behind my workstation:
ugly metaphors for who I really am.

Sagittarius serpentarius

A Marching Eagle,
the Devil's Horse,
the Secretarybird;
sitting in a concrete cage,
my youngest would've died of starvation,
so I let her fly a long way from home,
but nonetheless home
with her Lily-Pad-Walker father.

Jesus-bird,

With legs like a crane but scalier,
a Marching Eagle doesn't walk on water.
It stands close to the grassland fire,
waiting for its prey.
Then stomping.
Then crushing bones.
Then swallowing whole.

Balance is unnecessary.
Just bend and kick,

backwards.

Saqr-et-tair: hawk-bird, hunter-bird.

He said his heart was a dreaming Red Hawk
whose eyes he wouldn't let me see,
and Bukowski's heart was a Blue Bird of pain.
I said I didn't know
what sort of bird lived in mine,
but it dreamt the same dream:
giant wings
breaking out of its ribbed cage . . .
long runway . . .
long runway. . .
then slow, deep *****
of----------of-----------of------------of----------------of
bad weather and . . .

I fear the day it tires of dreaming.

Offices. Soldiers. Pigeons.

I slip gunpowder pillulets under my tongue:
Homeopathic medicine for this virus.

There is a Barn Owl in my mirror,
steamed up. I dream
a ****** of Crows
alights on my brow,
but I am too feverish to catch them.
Too weak.
I dream a ****** of Crows
rising from the loquat tree
where my eldest was born,

across the road . . .

I watch them
from the third storey of a collection of cages,
and I know
this building
is a cold-hearted-thirty-three-eyed-soldier
with a dog tag for a tongue,
and a contract
bound to the crooked feet of the Pigeons I didn't feed.
25/07/2015
She smiles like a cat in a garden
A stare to the eye, keeps me flyin'
Sweet voice like a fairy singin'
Soft touch of her hands, How I wished this would never end
With the glimpse of her face, worth a thousand roses
Warm look like the divine ghost is

Just the way she spread her wings and fly
Takes my heart with her up and high
Makes me wild, Free, like a falcon in the sky
Yet, All this things happen within a blink of an eye
But every single second is a memory of a moment I'll cherish
In my heart, this memories will never vanish

How lucky is the knight that comes with a golden armor
He sings a song, melody of a victor
With swords and shield, meant to be a saviour
He grabbed the lovely maiden and showed romance more
They rode up the hill with artificially fragrant love
But I just watched, a gold coated cage, entered by a pure dove.

While I sit alone in this sorrowful grassland
With no one else, just the sun as a friend
She came back with a bleeding hand
And told me, crying, "He's not my man"
I turned back with a confused head
"Yes! He is", I jealously said

"No, He's not" with tears on her eye
"You're the one" she gave a reply
My heartbeat raced, it could make me die
Yet, I answered her with an outright but a bitter lie
"He is your man, He is your knight"
"I'll just be your moon, watching you at night"

Her tears touched the ground and so as her knees
The demons were happy, they were having a feast
I lifted her up and tried to deafeat the beast
with nothing but love as an armor and passion as fist
The word we spoke were like the summer wind hushing
I heard nothing, She bled and I watched her dying

It was too late for me, for everything
The wound of her soul just can't stop bleeding
All those love can't just turn to nothing
All those scenes left me alone and crying
I kissed her for the first time and that would've meant goodbye
Kissed her and whispered, I'll meet you soon, after I die

The bleeding stopped and her pale dry lips turned red
"True love, true love, true love" she silently said
"I felt true love only when I was dead"
She continued "I know it's you, in your heart I read"
Again, her wings turned white and bright
As we headed to the light through the sunshine of the night

