"hoppers" poems
The artichoke
of delicate heart
*****
in its battle-dress, builds
its minimal cupola;
keeps
stark
in its scallop of
scales.
Around it,
demoniac vegetables
bristle their thicknesses,
devise
tendrils and belfries,
the bulb's agitations;
while under the subsoil
the carrot
sleeps sound in its
rusty mustaches.
Runner and filaments
bleach in the vineyards,
whereon rise the vines.
The sedulous cabbage
arranges its petticoats;
oregano
sweetens a world;
and the artichoke
dulcetly there in a gardenplot,
armed for a skirmish,
goes proud
in its pomegranate
burnishes.
Till, on a day,
each by the other,
the artichoke moves
to its dream
of a market place
in the big willow
hoppers:
a battle formation.
Most warlike
of defilades-
with men
in the market stalls,
white shirts
in the soup-greens,
artichoke field marshals,
close-order conclaves,
commands, detonations,
and voices,
a crashing of crate staves.
And
Maria
come
down
with her hamper
to
make trial
of an artichoke:
she reflects, she examines,
she candles them up to the light like an egg,
never flinching;
she bargains,
she tumbles her prize
in a market bag
among shoes and a
cabbage head,
a bottle
of vinegar; is back
in her kitchen.
The artichoke drowns in a ***
So you have it:
a vegetable, armed,
a profession
(call it an artichoke)
whose end
is millennial.
We taste of that
sweetness,
dismembering scale after scale.
We eat of a halcyon paste:
it is green at the artichoke heart.
16.7k
Deep in a magic forest, with big old magic trees
And all the magic creatures that live inside of these
There is a magic island, upon a magic lake
And on the island stands a stool, the like no man could make
And on the stool from dawn to dusk, resides a little man
Who spends his days in deeper thought, than any mortal can…
How does he think so many thoughts, well you must realize,
That though the man is small, his head is twice the normal size.
And as for food, well first of all he quite likes eating bugs
Beetles spiders, grass hoppers, slimy snails and salty slugs!
Inside his beard he keeps a hive, so honey he can eat,
And sips the dew from roses, which he grows atop his feet…
And when the night time brings the cold, the old man doesn't care
He simply covers up, with all his long and tangled hair!
Regardless of his oddities, the man is still renowned,
For being quite the wisest man, who never can be found.
Jul 19, 2017
Jul 19, 2017 at 12:43 PM UTC
I saw a gigantic tree.
Uprooted and on its side.
The great roots forming a mane for the snarling ringed face on the stump.
But the fallen beast is taken, it’s husk a Home.
A vibrancy of weevils, ladybugs, frog hoppers, Cockchaffers that’s skittering, scattered like a smashed ant farm.
Around its base were prehistoric ferns,
Curled and scaled like sand lizards’ tales.
Reminiscing the demise of the tyrannosaur.
When dust clouds darkened the sun which warmed their claws.
The skittering skinks, slow worms and other small lizards, who need far less to survive, then feasted upon the monsters’ flesh and found a home in its bone structured palace.
As whale sinks,
Distorted into a globster of its former self,
It hits the sea bed hard in oil-Black darkness.
The hagfish burrow, starved for millennia.
Brutally tearing at the befallen banquet.
Mouths used to scraps choking on steak.
Getting their guts knitted as they squirm over each other to grasp some sashimi.
Dripping saliva as if we’re sweat in the ruckus.
Yeti crab pinch, as do isopods
But get only mucus insulting their jaws.
And they thought they helped to cut up the portions.
Soon all that is left is a skeleton.
Hanging in a museum for future generations to see.
Once again, dust gathers, from bombed out sand.
Erupting in the air as giants hit the ground.
We may soon again see darkness fall.
As the rayiys is skinned.
But no tears are shed.
We all cheer none the less.
