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"hammocks" poems
(10/13/12) At the beginning of “64” - I packed up my uniform And walked out the door- it was the beginning of The Vietnam war. By August of that same year President Johnson started the draft Under protests and jeers. Then he made it a full scale war And sent our soldiers to Vietnam shores. The Beatniks in Greenwich village With their long hair, beards, and Flip flop sandals - wrote their poetry About this undeclared war, and why Our men were going to those shores. This created a new generation called ‘HIPPIES” The hippie generation was groups of protesters Against everything that they found wrong The draft , the war , pollution And loved to stay high with *** hashish Coke and acid (lsd) which kept them blasted. This also created the “ flower children” Who like the hippies loved to be high And on certain flowers they would fly. But they spoke of loving one another And gave out flowers as a sign of peace Which to the president was a relief. They all started painting this “53 Chevy impala” With the words “ flower power”. Now the “ flower children and hippie movement Was in full swing, and everyone was doing their own thing. They had Greenwich village under their control And not one coffee shop would ever be sold. Every coffee shop had a poetry night And going there was such a delight. Then in AUGUST of “69” The WOODSTOCK festival was on the rise Over half a million people drove to that farmland And set up tents , hammocks, sleeping bags and such And the police found it was much to much So they had no choice but to see it through Because there was nothing else that they could do. The WOODSTOCK festival had become world wide And to this day it still thrives. © L . RAMS
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Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 11:17 PM UTC
beatnik to vietnam to hippie stand
(10/13/12) At the beginning of “64” - I packed up my uniform And walked out the door- it was the beginning of The Vietnam war. By August of that same year President Johnson started the draft Under protests and jeers. Then he made it a full scale war And sent our soldiers to Vietnam shores. The Beatniks in Greenwich village With their long hair, beards, and Flip flop sandals - wrote their poetry About this undeclared war, and why Our men were going to those shores. This created a new generation called ‘HIPPIES” The hippie generation was groups of protesters Against everything that they found wrong The draft , the war , pollution And loved to stay high with *** hashish Coke and acid (lsd) which kept them blasted. This also created the “ flower children” Who like the hippies loved to be high And on certain flowers they would fly. But they spoke of loving one another And gave out flowers as a sign of peace Which to the president was a relief. They all started painting this “53 Chevy impala” With the words “ flower power”. Now the “ flower children and hippie movement Was in full swing, and everyone was doing their own thing. They had Greenwich village under their control And not one coffee shop would ever be sold. Every coffee shop had a poetry night And going there was such a delight. Then in AUGUST of “69” The WOODSTOCK festival was on the rise Over half a million people drove to that farmland And set up tents , hammocks, sleeping bags and such And the police found it was much to much So they had no choice but to see it through Because there was nothing else that they could do. The WOODSTOCK festival had become world wide And to this day it still thrives. © L . RAMS
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44
Turquoise blues guitars Laughing baby elephants (that paint) Melodies singing lullabies to sleepy baby elephants (tired from painting all day) Blank canvases full of blackberries on the inside The antidote to love All the dotes that didn't get doted And all the ones that did Playing badminton in the backyard of Cupid's summer home in Manarola The ruby that died to make Dorothy's slippers And the shortest hair from the Lion's tail Wine filled grapes Water balloons filled from hot springs and melted mountain snow Two spokes from Steve McQueen's "Great Escape" motorcycle Three kisses from Ilsa Lund And a smile from Sabrina Fairchild Tom Robbins' typewriter (it's magic) A flying dragon A dragonfly (grounded for not doing her homework) Jenny's phone number The pillow that hit the floor at Cecilia's that afternoon The third stair from the top of the Stairway to Heaven (best view) One of the lost souls swimming in a fish bowl And a grain of salt from the sea the other is swimming in An olympic size pool full of melted crayons A vile of sweat from the ever fleeing muse A refrigerator the size of Rhode Island Full of magnificent lines of magnetic poetry Poetry (all of it) The monster under the monster's bed Every foul ball ever caught by any kid Hammocks (any and every) The cardboard boat that never stopped sailing down the gutter of the world The secret to everything (kept securely under the bed of the monster, under the monster's bed) Santa's real address (you won't believe this) The blue ink from the blueprints of Atlantis Golf carts with no maximum speed The energy dust left from dancing, hugging and smiling Freshly climbed trees A warehouse the size of Antarctica completely filled Wall to wall with raw, unfiltered laughter Beer Everything that was left on the field Passionate embraces and embracing a passion Apology free, but full of forgiveness The wild of the wilderness The tame of the un-tame Language Intuition Conception First kisses, waves and winks Goodbye hugs and thrown in kitchen sinks Art Music Pain Puddles that have been danced in under pouring rain Empty film cans Films on screens All of these ingredients Are what makes up Dreams
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Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC
What Dreams Are Made Of ...
