.
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.

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.

Roaming on the vast grassland

feeling it beneath my digit-grades

The human stands before me

Not knowing how to act he gets scared and backs away

i lift my trunk up and brush his face with it

letting him know its okay

he steps forward hugging my enormous head

stroking underneath my eye (my favorite place by the way)

i can feel the love he gives me

he begins to softly speak "What a Clevor Majestic Animal You Are"

again not knowing i can understand every word every morsel

"i wish i could take you home with me"

i desperately wish i could go with him

alone i am here no others to be with

He is my only friend my only friend he is  

He takes out a half eaten sandwich from his lunch box that he brought

handing it to me i take it into my mouth

it has a very appealing taste

stroking my face again i am relaxed so i sit

he sits too against my bulky legs

amongst the atmosphere there is great tension

but when we are together it evaporates like hot steamy water

it is time for us to depart

my heart aches for my friend to return again

forever i shall never forget him.!!!

I’ve been through this before.
First with that last *****,
Now it’s just become my personal lore.

How many times do you need to dump me just to understand,
That the reason you keep coming back is because of the grassland.
It seems greener over there,
But mine has flowers that you can’t find elsewhere.

You say that when you dump me, that it’s just a reaction.
I’m supposed to stay and show my compassion.
I admit that I hurt you from the start,
But the back and forth has me bleeding from my heart.
If life’s a play then I guess the ******* is my part.

You want to be at peace,
While also saying I’m your missing piece.
Maybe all it takes is some elbow grease.

We lost the box to the puzzle,
And sometimes it feels like I have to wear a muzzle.
I say dumb **** while at the same time being articulate.

I’m a conundrum.
****** in the head because of where I’ve come from.
I love you and you say you love me too.
When in this lifetime will I believe that it’s true?

I don’t want this to end,
You’re my best friend.
We always make amends, but that’s the issue.
Amending too many times means there were too many crimes.
I’m a perpetrator in need of a tissue.

Tears on my keyboard,
Type out thoughts that can’t be ignored.
I want to start over so your vision of me can be restored.
But I tried too hard and there’s smoke coming from the motherboard.

I need a technician.
Or perhaps a magician.
To pull a thousandth chance with you out of a hat,
So I can prove to you you’re not a doormat.
Every time we chit-chat I fall flat.
And in every relationship, this is where I end up at.
Why’s it always like that?

Making mistakes, being inconsistent.
No wonder you’ve grown to be so distant.
But I think it’s mutual that we acknowledge our love’s existence.
I need assistance to stop my persistence.

You want me out of your life at 10 am,
But also want to get pancakes at 9 pm.
You’re right that I’m not responsible.
But I feel that problem is resolvable.
I think you’re phenomenal.
The drive you have is exceptional,
When you put your mind to it you’re unstoppable.

I guess what I’m trying to say is,
I’m sorry that the nightmares of what I’ve done keep you nocturnal,
But ending this relationship is only optional.
It’s up to you to decide if it’s optimal.

We rode white lightning across state lines
To a little town in the mountains over the tainted river
Where the entire strip is full of bars
Buzzing barflys hoping from tavern to tavern

It was mid day in broad daylight
We found the place
A hole in the wall
You would only be able find it if you were actually looking

Solvent Reflections
It was called

We went down the stairs, passed the wooden Native American at the front entrance

A marvelous collection of glass implements
Colorful fabrics and alluring smells

A man came out from behind a beaded curtain
Eyes glazed and a zonked out look on his face

"Right this way"
He showed us the assortment of extracts    

We chose the middle way
Purchased twenty scented sticks

Descended from the mountain
To a sketchy out post

We fought a pool shark
While waiting for the evening to come

Our friends had come out to play with us
To the market for brightly colored cans of caffeine and ethanol

Torches lit and music playing
We sat in a circle

We opened the little brown vile
Releasing the leaves of deeper knowledge

We put in the vessel of self-exploration
Put fire to it and inhaled

Immediately she ran to the highest point to admire the art the moon and stars had fashioned on the black and blue firmament

His head became a cardboard box
And his body began to look like wicker

I was somewhere between an animated reality
And a three dimensional fantasy

My friend went on a cruise upon a swaying pirate ship
And found his face under the word "fabulous" on every single page of his dictionary
Then saw himself in a magical grassland  