As she held me with her love so warm
She embraced me with her loving arm
Those are the times when I felt away from harm
When I looked down, I saw where we came from, that old farm
I saw a couple, DEAD! Next to each other
I saw two lifeless body, but together forever
Seán Mac Falls Apr 2019
.
The moon undresses you, little bird,
Your eyes are indigo skies without stars,
Your breath is summer grass after shower.
How you hold your arms before the night,
A lance of milky sheen and flailing bliss,
Your arms arrest as they softly surrender
And your ******* overflow in moist shores
Of white sand and shells, little ears to kiss,
I am drowning in your curves on the waves
From the sea, delirious with eye of moon,
Drunk with wild ocean as it consumes me,
Your hair is new grassland to run through,
Windy as a child breaking for the beach,
I latch my fingers to yours like driftwood
Tangled in kelp, the salt we share, steeps,
Is **** and deep and our lips are shucked
Oysters, blind, iridescent, sliding with eyes
Into the famished throat of ***** heavens.
.
You are the heavy rain,
I am the grassland
plagued with drought.
Love me, cover me,
help me heal myself.
So here I am,
Sitting on a Everhard Rock
Minding my own Personal Business
Riveting my Eyes to the vast, distant Grassland
And withered Trees shaking for liveliness.

The Wind, flowing free and gay
Rustling Leaves in every same way
Tornadoes of small sizes spin them round-and-round
Till every last Sheet of them is never found.

As my Sight continues to scan every Natural Being
The Sunlight's spectrum heats my forehead's gleaming.

Summer if you may say,
But I do not:
Breezy Atmospheres, Falling Leaves
Make it all Impossible
And Animals in terms of Dying Grounds
Begin to rot.

In all Sudden Time
I felt quite bored
Maybe if I raised my God-Given Hands
I could sing to your Praise, O Lord.

Then I stood,
Breathing in that precious Air
Filling my tender Lungs with Fresh Feelings
And my Brain with Shattered Flares.

Trot, walk, trot, walk,
There was a Time that I didn't stalk
My Progressive Mind began to accumulate Stoney Thoughts
Something...That involves my Nature
Without getting caught.

WHOOSH!
My Back felt that forceful Breeze
Thinking of me as one oppressed Stone
And pushed me towards the Lowlands
With its Frosty Whirls that made me freeze.

Herds of Cows mooing
And Cockrels ****
A Menagerie of Sounds
That I never tried to mock.

For in those Sounds
Symbolise Nature's way to auduce
Those Tenacious Vibes wiggle my Eardrums
Making my Restless Heart feel Joy.

My Humiliated Uncle
Always seeks Help
A Thank You is what I get
Whenst helping a Whelp.

Father, my Noble Roots
Dig-up for Space
For our Everyday Food
As we carry them as Loot.

Mother, my Beloved
Cooks for our Family's Meal
And calls us Everyday in Time
Reminding us that Supper...Is perfect Mead.

Cousins, Brothers, Sisters and Babes
Become my Best Companions
Never leave me alone in Misty Loneliness
So they asked me to Play; so I joined
And accept their Loving Tenderness.

These are all my Boons
Of the Mother's Greatest Gift;
Nature: For she is a Mother too
And Family - thank God - do I have one
Which I promised to bond with them like Flexi-Glue.

In this Still Day my Heart sings
The Beauties of our Lord's Greatest Creation
Including Me
In One, Holy Ring.

This Supple Mystery
I haven't known
Since the Final Preface of It
Hasn't shown.

Nevertheless,
I am content with what God has given Me
In all His Merciful, Holy Time
He made me what I am to be.

I Myself, in very frank Thoughts
I realised are Part to what God has given me
The Difference from Others is that I'm Immortal
Which makes me rich in Everlastiness.

Spitefully speaking
All Things, in Everyone's name must die
There is a Great Beginning and a Despairful End
One which a Soul cannot escape and lie.

We People, even I
Cannot be delivered from Death.
Our Bodies will soon find itself in Decaying Matter,
Leaving our Precocious, Material Wealth.

But Hope,
Will always last long.
Bodies may die in vain,
But our Souls will always be FREE.
Sadness may exist in Triumph
But Joy will still come in Glee.

