"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
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 11:17 PM UTC
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
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC
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
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 4:23 PM UTC
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
Jan 20, 2012
Jan 20, 2012 at 12:25 AM UTC
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.
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
"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.
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 7:39 AM UTC
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.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 9:26 AM UTC
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.
Sep 12, 2010
Sep 12, 2010 at 5:41 PM UTC
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.
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 3:50 PM UTC
~
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
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 8:38 AM UTC
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.
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 12:34 AM UTC
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
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 12:18 PM UTC
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
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 11:31 PM UTC
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?
Aug 31, 2011
Aug 31, 2011 at 1:56 AM UTC
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.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
"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."
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 5:17 AM UTC
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.
Jul 12, 2012
Jul 12, 2012 at 11:57 AM UTC
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
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 12:40 PM UTC
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.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 6:42 PM UTC
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 .
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 11:37 PM UTC
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.
Oct 30, 2023
Oct 30, 2023 at 9:43 AM UTC
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
Apr 28, 2012
Apr 28, 2012 at 6:25 PM UTC
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.
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 6:58 AM UTC
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.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 5:07 AM UTC