But then we stopped and stood in awe
Of the mighty Cricket Lord

Within ten minutes it came to an end
Our voices hoarse from laughter

Lets go again

Dear April

I have no Sunflower 
And no seeds 

I have acres of space 
And one stem 
...me

I have a few women skipping through 
With Sun hats on without a brim 
So their eyes are squint 
They can't really focus in on their desires 
So they end up on the other side of the field where the lushness has expired 
In no man's land, but in everyone hands

I only want to be sprung by one woman's spring showers
April, may you rain down on me? 
March right onto my grassland and uproot a beautiful flora 
I wouldn't mind if you carved a river right in my bed 
A deep river 
With a steep Fall
That keeps us streaming through Halloween and Thanksgiving 

April my lady, currently how warm you make me feel I don't think there's no degrees below that can put our flow on hold 
So we'll never have to intervene throughout the blizzard or thaw out after winter

April can you be my sunflower 
And one day allow me to pollinate 
So we can have some seeds? 

I'm no longer interested in summer, although she is hot; however, summer has always been a drought for me 
Not anymore 
In June was the last time I allowed Julie to Lie to me (july)

April I've done all my spring cleaning 
Now can you comfort me with your yellow petals, and promise me a bunch of Florets closely packed in a spiral?

.
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.

The Anti-Monk

Resurrect a tribal passion, when the needle threads the skin after each wince the pain screams that this canvas is art happening. An art so ancient, an art so ancient; nuturing itself like a child alongside ourselves developing traditions that encompass every mountain on ourselves to only just a small patch of grassland on ourselves. The true tattooist's masochism has no bounds, well except maybe brands, a decision about your portrait of self only your choice will imagine. Paint my self reflection upon myself, the aethetics will please me.

Suppress a primal ugre, where the mind threads between the skin after calm the tranquility whispers that this temple is peaceful, still. A practice so ancient, a practice so ancient, festering itself like a ***** alongside ourselves deccelerating rituals that encompass every valley on ourselves to only just  a summit of our plateau on ourselves. The true monk's bounds has no art, well except maybe botany, a decision about your portrait of self only your choice will imagine. Meditate my self reflection upon myself, the anaesthetic will soothe me.


An Anthesis and a Monk

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.

Until you pulled
the trigger you
knew nothing

of wild boars
except tales
your father told

you as a child,
but suddenly
there it was

fierce and feral,
yellowed tusks
flying at you—

the tall novitiate.

So when you
raised the rifle
to your eye

and fired,
your mastery
of boars burst

over African
grassland,
splattered

in a grisly shower
of comprehension:

red words
splashed
on knee-high grass,

paragraphs hashed
out in final breaths,
until the depleted

subject of your study—
tumescent body
and stiff squat legs—

lay dead in African
savanna, the obsolete
entry you never read
in your Encyclopedia Britannica.

Rapt with flowing sunlight glow
That sink my heart through eyes and ears
Lives thrive around and overflow
That throb my heart with red hot tears

Butterflies move in bouncing dance
By grassland, trees and floral beds
Air is filled with voicing glance
Of warblers chirps of humming birds

The distance fades the traffic noise
Baniyan trees too absorb it
Guardian trees watch photo shoot
Of laughing plants in bridal  poise

I stop my walk at this corner
Keeping pace with mirth in heart
Look around for the saint author
Who pens and performs this live art.

Thou art the art invisible
Thou art the voicing decibel
Thou art the soothing tangible
Thou art unimaginable!

Above the grassland the sun
shines upon the landscape,
a colorful wonderment of
creations, a twinkling beam,
a shimmering brushstroke of
infinite heartbeats.  

I watch the body of trees sway
in seamless motions, an arm
of astonishing bridges, incandescent
leaves, the brilliant face of the sky
an illumination of escape taking me
towards towering flights.  

I can breathe in the wings of love
hovering in the air, the hands of the
whipping breeze beating my chests, as
I stare at the sparkling red birds soaring
across the horizon.  

There was an iridescence of tranquility
in this place, a beautiful sound of
pure melodies touching my cheeks,
brightening my brown eyes, while
I simply smile and hold my head
up to the sky.