Nature too, can be called to the Reaper's Scythe
Grass proudly swivering in the Wind cut-down,
Heaven and Earth can be called to Time
But God's loving Hope and Peace can never be called to Death.
Adlina Nawawi May 2017
LVI
If you love this air,
I will breathe out everything that is in this cage, so it can be converted into fresher ones, until all of them leave this body. And I would not be at ease, until all the morsels, atoms, come into one with the particles of your being.

If you love the city,
I will build one from scratch, bare hands, stones thrown everywhere for a place of love. With these knuckles bleeding, my blood will then turn into a clear river that runs through the cracks of the town.

If you love the colour green,
I will cut through sticks and stones, to make up a whole grassland, splayed wide enough for a town to come alive, and half a space for a meadow. For the picnic we will have at every noon of every sunny day, just like the ones at the prairies.

If you love the rain,
I will learn to sit still on the pavement, to not quiver and run when it rains. I’ll play in it, regardless of the fear I deeply have for the thunders and lightnings. When it finally comes, I’ll stay closer with you, to feel like I am home— even when standing amidst the chaos that the sky brings.

And if you love me,
I will be me, even when being myself is something I despise at times, when hating myself seems most comfortable. I will start and bring good to myself, to love every piece of my actuality that is scattered like the remnants of a hurricane that stops by every 5 minutes. To be delicately in love with all I have to offer. Because you love me.
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2015
for the missed and the missing
~~~
lea - a tract of open ground, especially grassland; meadow; land used for a few years for pasture or for growing hay, then plowed over and replaced by another crop; untilled; fallow
~~~

In the Lea Field*

And again that man
in the fallow fallen field,
grasps his own tiller,
looking ahead, downwind, leeward to plow,
impatient to cut rows of upturned earth
to grow markers,
plant seeded rows of words

and again that man
presumes time,
planting a yearly crop of
hoped for just enough time

but it does not suffice -
enough and sufficient time
will not grow in the lea field
this year

Now a man comes to mind,
living and dying
in a lea field

the man too,
field fallen fallow like the grassy meadow
that once fed his overcast gaze

yet the man believes still,
word seeds of lea poems prior planted
fullsome in their dormancy,
potent with patience,
shall not always remain so...

they are
bridges-in-waiting,
un-til,
ready once more
for the missed to
till
anew
Fish in the Sky
by Peter Fallon


Roadside railings
on raised ground —
and you presume a river
but find no stream.
So you picture the bed
of a railway track.
Nor sign of that.
Nor padded path.
Nor passageway.

The heart of another
is a dark wood.
Now a woman comes to mind
who didn’t care for me.
I loved her anyway.
And again that man
*in a lea field
who says one thing
and means another ...

As the main road gestures
anywhere —
a bridge over nothing,
a straddle of air.
Sophie Mar 2022
Urgency was in your expression
as we hid underneath the sofa
in the final moments
of the party,
before you gave me away
to the dogs
for supper.

Somehow, my great escape
led me right back
to you.
But my fingers didn’t fit
between your garden gloves,
and your distracted gaze was fixed
on the traffic lights
outside the misted window.
All I saw,
was our condensation
on the glass
through golden lamplight
and the yellow bookshelves.

Through the abandoned sidewalks
under cypress trees
and fluorescent street lights
into the dark grassland,
where you chased
my favorite seabird,
and I scolded you like a child;
you ran ahead, searching
for more excitement.

But time had other plans,
it froze itself in that moment
your face became my mirror,
and I carefully touched
your lips with mine.
You pulled away,
tried again, and our
noses met, like two
wild animals
agreeing with a ritual
to raise new life
together.
recent dream i had
sincurlyxbaki Oct 2013
the moon shines because it reflects the light from your eyes.
the leaves & the wind dance to the rhythm of your heartbeat.
the moon follows your thoughts, and shines brighter at your every attempt to understand the glowing trail of a thousand fireflies.

i sketch your movements from above a tree, and confess to heaven. i said, ‘Lord, thank you for taking your time’.
the flowers of the night delineate your captivating rhythm.

rain clouds gather. raindrops entwine your thighs, and oh my, what a deep waterfall. your soul convokes the sparrows of the deep, convivial spirit.