Turquoise blues guitars Laughing baby elephants (that paint) Melodies singing lullabies to sleepy baby elephants (tired from painting all day) Blank canvases full of blackberries on the inside The antidote to love All the dotes that didn't get doted And all the ones that did Playing badminton in the backyard of Cupid's summer home in Manarola The ruby that died to make Dorothy's slippers And the shortest hair from the Lion's tail Wine filled grapes Water balloons filled from hot springs and melted mountain snow Two spokes from Steve McQueen's "Great Escape" motorcycle Three kisses from Ilsa Lund And a smile from Sabrina Fairchild Tom Robbins' typewriter (it's magic) A flying dragon A dragonfly (grounded for not doing her homework) Jenny's phone number The pillow that hit the floor at Cecilia's that afternoon The third stair from the top of the Stairway to Heaven (best view) One of the lost souls swimming in a fish bowl And a grain of salt from the sea the other is swimming in An olympic size pool full of melted crayons A vile of sweat from the ever fleeing muse A refrigerator the size of Rhode Island Full of magnificent lines of magnetic poetry Poetry (all of it) The monster under the monster's bed Every foul ball ever caught by any kid Hammocks (any and every) The cardboard boat that never stopped sailing down the gutter of the world The secret to everything (kept securely under the bed of the monster, under the monster's bed) Santa's real address (you won't believe this) The blue ink from the blueprints of Atlantis Golf carts with no maximum speed The energy dust left from dancing, hugging and smiling Freshly climbed trees A warehouse the size of Antarctica completely filled Wall to wall with raw, unfiltered laughter Beer Everything that was left on the field Passionate embraces and embracing a passion Apology free, but full of forgiveness The wild of the wilderness The tame of the un-tame Language Intuition Conception First kisses, waves and winks Goodbye hugs and thrown in kitchen sinks Art Music Pain Puddles that have been danced in under pouring rain Empty film cans Films on screens All of these ingredients Are what makes up Dreams
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62
I am the fire that holds the glow of a hidden flame that captures all that fall within. As all my fire flowers around me bellowed by every heartbeat. As many invisible doorways break open and all is awakened in air of ruby reds and orange flame, as they burst and bloom.   I am the fire that swallows all fire so shout at me more little drill sergeant for you light my fire. For I will explode all over your anger and blow you out like a little candle. As I am a colossal fiery breeze as turbulent winds encircle like a forest fire I engulf. My coat shines and glows with orange embers fanned by a million life times of survival. The power of my radiating heat melts bones like ice in boiling water or the hot sun against margarine. Dare you look into my stare take a dip a little swim and I will reignite your flame. I am the WILD Tiger never in caged by any shouldst or ought to for I am a free and my path always open for me to seek fuel for my flame. As my fire is never suffocated by conditions or rule as I possess all the space around me. Like oxygen I **** it all in while exploding into higher spaces much greater places. I feel the taste of LOVE and HATE as they are both painted upon my tongue and feed my appetite. Like two sticks Love and Hate I rub them both together please give me more smoke and fire. You rub your soft injustice against my hard wood I will bring you storm clouds and flames. As I fight for right as naturally as gravity is pulling us to earth. I will transform any situation never stopping to ask if I can as I throw myself at anything. I wash souls of petty despair as they bath within my glare. Come close to me and I will hold you tenderly in the nets of my sight like hammocks in my eyes. Let me lick and sooth your many wounds as we together we softly purr. Purring sweetly together like a V8 engine I can slowly restore all your strength and power. I pounce and spring of solid rock that feels so soft and elastic like rubber. A thousand coordinated sparks ****** themselves forward as they blaze a trail to fast for the brain. You will be liberated when you find my fire rocket blades ignited we will dance and play through time. So much can be gained when running with the Tiger, caressing air with a watery velvet. As you slip through a jungle with a silky strawberry orange flame, how we Love the beautiful Tiger's Flame
0
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 4:23 PM UTC
TIGERS FLAME
I am the fire that holds the glow of a hidden flame that captures all that fall within. As all my fire flowers around me bellowed by every heartbeat. As many invisible doorways break open and all is awakened in air of ruby reds and orange flame, as they burst and bloom.   