Andulan felt her strength returning, the dizziness was fading,
Her anemia was alleviated by the blood of a dozen squirrels, five voles,
Three moles, a badger and a family of deer, too slow to evade,
Such reaching, grasping death moving across the surrounding area.
John's thrown axe carved a brown road ahead, slickened by green moisture,
It mowed through the grassland before them, cutting through its share of vines.
Kevin and Paul hacked away at it's venom tipped children, all eager to play,
With their ****** corpses...
Song's presence kept them aware of their choices, if they erred even slightly,
From shown path forward, Andulan's feast would begin in earnest,
Bringing ecstasy wrapped in sadism to the young girl's life,
Corrupting her once pure, enheartening song.

I have an adobe where I run
whenever I want to be in solitude
I call it my one-word poem
Between a meadow and a lemon tree
along the edge of a grassland.
Where everything in the world
become quite and wither away.

You are the tranquil stillness
after the rumbling of a stormy storm
the forgiving words that fill my sky
and caresses a burned soul

You become a rain
in an endless conversation
Sometimes a road map
to the world unfolds
With a touch
When I leave
I leave
A slice of an umbrella  
We hold nothing
But a deep kiss
In your unseen soul

Let us confirm,
It's been a rough winter for us all.
We live in the valley,
And What was once (I'm assuming)
Beautiful grassland,
Is now a concrete jungle,
With a few scattered suberbs,
a plethora of crooks,
And a growing amount of graffiti.
But it's okay.
Today, the sun is rising.
Today, I am breathing.
Today, I look out on all the wrong,
And somehow, we are all right.
We're just trying to live.
Trying to survive.
I don't belong here.
But I don't belong anywhere else, either.
This is the place of origin.
Of pain.
Or lessons learned.

My bold peridot grassland jewel ...Wrapped in a golden band of Allegheny sunlight , covered in Montana blue dreams .....
I see her bold outlines , the face of Obsidian mingled within White Pine , suspended in lavender horizons , sailing eastward to sea ..

Screamed at the cat,
thought he toppled the cage,
turned out to be the shelf,
didn't have enough time,
to rinse my hair.
Powered to work;
enjoyed the brisk excersice,
accompanied by grotesque ambience,
"What is that ****?"
From the arrogant.
Three man close,
ends as slow as it started,
the ride home had a sidetrack,
acoustic grassland band,
self proclaimed leader was a real A-hole,
wouldn't let me play,
when I finally did they liked it,
but I didn't give two *****.
Accident on the freeway,
as the faces passed by,
none of them saw me,
but the whole congregation was there,
police, bus driver, Metro insurance man on the side,
in full regalia,
witnessing yet another,
one of those days.

children born from the trees
scrape their way out of bark
and cut their limbs from roots
to take flight into the starry sky
that goes on for eternity

whispers from the wind guide
them to a land where fires burn
on mountains made from remnants of
their birth place, yet their hearts don't
skip a beat, instead they dance
and sing and laugh, until they can't

journeys through grassland
yield discoveries of friends, foes, and
perhaps the most important, the key
to unlock the secrets of the skies

a map lies above them,
burning chunks of rock
eons beyond our elementary understanding,
and as they climb the tallest of their ancestors
to dip hands deep in the universe
they are enlightened and lost all at once

a purple, aching darling
of a dawning day
unfurls her chilly fingers
over a greying grassland
to close the creaking door of night’s cabaret.

she slips her feeble sun-rays
through a cracked window pane.
dust motes, sauntering in their orbits,
float through a parched concrete bedroom
where once false love was made.

here lies a brave soldier
who fought for hell’s brigade
and shot a widower in love’s name
after which he bartered souls for simple comforts -
oranges, canned fish and pain.

and he never met his son
or saw his daughter’s face
for he had left his lover’s morning singing
and life’s sunlit meadows
for a wartime martyr's charming ways.

so he took cover in the city’s ashen shadows
from the crossfire of his mistakes
and faked his life and death and everything else,
while his sole mourner slipped into his sparse, concrete bedroom
(where he had once kissed his darkness into secrecy)
and wailed.

—

i raise the barricades
and watch the deaths from within
of day, of night, of soldiers and of sunlight
and tell myself to hold my breath
and wait.