free spirit. not even the law of gravity can stand you, angel. even though your wings are invisible, i can imagine you fly.

heavens confession: they took the time to mold you. create you.

and you glimmer in a graceful grassland, and the roses listen attentively to your voice.
a voice made up of beautiful dreams & broken promises.

heavens advice: never leave your happiness to someone else. otherwise you’ll be left broken.

only time can explain your he(art).
a pen & a paper are not enough to describe you.
they ran away from your words, they couldn’t understand but i do.
and i will with every ounce of my being, try to decode you.

i’ll stay light on this one. angel, you’re beautiful. you’re real.

heavens advice: stay you. stay true. you’re beautiful.

these words were not adequate to describe you.

you made a pretty good first impression.

p.s – this was heavens confession.
Hal Loyd Denton Nov 2012
This one absolute truth she was the embodiment of peace and grace they speak of guardians in
Childhood with such sweetest words she created fairest order if the day was mean and reproachful
It wasn’t known I think many children knew one such as Marie a soul so gentle we played in the coldest
Rain herd the thunder sound like great rocks were falling off a wagon being driven across heaven cold
And shaking we would regroup on her front porch she seemed to shake off the cold and her warm
Words were so comforting I believe I starting thinking she is special she is taking us beyond childhood
She possessed a central framing to her thoughts they seemed beyond her years and they instilled
Questions childhood wonders were many and it’s nice to stop now and cast our mind back to that time
Just maybe things are a little too hard at this moment in the lives of some the tremble she did win over
It was beyond her words it was her inner nature released through the heart and eyes of a small child
She was a stillness that calmed invited you to spill with her over the spillway of running water not be
Upset not to get entangled take the strong wind and use it for winging your way to heights that it
Afforded she taught ineffable lessons by just simply turning of her head you followed a little force of
Nature that was attuned to the spirit she spoke often of wanting to be a nun her boundless soul
Would have served her well she possessed a quiet command of life and what it was all about how she
Stirred your heart and emotions it was a hard and fast rule that all parents weren’t and didn’t meet the
Dreamy expectations of being Ward and June Cleaver at low times I don’t think she called the blue birds
Down from the trees but she had to be on intimate basis with them hard difficult problems were
Dissolved favorably when you hung out with her she had an ability to draw power that empowered
You wasteful and hurtful matters turned from glaring to a soft shadow that mixed into understatements
They shrank to a size that you could think on them and then turn aside and play her great help was her
Unflagging optimism it was the greeting you met when trouble flared she was centered in loveliness
It was like you were entering this misty cloud she had the uncanny ability to see life with sweetness
And you were pulled in underscored by it a dance was called from a far off place and your feet glided as
Your heart was filled with delight adult life was more alien childlike innocence couldn’t throw of the
Cancer that came and claimed her life at a young age she left a devastated husband and five precious
Little girls I wish they could read this and know their mother as the rich and precious child that touched
And gave us a shelter that was made from tenderness it bides us well on days that assail instead of
Giving encouragement she was always on hand to do that for us truly life is a mystery that it would
Reward her with such dismay but I bet if she stepped out of the shadows her words would be the same
As they were in childhood there is a place a man told of when you are there you love your family for the
First time the way they should be loved but you couldn’t make it to that high ground you want to wait
And anticipate their arrival to such a place of wonder he said that when you walk through nature’s
Grassland that it has intelligence no longer do you have to walk country lanes and you provide the
Stirring no now stimulating wonder is in every living thing you blend you are entrusted with richness
That captures you on every level everything contributes speechlessness occurs in two ways you are so
Overwhelmed words are arrested but you don’t need them communication is by pure thought do we
Not yearn in our speaking to be heard and understood an fall short not now Marie just caught up to her
Childhood that had perfection that was limited now all limitation is removed
Barefoot Apr 2012
A wide open field
Where grass blows in the wind.
A narrow stream gurgling,
From a distant waterfall bubbling.