I am the fire that swallows all fire so shout at me more little drill sergeant for you light my fire. For I will explode all over your anger and blow you out like a little candle. As I am a colossal fiery breeze as turbulent winds encircle like a forest fire I engulf. My coat shines and glows with orange embers fanned by a million life times of survival. The power of my radiating heat melts bones like ice in boiling water or the hot sun against margarine. Dare you look into my stare take a dip a little swim and I will reignite your flame. I am the WILD Tiger never in caged by any shouldst or ought to for I am a free and my path always open for me to seek fuel for my flame. As my fire is never suffocated by conditions or rule as I possess all the space around me. Like oxygen I **** it all in while exploding into higher spaces much greater places. I feel the taste of LOVE and HATE as they are both painted upon my tongue and feed my appetite. Like two sticks Love and Hate I rub them both together please give me more smoke and fire. You rub your soft injustice against my hard wood I will bring you storm clouds and flames. As I fight for right as naturally as gravity is pulling us to earth. I will transform any situation never stopping to ask if I can as I throw myself at anything. I wash souls of petty despair as they bath within my glare. Come close to me and I will hold you tenderly in the nets of my sight like hammocks in my eyes. Let me lick and sooth your many wounds as we together we softly purr. Purring sweetly together like a V8 engine I can slowly restore all your strength and power. I pounce and spring of solid rock that feels so soft and elastic like rubber. A thousand coordinated sparks ****** themselves forward as they blaze a trail to fast for the brain. You will be liberated when you find my fire rocket blades ignited we will dance and play through time. So much can be gained when running with the Tiger, caressing air with a watery velvet. As you slip through a jungle with a silky strawberry orange flame, how we Love the beautiful Tiger's Flame
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65
it is difficult to write in a hammock not to find the words the words are children hiding desperate to be sought fickle wind jostles ecstatic chimes traffic sounds like the ocean if you listen and that smell fresh rain, grass a barbecue ignited this hammock holds my heart it is my lotus supporting me so that I may be in the world, yet not of it floating higher and higher— glimpse her now before she is but a speck in the sky swaying, yet somehow perfectly still tress rustle leaves spackling the air, don't miss a spot fill in the cracks a raindrop kisses my lip Welcome Home I've Missed You if it weren't for the chill in my back I'd stay here forever no one wants the hammock on this dreary afternoon— lavender ice clouds carved out with silver streaks, axel lift you see, hammocks are not just for sunny days in fact, you won't learn a **** thing from a hammock on a sunny day their secrets aren't safe in the sun
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Jan 20, 2012
Jan 20, 2012 at 12:25 AM UTC
a hammock
In foreign land of towering pines And hammocks, mangrove-torn A dark-filled night reluctantly Bequeaths a pale dawn Upon one battered cypress perched, Amidst the morning haze, Bright eyes stare out from part-cocked head With piscicultural gaze. Intently focussed on the brook, That glides beneath the tree Alive to every shadow’s sound Yet never truly free. For choicelessly these eyes are drawn, As waters break below And like a flash a head snaps back And rippled muscles flow. Within the slightest moment’s breath, Two mighty wings released, Two claws full-stretched, two legs reach out The sinews, strained, unleashed. The beaten air the only sound, As time itself stands still And, tracer-like, on charted course The osprey meets its **** With consummate and practiced ease The painless end begins The single deadly blow is dealt As sharpened claws sink in. Then up away into the dawn And time resumes its course Two final beats – then disappeared Is this magnetic force. The cypress perch and well-filled brook As silent witness stay And as they settle – calm again The sun declares the day.
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Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
The Osprey
"Yell that one out when you get it" she said in what she considered her most calm and gentle tone. Her calculations were wrong though. What she considered calm and gentle still seemed animated and intense to her audience. By this grade and age most children have been trained to raise a hand to answer class questions or request the floor. She began realizing more and more that she spent her days within a room of tiny robots, in a building of tiny robots, in a town of various types of robots... situated in a galaxy of dust that accumulated on the surface of the Great Petrie Dish. This was not where she wanted to be. All along his path he grabbed the sticks that called to him. There were many in this area which was surrounded by concrete yet, enough nature inside to forget the dull grays.  Still along the way he traded these sticks and twigs for other sticks and twigs that he placed earlier in naturally occurring hammocks cradled within the bark of an old tree knot or between two inviting branches. Each stick and twig that he moved was followed by a message of gratitude and the intent to do no harm.  A pinch pull of hair from his arm was placed here in reverie of balance and reciprocation. Walking by, I noticed this and waved to him thinking, "wouldn't life be a little better if we all ran around in a circle and enjoyed the healing power of play. It feels good to let go." Then I thought to myself, "that was totally awkward. I just waved like a guest walking onto the stage for a visit with Oprah". I was fat non- hippie backwards hat fried from acid tabs and Hendrix Stuttgart posters for hours while rewinding the instrumental track that followed the song "drug store cowboy" on a dubbed Justin Warfield tape over and over again. Those years floated me from the village on my floor to adult ADHD and a far off gaze. The neighbors hate when I run around my back yard shirtless chanting and banging a drum on rainy evenings.