A house is where I find myself in
Any place is great for amazing masker
A house is where I fit myself in
Anything can work for an adapter

Long way from home I have always been
No sorrow, no remorse, just emptiness
Long days and nights it has always been
Not sad or mad, but no happiness

Never realized the hole inside of me
Been trying to live my days to the fullest
Now realized how depressing things be
None of the work I did actually worth it

Be it I'm done from the rushed life
Back home to where I can breathe
Walking slower and having long drive
Back home to where heart can beat

A Farm near Duivendrecht, here I am
Standing alone amongst the nature
The sight of gigantic, green grassland
Where I left behind, before I was mature

To the days I forgot to appreciate
To the windblows I forgot to soak in
To the times I forgot to lie aback laid
To the work I did to forget my pacing

Now at home where I forgot to miss
Now at home where the real heart is

Give me the hewn , striped grassland of an -
Appalachian 'Holler'
A simple log home with laying hens -
and vegetable gardens
Spiral roadways to rustic hamlets
Foggy mornings and painted sunsets
Wooden bridges crossing crystal streams
Colored Autumn hardwoods , vivacious evergreens
Period rustic barns and pumpkin patches
Rolling hillside , dulcimers and Winter mountain thatch
Store front rockers and homemade Sweet Potato pies
Gingerbread cookies , black coffee and starry nights*....

The old stars petrify in place.
Stone-set heartache over sequences
of bar and melody;
they remind us of pain immortalised
in the human race, and that in itself
is enough to fill your curtains
with happiness.

I miss the blind Parisian Busker.
The old tunes over the river
as I feigned language;
as I swelled in my heart at the
sight of the branches under
faint March sky. Tears roll down,
and I am a soft fool once again.

I remember being seventeen.
I remember looking up at
the night sky;
attributing its hue and old knowledge
to that of an infinite God.
Now that cruelty is self-evident,
nature has no need for Him.

Now I scan the world
and land my eyes delicately on beauty
as a butterfly in grassland;
unworthy pilgrim of temper and waste,
I feel nature has no place for me
either. Without art and old sentiment,
there would be no place for me at all.

There are a thousand lovers
for us in the world. They fidget
in bus-stops;
excuse themselves in queues
and stay in for a fortnight
for every moment spent alone
in a group of old friends.

They cry in their bedsheets.
Lamenting love and lack of poetry
in everyday life;
they hold old songs to their chests
to keep them warm in the winter,
and they re-animate the limbs
of heroes sleeping in the mud.

By: Nabs

In this long and dreary day
As I walked down the park, I long for the taste of peace
For It have not grace me with its caress in such a long time that I remember it in fondness
Leaving me feeling quite restless

I miss the caress of soft lips, mumbling words
Sweet sweet words that is like a blade to my heart
I miss the burn of passion, that leave me breathless, head held high
Marching with purpose in this world
I miss the laughter that would accompany me with every step I took

I wish time could be turned back like the black sand in the hourglass mother love so much

I saw a man sitting down on the bench
His hair unkept, his eyes were shadowed
Wearing a fancy tailored suit
It looks surreal to say, someone who one would expect to look regal in the air of wealth, could look so small
Swallowed by the suit that he was wearing as if it was his life line

He was shivering, despite having a warm suit cloak that was draped on his shoulder
Maybe its the grief that was leeching his warmth

He took out a silver flask, holding it carefully with trembling hands as if it was the most precious thing
He turned the cork slowly, as if dreading it
Tipping his head back, pouring gold down his throat with the fervor of a man addicted
Spilling some on his fancy suit, uncaring

They say it's liquid courage, but why as he take each gulp of the golden liquid he looks more and more like a person who is cowering?
A person who had been defeated

He looks lonely and at that moment, as selfish as this sounds, I feel the camaraderie between us
A bond shared by someone who knows how to long for something and yet being denied
Either by someone else or them self

I shook off the feeling, He reminder me too much of my father, and continue to walk

The destination that I had in mind was the old part of the park
The one that people abandon in favor of the newer one
Where the wild flowers and moss over took everything, making it their own personal kingdom
Where the trees are lush and the air feel gentle

When I reached there, I sat under the old apple tree
The roots are a mess of intricate knots, weaving into the earth, creating a the pattern that show the cycle of life
The branches are laden with over ripe red apples and the sweet smell of childhood, of running through my grandparents house pockets full of berries and wild apples
I am reminded of the time that home was available