The dancing umbrella cut dress,
Lined sleeves with ruffling frills
The swooshing long tail of a neatly tucked bow
That follows her toes wherever she goes.

A beige sheet of starched cotton spread
On the grassland by the dried riverbed,
A bottle of water glistening
With the spring sun listening
To that song that floated around
As she moved on her toes;
Round and round and round.

Wild flowers lying low
Swinging with the water flow.
And the song goes like this:

Only if I could have a kiss,
Now that is the only thing I miss
From your lips to mine
Under this spring sunshine.

Because I love me in this dress
As you loved me in this dress,
And made me love you
By making me fall in love with myself.

As they dance the ruffles caress my face
Which reminds my cheeks of the trace
That you left with your palm,
Caressing me till I become
The girl who loves herself because
There will be, there is and there was
Within her this overwhelming love
Of a kind whose definition she didn't know of.
This makes my feet dance in joy...

...Because I love me in this dress
As you loved me in this dress,
And made me love you
By making me fall in love with myself.


And there were feet on the grass
Turning round and round.
And there was a song of love
Under the spring time sun floating around.
And then there was a dress with ruffled sleeves.
Jeff Chen Jun 2013
I want
to dye the sky dark
to snow
on each roof tile
to let fog
to separate us
to solidify a wall between
back
and
back

Under the falling tree’s leaves
we persist in waiting
the sprouting grassland
would live through the season of frozen branches,
creeps to our
dreams
could reach
when turn over
Seán Mac Falls Jun 2013
The small grassland hills are dancing.
The sky is blue and the breeze is long,
I reach out, I touch and I look—
Into your eyes, my fingers in your hair.
He pondered over the note he wrote,
Sat hunched and cold in his chair,
He nodded once as he read it then
And signed the bottom with flair,
The house was not even stirring then
As he rose, looked out at the sea,
It said, ‘By the time you see this, Jen,
I’ll be hanging from some old tree.’

Then he slipped on out to the breaking day
As the dawn was beginning to spread,
He should have been further along than this,
By now, he should have been dead.
He’d heard them stir in the attic room
When he’d come in late from the bay,
His wife and a lifelong friend of his
Who’d thought he was still away.

He’d heard the sound of them making love
As he crept to the attic door,
His face turned white in the passage light
As he sank to the passage floor.
The tears had welled at his eyes at last
As he crept back down the stairs,
He’d lost a friend and his woman, Jen,
And the love that he thought was theirs.

He wandered over the grassland there
To the woods at the edge of the cliff,
But not forgetting to take the coil
Of rope, he held at his hip.
He wondered how many times they’d met
While he was away at sea,
And laughed, the minute his back was turned
To leave him no dignity.

Then pictures rose in his troubled mind
That he shouldn’t have had to think,
He cursed himself, for he must be blind
When his friend had tipped her a wink,
The pain was really too much to bear
For he’d lost not one, but two,
He’d loved them both, she’d broken her oath
And his friend had betrayed him too.

He found a tree, hung over the cliff
That was old and gnarled and bent,
With a sturdy branch that would do the trick,
It was too late to relent.
He flung the rope and he made it fast
Then fashioned the hangman’s knot,
It would swing him out and over the sea
And send him where time forgot.

He tugged on the rope to test the branch
To see if it took his weight,
Dropped the loop down over his head
When a voice cried out, ‘Just wait!’
He turned to see his Jen on the path
That ran alongside the cliff,
‘What are you doing, my love, my love,
Is my love worth less than this?’

She said she’d gone for a walk that night,
Hadn’t been able to sleep,
‘Your friend is up in the attic room
With a woman from Warley Heath.
He only met her a week ago,’
She said, ‘and borrowed the bed.
He said that you wouldn’t mind, but I
Wasn’t impressed,’ she said.

He pulled the rope from over his head
And he hugged his woman tight,
‘I’m such a fool, but I thought that you
And he… It was such a fright!’
The sun beamed down and it seemed to say
That a love so strong was rare,
While a gnarled old tree drooped over the sea
With its rope, still hanging there.

David Lewis Paget

— The End —