0
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 7:39 AM UTC
Primitive Inhibitions: sour sunflower, so what!
"Yell that one out when you get it" she said in what she considered her most calm and gentle tone. Her calculations were wrong though. What she considered calm and gentle still seemed animated and intense to her audience. By this grade and age most children have been trained to raise a hand to answer class questions or request the floor. She began realizing more and more that she spent her days within a room of tiny robots, in a building of tiny robots, in a town of various types of robots... situated in a galaxy of dust that accumulated on the surface of the Great Petrie Dish. This was not where she wanted to be. All along his path he grabbed the sticks that called to him. There were many in this area which was surrounded by concrete yet, enough nature inside to forget the dull grays.  Still along the way he traded these sticks and twigs for other sticks and twigs that he placed earlier in naturally occurring hammocks cradled within the bark of an old tree knot or between two inviting branches. Each stick and twig that he moved was followed by a message of gratitude and the intent to do no harm.  A pinch pull of hair from his arm was placed here in reverie of balance and reciprocation. Walking by, I noticed this and waved to him thinking, "wouldn't life be a little better if we all ran around in a circle and enjoyed the healing power of play. It feels good to let go." Then I thought to myself, "that was totally awkward. I just waved like a guest walking onto the stage for a visit with Oprah". I was fat non- hippie backwards hat fried from acid tabs and Hendrix Stuttgart posters for hours while rewinding the instrumental track that followed the song "drug store cowboy" on a dubbed Justin Warfield tape over and over again. Those years floated me from the village on my floor to adult ADHD and a far off gaze. The neighbors hate when I run around my back yard shirtless chanting and banging a drum on rainy evenings.
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9
Uniformed and re-upped, We are the mind sweepers, The navel gazers moving lint, Waiting for the image to strike. We are the missals And the launchers, Looking through cross-hairs From think tanks. We captain verse vessels to shore, Unload and return for more. We are the Romantic Ancient sub-conscious mariners Stitched in hammocks. We are rocketeers. A force To reckon.
0
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 9:26 AM UTC
Uniform Poets
throw away all of our material ******** our iphones and credit cards and television sets throw them in a bonfire, take off our clothes and dance around the flames naked chanting freedom mantras we could do anything we wanted climb to machu picchu and try to feel the past drink ayahuasca and play shaman for a day be wild and open and part of the earth again for once in our lives we might feel important unrestricted, powerful like we have a purpose and even after the hallucinations fade maybe the plants will still whisper to us our destiny when we are sleeping in hammocks and eating bugs i guess i just wouldn't care if the guts got stuck in my teeth because you'd be there and encourage me to give up my ocd habits of always being clean because you'd make it worth it to not care i'd give you my soul if it meant we could always feel this way so wonderfully lost in each other that nothing else matters.
0
Sep 12, 2010
Sep 12, 2010 at 5:41 PM UTC
let's just say **** it and
I wish I had the money To buy myself a yacht. I wouldn’t spend it that way But would love what I bought. I’d have a huge party With every friend I know And let it go on and on For about a week or so. And, gifts to everybody Who was ever kind to me. Just something thoughtful To give them gratefully. I’d pick things out carefully And wrap them up nice And in some cases I’m sure I’d do it at least twice. I’d rent a fancy house That overlooked the beach With kayaks and hammocks All within everyone’s reach. And I would hire a caterer To make delicious foods So nobody would hunger No matter what their mood. And I would hire musicians To play on regular intervals. Maybe local songwriters And super talented minstrels. And I would wear my finest Most beautiful things I’ve got. That’s what I would do if I could buy myself a yacht.