The rustle of leaf have lull men and woman alike to oblivion

Thinking of lost time, of gleeful laughter across the grassland of change and puberty
Running around trying to catch moments and memories, trying to bottle it down
Making ambrosia from the ones that define happiness, taking and taking from the well of our soul
Forgetting that sometimes the well could dry, could grow musty and moldy, could cave in and turning the once full well into a gaping hole, a depression so they say

Depressions feels like a blanket of warmth in my hollow life these days

I notice a little girl was gathering the fallen leaves, not far from me
She was making in into a leaf crown, befitting even for a king
She was barefooted, hair the shade of flame with freckles adorned her face like constellations
She was humming a note that seems to tell a story of promises and better future

I looked at her, I saw dreams and my little sister
From the white satin dress, like the one mother used to made me and her wear when the first sign of spring was showing, to her gaped smile
I feel like I am seeing picture from a long time ago that I had forgotten I ever had
A picture that I used to hate but now come to realize I am fond off

I could feel my heart aching

I was cut off from my musing when A long and tall dark shadow suddenly befell her
A man cloaked by midnight stood behind her, with ink stained face, wild hair, and eyes as dark as the abyss
He reminded me of the man that took my little sister away
The air seemed to tense and still, as if holding their breath for the anticipation

Yet when she noticed the man she let out a smile as bright as a thousand sun, burning, in it sincereness
The world seems to let out a relieved sigh as she tiptoed to put the leaf crown on top of the man head
The man gaze seems to tender, then he cradled her in his arm

They both were so different
He was midnight, while the she was sunshine
He was cold, she was warmth
He was sins, she was virtues

And yet they looked at each other with gaze filled with tenderness and fondness

The yearning that hit me leave me dizzy
Envy wedged it self into my heart, for I wanted that bond that tied them both so much that my hands were trembling
I fill sick with want

I almost reached out

Shame filled me, so I ran away like I always do
Biting back the sob that threaten to spill, I ran away to the fountain

It's an old fountain that been there even when the years had not existed yet
It withstood history, though not without consequences
The water is still crystal clear even after centuries of people throwing coins there
Confessing their sins as the coins slowly sink while the ancient koi fish are dancing around lazily

I traced the fountain delicate rims, watching the the water ripples as rain started to drenched the earth
The smell of petrichor hit my senses, it smelled like musk and the sky longing to kiss the earth
I realized that all along I had hate rain because it would engulf me in melancholy so that I forget the blood that stained my lips


I saw butterflies fluttering by, daintily flying, making patterns in the sky
A storm of colors that left me with out my breath
Gentle yet unforgiving in its wake
Like my mother gentle reprimand, my sister promises, my father wine bottle shattering, and my brothers death


I wonder, as the rain turn to storm, how long had i been gone from home?

I stole you away from city lights
Yep held it in a brown balled paper bag
Drank in the words like liquor
I didn’t think anybody could see, really.
San Francisco stopped and got back on the treadmill
Made of silicon and now its gone

Beaded sweat of mind bleeds into the bay
I walked on the pier and teared up a little bit lip
The hills once covered in god are covered in another ones
I don’t know what to think of it at all

Grit the teeth against it and grind them to dust
Bite the tongue until it leaks sweet sanguine blood
I drink the wine and dine on the pain
And wish with all my dying heart to meet you again
But you are dead
Even the world you left is dead
And the minds of man are dying
Because they got way too mad of trying

Counter the counted counter-cultured counter-top
Endless sine of combating thought
I’ve walked to the golden-brown California hillcrop
And realized I stood on holy seasonal grassland genocide

With horror the minds withered United State Holodomor
Can I build a paper airplane to take away from here
In time you knew there was nothing here to fear
I cannot find it
Please help me find it

Your alley smells like **** and the taste of forlorn
Bay sits in hazy forever
The water still glitters god’s diamonds but it feels more like
A forgotten mound of coal
You cannot polish these timely souls
From bronze to something gold
If they do not want it

Men like you live to die
And we can pretend that there will be another to tell your place
But Socratic manners of speaking are banned
So too, will you be left on trial

The veil of night shines with roman jewels on an incandescent man-made interstate
I watch them sparkle in the receding mirror, all but the brightest remain
We built stars on our land and pretend they are god
And in a way they are
What poor representatives to those congresses of light
Impossibly far

So I must make do with the day we are born to
Speak words that mean worlds to you
And perhaps together we can reawake something
Disastrous after the soul, and open the I

There were ripples of the sparkling stream.
The crystalline water was mirroring the blue sky.
That befriended with the sun’s wonderful beam.
Beams of the dazzling looking golden eye.