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Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 3:50 PM UTC
BUYING A YACHT
~ 3:15 am…blurred red numbers tell as I stir, reaching for what I have seen, grasping for the moments spent in the presence of beauty as once again you have visited me in a dream… Pure white flowing whispered fabrics and butterfly trails awash of waterfalls cascading and mountain top zephyrs, rock face delights collect on horizons of hope as softness frames your luminescent face My eyes focus in the darkness as your touch remains real on my skin I am still while stars sleep in crescent moon hammocks How can this be, I am alone, yet I was not, for I could see You were searching for me, barefoot on lush green vistas, daisy paths and buttercup drops neath cotton candy clouds suspended above echoes of love songs harmonizing with our heart beats Night outside my window keeps time in silent motions, slowly sweeping breezes form rhythmic patterns and poetry settles upon my body as I continue to write within my now awakened mind Destiny beckons in fruited winds as chocolate eyes find luscious views of nature’s majesty Your skins glows of spring blooms in petal’d bliss and opal desires in the warmth of the day But I had found you…you had found me… my desperate wanderings have shown me the prize, illumined the joy lingering in your smile…your eyes your touch which stays with me even as I lay alone…still dreaming Sun beamed passions follow you, caress you in dancing shadows of flowing brown hair breathing of morning glory skies and shimmering dragonfly wings At this early hour, with an apricot moon peering through the curtains and these words which have found me playing among my thoughts, I now realize that my every dream is you...you are my poetry
0
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 8:38 AM UTC
3:15 am
~ 3:15 am…blurred red numbers tell as I stir, reaching for what I have seen, grasping for the moments spent in the presence of beauty as once again you have visited me in a dream… Pure white flowing whispered fabrics and butterfly trails awash of waterfalls cascading and mountain top zephyrs, rock face delights collect on horizons of hope as softness frames your luminescent face My eyes focus in the darkness as your touch remains real on my skin I am still while stars sleep in crescent moon hammocks How can this be, I am alone, yet I was not, for I could see You were searching for me, barefoot on lush green vistas, daisy paths and buttercup drops neath cotton candy clouds suspended above echoes of love songs harmonizing with our heart beats Night outside my window keeps time in silent motions, slowly sweeping breezes form rhythmic patterns and poetry settles upon my body as I continue to write within my now awakened mind Destiny beckons in fruited winds as chocolate eyes find luscious views of nature’s majesty Your skins glows of spring blooms in petal’d bliss and opal desires in the warmth of the day But I had found you…you had found me… my desperate wanderings have shown me the prize, illumined the joy lingering in your smile…your eyes your touch which stays with me even as I lay alone…still dreaming Sun beamed passions follow you, caress you in dancing shadows of flowing brown hair breathing of morning glory skies and shimmering dragonfly wings At this early hour, with an apricot moon peering through the curtains and these words which have found me playing among my thoughts, I now realize that my every dream is you...you are my poetry
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37
She hates the city Say street lamps Are too cold For marshmallows, Too far apart For hammocks And a little too yellow For stars. She loves daisies Especially when they're alive And drinks sunshine Like it's a fireball Bottle at a bachelor party She Has got a body. Like a Lego fire walk That I can't help but Move across Slowly, On the parts of her Past that build us Omnicolored castles Of Kings and Queens And treasure chests Too small to hold anything Outside our own imagination And I, Her ready loyal Knight With nothing but A dull promise On the edge of my tongue Laying my rusty faith At her feet keep Moving Like my eyes Across a line Across a line Across a line That I never Want to stop Reading Her edges With my fingertips Like the map To my home And her lips The closest thing I've got to A key But she Is not the type That needs a night To see the stars And I Am not the type To write poems From fireflies That I never learned To let go 'Cause I know my life Has seen enough jars Of my amputated parts To know you don't have To be broken to be used To picking up the pieces. But baby break me. Like a firefighter With a family of four Who knows the risks. With your arms 'Round my fists The only chance I've got Of making it out alive. So baby hold me Like a papier mâché Tugboat from articles Of my past that I no longer Want to pull. And my plaster heart Heavy, Ready to be made Into something new With my hands full of skipping stones I no longer have the stomach read 'Cause I don't wanna leave her life Without being buried somewhere beneath. But I don't wanna dig too deep Before I figure out just how to breathe. So every time she leaves, I wear my teeth On her scent Ribs bent In the direction Of her return. For the first time In a long while I've got a fire in me. And this time, I'm gonna let it burn.
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Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 12:34 AM UTC
Fireball
She hates the city Say street lamps Are too cold For marshmallows, Too far apart For hammocks And a little too yellow For stars. She loves daisies Especially when they're alive And drinks sunshine Like it's a fireball Bottle at a bachelor party She Has got a body. Like a Lego fire walk That I can't help but Move across Slowly, On the parts of her Past that build us Omnicolored castles Of Kings and Queens And treasure chests Too small to hold anything Outside our own imagination And I, Her ready loyal Knight With nothing but A dull promise On the edge of my tongue Laying my rusty faith At her feet keep Moving Like my eyes Across a line Across a line Across a line That I never Want to stop Reading Her edges With my fingertips Like the map To my home And her lips The closest thing I've got to A key But she Is not the type That needs a night To see the stars And I Am not the type To write poems From fireflies That I never learned To let go 'Cause I know my life Has seen enough jars Of my amputated parts To know you don't have To be broken to be used To picking up the pieces. But baby break me. Like a firefighter With a family of four Who knows the risks. With your arms 'Round my fists The only chance I've got Of making it out alive. So baby hold me Like a papier mâché Tugboat from articles Of my past that I no longer Want to pull. And my plaster heart Heavy, Ready to be made Into something new With my hands full of skipping stones I no longer have the stomach read 'Cause I don't wanna leave her life Without being buried somewhere beneath. But I don't wanna dig too deep Before I figure out just how to breathe. So every time she leaves, I wear my teeth On her scent Ribs bent In the direction Of her return. For the first time In a long while I've got a fire in me. And this time, I'm gonna let it burn.
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99
Alarm ringing Pitter patter of little feet Orange juice, aroma of coffee, burnt toast and butter Pigtails, sundresses, baseball cap and shorts Children playing, water splashing Scraped knees and band-aids Smell of fresh cut grass and lavender Warm summer breeze Picnic lunches and napping in hammocks Mothers calling, children running Hot dogs and hamburgers Corn on the cob, watermelon In and out in a half hour Tag, kick the can, hide and seek Fire flies and mason jars   S'mores,  camp fires, scary stories Sunset, red sky at night. Bubble bath and baby powder     Onesies, quiet time Bedtime reading and nightly prayers Warm bed and sweet dreams
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Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 12:18 PM UTC
summer days
i am in an intelligent concrete room while familiar silhouettes switch direction in the balmy wind there is a dim stone portal spending a light so still and small and dissolving into the sunless wall under the scattered ruin of the sacred world its gaunt mind studies beneath hieroglyphs and into oblivion it is later in the night and i am riding on an unsettling crucifix doused in drugs and hammocks and the blind face of eternity is wearing a headdress filled with plumes of indecipherable intellect and she has transcended my ego with holy dreams
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Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 11:31 PM UTC
balmy wind
A black puppy chases His mestizo mother up the beach. A few adults sit sipping Corona Extra, In lazy hammocks. Down below, lithe legs Scramble for solid ground Along the supple, dark, surface, Chasing a mini black-and-white ball, Until it finds a home between Two pieces of driftwood. The pull of the sea is strong. You can almost feel it from The tables above the shoreline. The coast seems chancy, But beauty hides the beast, and The waves get their chance to throw The crimson-burned bodies Around for a time. Black sand covers all, as we lay, In a melted pool of jade, Of perfect temperature. A one-legged Civil War vet stands peering out At the ocean, perhaps wondering why The sky is gray. Two nuns wander into the horizon. The vet doesn’t move his focus from the sea, And the nuns keep to their path. Did I remember my camera?
0
Aug 31, 2011
Aug 31, 2011 at 1:56 AM UTC
A Gringo's Paradise
View from the Streetcar [[[Come with me to the pow-wow tonight: we will make toasts with neon shots of jello in the Medicine Wheel circle. we will speak in tongues & 0’s & 1’s. the mixed hues of our skins, the mixed geometries of our bodies, the mixed dilations of our pupils come together & nod in council that we should take more time caring for our horses for they will never let us down.]]] On my way to the gaudy theme park, alone in the streetcar I remembered how I left my mother without reason, the aftertaste of emptiness that comes when leaving on impulse with instant regret lingered inside me; my ego was miles ahead. Yet I remember looking through the window, looking into a forest where bright hammocks hung on trees abundantly-- canopies filled with hard-covered books. No people in sight, the books reined the woods, hanging still like sloths waiting to be pried into. I remember thinking that was enough to bring flavor back to my throat.