The background was overflowing with mountains.
Mountains with snowcapped peaks,
Their attainment of such exquisiteness is a real arcane.
What is it above the sky that they seek?

The eagles were gloating about their wings.
O! How marvelous they were to glance upon!
Thrushes flew above the river as they sing.
Grazing on the grassland was a cluster of fawn.

There I saw the elderly yet strong fisherman.
Flinging his lure in an elegant technique.
Attracting catfish and trout as much as he can,
While sitting on the boulder beside the flowing creek.

The loveliness of the lotus was luring me,
Positioned silently on the cerulean water.
The white arrowhead was charming as she could be,
Her petals were diminutive as they always were.

Far away, I saw a grandiose tall tower.
Its peak was reaching for the high heavens.
He stood there taking delight over his power,
Amazed all travelers every now and then.

The heavens above exposed a band of colors.
Little time, after the floating dark skies cried.
I then assumed that our life is filled with squalors.
But don’t worry because later they are all bright.

After the drizzle, dews sat calmly on the grasses.
Scarcely and leisurely moving towards the ground,
The sunlight coalesces with the dew with tender caress.
How luxurious they looked wearing the golden crown!

The children played alongside the river in pleasure.
Girls were collecting flowers to make tiaras and garlands,
While boys were skipping stones on the tranquil water
Their little footprints placed themselves on the loose sands.

And I was assembled comfortably on the greens.
Beside flowed the river without paying any notice.
It cleansed all of my hopelessness and spleen.
Therefore I slept on the nature’s lap with internal peace…

Unscrupulous, surreptitious, and without a doubt, unnerving! This innate dissonance, have you ever encountered such a vile thing? Like a rainforest of such beauty and tranquility only to be interrupted by the bombs of war! Thundering amongst the hail of bullets are massive planes accompanied by perilous sounds from tanks and  agonizing death screams! The disgusting noise pollution of such dissonance within this imagery is just too much to bear!

You see, this world is filled with contrasts. Black and white, night and day. There's never a boring moment once you've become insane yet there's nothing to do when you're sane! It's highly implied that life is incomplete without death. Like the fingerprints on our fingers, life is diverse and unique, yet in this instance, everything's a mess!

The ears can see and the eyes would hear, and I'm driven insane by this sight! The heart can think and the mind can feel, and I would bitterly claim that I do not think to feel these types of things. These bombshells called emotions has destroyed my tranquil mind space. It has been filled with the shrapnel of you, setting me ablaze and injuring my inner confines like say, my gut, for I feel butterflies in my stomach. I feel as if I'll be plucking up daisies from that grassland I've once sat on. You've ruined my orchestra with dissonant notes.

I couldn't ask for more.
You revel in the ever-changing.
In my dissonance,
I'll then hand you this note:

*"I thank thee for the chaos one hath brought upon me; I crumble down as I am rebuilt. Like the earth born from planetary collisions, we've collided. I hope to be amongst the stars, like the earth, filled with life."

A brief gander out of the window sills
The dim candlelight flickers ever so vividly and lingers through
The fire awakens and its children, embers of the future withdraw
They take off and flow with the midwinter breeze

Amongst the ample tracts of land, amongst the foggy scenery of ice and snow
The amber extract of lightwaves pierce through the nocturnal blanket
The lilac sky merging with the cinnabar, umber and indigo
The soldiers, clad as such, marching through the grassland

And thus spoke the soldiers
Embedded in the gloom, marching through the dusty carpet
Consolidating rigid blocks amass
Caressing the cold, serene scenery in all its idyll

The sparkles dwindle at dusk
A solemn encounter between life and death - the soldiers collect them all
Many sparkles accumulate and dissipate when heaven takes in their children
Flourishing in tufts that lit the charcoal sky, a glistening canvas

I found myself amidst the elation, as I gazed amongst the starry abyss
The future stared back and smiled as I found myself frozen in time
The timeless idyll is ever so frightful, but a bliss as it fills my locket
Moonlight pass, timescape halts, landscape falls, shadows conquer

Time is ever so vague when the silver arises
The mirror of the soul, the children of the dim candlelights
They flicker ever so lively into eternity
They flicker and return home.