0
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
View from the Streetcar
"Opportunity," this American Dream life we so believe in, The limo stops at the hotel, the rich people get in, A set of old jars full of coins, a leaf blower, men with picks, A brush put through ones hair, make up, vitamins, drugs, The people sit in a park, the time passes, the clock ticks. Stock market books sitting on the shelf, a church ***** playing, A magnet stuck to the fridge, pictures with people smiling, A war machine, the newspaper, a set of playing cards and a Distant smile. A set of hedge clippers, a ferry crossing, Solitaire. A man on the curb with torn clothes and nothing at all A set of file cabinets, clocks, the sent of a bank, Golf clubs, a set of business magazines, a Barbie Doll, Swaying hammocks, and one guy in the background Who is losing it because he can't ever "take a fall."
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Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 5:17 AM UTC
Blank Pages
morning my grandfather wheels with one hand his chair and with the other dips a net into the many tops of a pool. he taps the rim of the net on the walk to better appraise the wet calf legwork of a grasshopper. he lets the net touch bottom then releases it wholly to its listening. he will avoid feeling like the net and instead allow his hands their errancy to the tugged down caps of invisible boys. a healthier man, a more nervous man, would smoke. he rolls his sleeves and can better see dropped pipes, freed hammocks. an ant in the low, upturned hill of his elbow makes for his palm and is quickly there and lost. not today, but others, he has heard children skin their knees at which point houses appear for them to enter. from the chair he lifts his forgotten buttocks and they hold for only a moment their dream of sitting. he circles then the cement sides of the pool and then it’s dark. so dark that when he is visited by two bright shoes he believes they are alone and so ties them underwater.
0
Jul 12, 2012
Jul 12, 2012 at 11:57 AM UTC
korea
sleeping pill on sleeper trains overnight to andaman adventures or on bus rides to and fro to mountain heavens naps in car rides to taxi number of 411 and 611 awake for the sunrise only to sleep through the day , lazy beach walks spent weeks in hammocks that bleed family tree spreading down the roots have been found peace to the world is peace in the now peace is won , my friend the doldrums do end the pacific shores rise east and west surface marvel a glass marble containing clouds swirls and tropical flowers balloons float skywards no choice but to let them float , and flow with the change of pace , the change of place , forge on ahead forging the sword in the fire flames cut the hair change the name invent a new game play old games if you dare they have are old and friendly , they wise to know the place that is truly home , can't choose your family but then they are just old friends pressure breaks eventually patience patience patience
0
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 12:40 PM UTC
EarthBound
can we go swimming in Argentina already, and fill our hair with knots and ocean salt? can we walk swaying like the tide, along the damp, moon-lit breast of the beach and fill the empty bottles in our clenched fingers with lavender and red ocher, a pallet of dawn reflecting off glass? can we drink coconut water in beer bottles, and drape ourselves in hanging hammocks under a wide eyed sky? i only want to listen to the distant roar of water attacking sand, like soft, silk whispers in a salt canopied bed, crickets chirping through the night time warmth, and tropical, sleeping breath slowly unleashed.
0
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 6:42 PM UTC
aching
Plasmatic schematics mold plastics & filament dangles in the doorway. Grape fuit sweat, enough to fill a Basilisk flask, stains my nostrils. Thermodynamic hammocks solved the energy crisis between me & her. A golden silhouette postulates in my doorway; speaking in tongues to her **** She is the structure of water. The process of a thought. Gouge out my eye & hold it consciously between those clammy palms .
0
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 11:37 PM UTC
VHS
Holding out hope Like a hand reaching through time Holding space Providing the arrows that pierce my heart Thinking of you Longing for you Vacillating Unable to ever truly close the door on our connection I guess I did it to myself Giving love to someone who never deserved me Trusting what I felt instead of what I saw Allowing you to occupy the space without ever filling it Choosing to respect what felt stronger than anything I’ve ever known I guess I did it to myself Fooling Blinding Reaching You left the room Without so much as an "I’m grateful that you’re here" Without so much as an "I love you too" Without so much as a thread of hope I guess I did it to myself Provided the bow and quiver Placed it steadfastly and aimed it straight for the heart I guess I did it to myself, opened myself up for disappointment You left the conversation without so much as a "Seeing you sent my heart soaring and my mind racing" All of the timelines between us collapsed and there we were face to face She standing in her truth and he still stuck in a lie Fearful that if his heart ever stood for itself, the facade would crumble and shatter at his feet And he would find himself naked with only one truth they know: love I guess I did it to myself, allowing love to pass through me for you Living in parallel universes with you Because you asked me to I guess I did it to myself, showing up in the now and wanting you to hold me the way I hold you I’m exhausted Saddened by you and for what could be I kick boulders not rocks Boulders Boulders Boulders Boulders into pebbles until I find peace with you and skip trace them across the frequencies until they lay at your feet, constant reminders of the path you choose between us Pebbles of love, sun, wine, hammocks, song, black and white, solitude together, heartbreak, silence, grey check marks, music, promises unkept, Irish goodbyes and outright lies I will find peace with you in the love of another man’s arms until there is no peace because he is not you Why did we ever have to meet? What wrong thing in my existence did I ever do to deserve you? I guess I did it to myself, believing in you, in love, in siempre Pierced with the fiercest of arrows I kick boulders not rocks Boulders Boulders Boulders Boulders into pebbles until I find peace with you and skip trace them across the frequencies until they lay at your feet, constant reminders of the path you choose between us I’m sick of seeing the green guy, something needs to change. Show me love.
0
Oct 30, 2023
Oct 30, 2023 at 9:43 AM UTC
I guess I did it to myself
Holding out hope Like a hand reaching through time Holding space Providing the arrows that pierce my heart Thinking of you Longing for you Vacillating Unable to ever truly close the door on our connection I guess I did it to myself Giving love to someone who never deserved me Trusting what I felt instead of what I saw Allowing you to occupy the space without ever filling it Choosing to respect what felt stronger than anything I’ve ever known I guess I did it to myself Fooling Blinding Reaching You left the room Without so much as an "I’m grateful that you’re here" Without so much as an "I love you too" Without so much as a thread of hope I guess I did it to myself Provided the bow and quiver Placed it steadfastly and aimed it straight for the heart I guess I did it to myself, opened myself up for disappointment You left the conversation without so much as a "Seeing you sent my heart soaring and my mind racing" All of the timelines between us collapsed and there we were face to face She standing in her truth and he still stuck in a lie Fearful that if his heart ever stood for itself, the facade would crumble and shatter at his feet And he would find himself naked with only one truth they know: love I guess I did it to myself, allowing love to pass through me for you Living in parallel universes with you Because you asked me to I guess I did it to myself, showing up in the now and wanting you to hold me the way I hold you I’m exhausted Saddened by you and for what could be I kick boulders not rocks Boulders Boulders Boulders Boulders into pebbles until I find peace with you and skip trace them across the frequencies until they lay at your feet, constant reminders of the path you choose between us Pebbles of love, sun, wine, hammocks, song, black and white, solitude together, heartbreak, silence, grey check marks, music, promises unkept, Irish goodbyes and outright lies I will find peace with you in the love of another man’s arms until there is no peace because he is not you Why did we ever have to meet? What wrong thing in my existence did I ever do to deserve you? I guess I did it to myself, believing in you, in love, in siempre Pierced with the fiercest of arrows I kick boulders not rocks Boulders Boulders Boulders Boulders into pebbles until I find peace with you and skip trace them across the frequencies until they lay at your feet, constant reminders of the path you choose between us I’m sick of seeing the green guy, something needs to change. Show me love.
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53
he is shimmering, and genial, and made from lego bricks wraps my fog into empty nothingness gives me his hand when i fall all in dust and memories he's my kiss of undeath darkness falls apart had a hope to sink in the sea of gently swinging hammocks his seasons confuse me, sitting cross legged inside of a dragon that falls asleep in shallow oceans for so long until people forget and believe its an island, and build tiny houses and towns along his dragon scaled shores
0
Apr 28, 2012
Apr 28, 2012 at 6:25 PM UTC
they say this feeling never ends
Aging The lazy orange hammock ******* Drink down my thought into your skin, of lazy orange hammock swinging. lie down easy and look at the sky , the sun burning away the clouds which turn whispy and start thinning. orange hammocks between great fragrant green pine trees as the autumn winds come in. lazy orange hammock swinging as my mind centres on time travelling, all we are doing is lazy orange hammock swinging as the autumn winds come in. all we are doing is lazy orange hammock swinging as the autumn winds come in.
0
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 6:58 AM UTC
Aging
It's a quiet sacred place, deep in the oak hammocks, way beyond the pine flatlands & cabbage palms. There I commune with the crows and the crickets. And at night, a bullfrog symphony plays. The mosquitoes, ***** and armadillos come out to play. It remains sacred, but is not nearly as quiet.
0
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 5:07 AM UTC
Oak Grove Is Sacred