June is dead-still
trees converse with other
language mocking the trilling
of birds. North of here
there is a visitation. Virgins
are being transferred
all Monday housed in foreign
homes. Oregano
perennial, ingrained on
roof beam the rise and fall of,
a languid mirage outside
much less than an inveterate superstition.
Past the bridge where I once laughed
as a child when my father
surged past ploughed fields.
this almost overtakeless summer
minting its blazing core
and now rivers cut this town.
The derelict nectar of youth,
how lovely it was the first time
to pierce through age, an arcade
  rising from the carrion that was
our birthright under the throbbing heat.
Who touched what
to turn room into bedlam – slowly, these
evincing hours paint me the
grandiloquent picture of all
when the moon a foolish assumption
under a rain-soaked grassland
moist enough for crickets, venue for
frog hidden somewhere, outlined by a cadenza,
us, humming along in our
cast-off night clothes, meagerly this
climate tumescent in this town.

Pulling the bow
musical notes catapulted
from the deck of the aircraft carrier
fly far into the distance
a roc flapping its wings
on the crest of a wave
a group of horses
galloping on the grassland
the strings are rigid
the bow is flexible
in between
there's smoke rising
there's the vastness of field
when the sound is just right
the sky calms down
to listen
to the jade
ancient tide.

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.

(The Greater Prairie Chicken: a grouse of open grassland, is known for its mating dance. Males display together in a communal lek, where they raise ear-like feathers above their heads, inflate orange sacs on the sides of their throats, and stutter-step around while making a deep hooting moan.)

So how you gonna keep ‘em
Down on the farm after they’d seen Paree?
After “displaying together” in
Their own private lek--
Communal though it was.
It’s May in Hemetucky.
I just got back from my
Twilight constitutional,
As Truman called it.
Harry—since I was born in 1949—
Tribute for my first Commander-in-Chief.
The moon was misted,
More than half full,
Myself half in the bag,
As they say.

As you know by know,
I live in one of those gated,
Golf-coursed, over-55
Lunatic Asylums,
A communal lek, as they say.
I’m stutter schlepping around the block
In my pajamas remembering that big sign,
So full of promise--ACTIVE SENIORS—
A veritable sexually promiscuous
Welcome Mat.
I made an assumption, you see,
That children of the 60s grown old
Would relish a life of legal **** in a
Gated sanctuary with hours upon hours of
“Let’s Hide the Pepperoni.”

I knew I missed those years,
That era of bra-burning &
Birth Control.
“*******,”
Wonton ******* & *******,
A bowl of Won-Ton carnality:
Wild abandon, mature ladies,
Their ******* in a ***,
At the bottom of their purse,
(Thank you, Joan Osborne)


Joan Osborne - Right Hand Man Lyrics | MetroLyrics
http://www.metrolyrics.com/right-hand-man-lyrics-joan-osborne.htmlLyrics to 'Right Hand Man' by Joan Osborne. Let me use your toothbrush / Have you got a clean shirt? / My ******* in a *** /at the bottom of my purse / I walk. (www.advertise/right-in-the-middle-of-*******-poem.com)

Yet, I languish here
Here in the now,
Having shown my cards too often.
After 10 years here no woman
Takes me seriously,
Given my unserious reputation,
Not to be taken seriously.
Which explains why I spend
So much of my time in Italy
Lately.

A blue door in Paris,
on the streets,
hides behind it secrets,
a knock, to the sharp tap,
allows the entrance of a man,
in what secrets,
does this sonderous doors foreclose,
and holds to its building,
the stories of lovers and tearaways,
that once resided therein,
and lived,
lives either great or poor,
thunderous torrents or gentle drops of rain,
by the blue door,
men and women have met,
they may have left together or apart,
gone in or walked away,
on the grand depart,
a tour de force de France,
London brigands, French vagabonds and German villains,
Spanish pickpockets, Italian bravos and Greek philosophers,
sad fools, great minds alike have stood outside this door,
the tourist, the local, the lost boys,
have found their time taken by this road,
each step a tick of life,
in this smouldering suburb,
this urban chaos and shuddering grassland,
this lawn of cobbled stones,
to the blue door,
of wood and brass,
etched reflections in the frame,
glass captures portraits of those many names,
in the blue door in Paris.