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 6:07 AM UTC
I HATE THE IDEA OF SUFFERING, BUT WITH ME THE WAY
I AM, I MUST SUFFER, BUT I SUFFER THOUGH BEING TREATED LIKE A LITTLE YOUNG DUDE
CAUSE I WORRY ABOUT GETTING TREATED LIKE THE ONLY ONE IN MY FAMILY
THAT WILL GET THREATENED AND KILLED, YOU SEE I BECAME A BUDDHIST
BECAUSE I WANT TO BE SAVED IN MY BELIEFS, EVEN THOUGH ALL RELIGIONS
ARE TRYING TO KEEP THE PEACE, YOU SEE I LIKE BUDDHISM, CAUSE, I CAN EXPLAIN
MY PREVIOUS LIVES, LIKE GREAME THORNE AND PATRICK DUNBAR, 2 8 YEAR OLD BOYS
THAT WERE KILLED, BUT I AM STILL SUFFERING BY THE CROWD UP IN THE HEAVENS
GETTING GHOSTS OF ED GEIN AND STEVEN BRADLEY AND TED BUNDY, COMES OUT
AND FORCES ME TO THROW MYSELF IN GARGAGE HOPPERS AND TIE MYSELF UP WITH
VINNIES ROPE IN MITCHELL, SAYING KIDNAP ME TO AN ADULT, YA SEE, I AM A MAN
WHO FOLLOWS THE PATH OF BUDDHISM, WHERE, I AM WILLING TO UNDERSTAND OTHER PEOPLE’S
VIEWS, I AM SUFFERING THROUGH PATRICKS COOL KID, BECAUSE I COMMITTED A CRIME
BACK IN 1990, HE CAN’T SEEM TO EXCEPT, TO LEAVE ME IN, WE ARE NOT AT SCHOOL ANYMORE
AND I DON’T DO WHAT I USED TO DO, I LIKE LEARNING HOW TO BE AT PEACE
UMMMMMMMM BRING ME PEACE
UMMMMMMMM FIND ME INNER HAPPINESS
UMMMMMMMM TAKE MY MATES OUT OF MY HEAD
UMMMMMMM ESPECIALLY WHEN THEY SAY, MY BROTHER’S NOT AROUND ANYMORE
UMMMMMMMM I WANT TO LIVE IN ADELAIDE SOME DAY
UMMMMMMMM CAUSE IT’S A VERY FESTIVE CITY FOR ME
UM,MMMMMMM TAKE DAD OUT OF MY HEAD, I AM NOT LIKE A YOUNG DUDE TO A ****
UMMMMMMMMM LET ME BE REFORMED
UMMMMMMMMM BRING ME PEACE, UMMMMMMM BRING ME PEACE UMMMMMMMMM BRING ME PEACE
I DON’T WANT TO TRY AND BE THE ONLY ADULT OUT OF MY OLD MATES
I DON’T WANT THAT VOICE WHEN ALL MY PREVIOUS LIVES MY FAMILY PATRICK AND DANIEL AND THE KIDS OF THE PAST
ARE FLYING AROUND MY HEAD
I HATE PEOPLE TEASING ME IN MY HEAD, UMMMMMMMMM I WANT TO BE A PEACEFUL BUDDHIST MAN
I AM NO LONGER A KID OR A LADY, AND I AM NO LONGER A MAN TO A FIGHT
I DON’T WANT TO BE A LITTLE YEAH MATE YEAH KID, UNLESS IT’S SHOWING OFF MY STORIES AND ****
I AM A BUDDHIST, ARTIST WRITER YOUTUBE ENTERTAINER AND COOL PERSON COMING TO THE MALL WITH HIS COKE
UMMMMMMMMMM BRING ME PEACE UMMMMMMMM BRING ME PEACE UMMMMMMMM BRING ME PEACE
ONLY YEAH MATE YEAH KIDS OR NERDS CONCENTRATE ON BUDDHISM , I KNOW I AIN’T A NERD
I BELIEVE BUDDHISTS MEND EVERY BLADE OF GRASS AND LIKE ME THEY BELIEVE IN REINCARNATION
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 4:57 AM UTC
*I reached safely where you sent us
It's a lovely place for any traveller
Problem is the people who came along
Those you said should be my brothers
They're bad & insert tubes in the heart
To **** out every little bit of our blood
We'd be brothers if only we connected
God you believe we're Hoppers and locusts
We should be but some became crows
These people have hearts of scorpions
And ache to fight and spread their poisons
Their loathing is deep and their hearts hard
They laugh by face and frown inside
There's one with joy filled to the brim
Simply because my pockets are empty
His heart finds peace when we're troubled
And end up clamoring for their assistance
They set traps everywhere, up and down
They rip us and are hungry,yearning to bite
It excites when you're helpless and despair
It's comic to them watching your struggles
They never remember when you helped
They celebrate when they see you dying
They already have me painfully manacled
My pains are flooding their hearts with bliss
These guys have hearts of scorpions
Which ache to bite and spread poisons
Their loathing is deep, hearts hard
They only laugh with their teeth
Yet they are frowning deep inside
They are worms inside the gullet
Slowly ******* and ******* pretty hard
Forgetting if their host dies they also die
Those are the people we live with
They have machetes in their cloaks
Hidden,so we think they're carrying babies
And get our ignorant necks real close
They are out here ready to betray us
That friend of yours you truly love
One you're breaking a piece of bread for
Is responsible for rumors that all you eat
Is stolen, and the one craving your defeat
These guys have hearts of scorpions
(I'm scared)
And ache to bite and spread poisons
Their loathing is deep, hearts are hard
They just laugh with their teeth
But they are frowning inside*
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 9:17 AM UTC
Petrified are the hoppers who fed on all the corn that died
Terrified are the squirrels whose nuts were taken for harvest
Angry are the birds that never seems to stubble upon a worm
Hungry is the cannibal who tore my flesh and drank from my blood stream
The hoppers will cut the dry hay pasture
Squirrels will dig into poultry houses
Birds will fly to were lichen surfaces rocks
But this cannibal will hunger to death 'cause I will return,
dust to dust, ashes to ashes.
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 4:16 AM UTC
Fowl floating and flapping across an ocean canopy.
Lightly squawking and ascending in a calm summer sky.
Waves shine and melt into the beachfront in a dull roar slowly thundering in diagonal collapsing sectors.
The top of the ocean. The point of a sphere. Its water that falls slowly to the bottom of..... Here!
Ripples and puddles and drinks full of life, the clearest the murky and bluest in light.
Mountains and palisades can be rocks that reach skyward. God on a gravel road walking through.
The golden purple cattails glow in the sunlight like strawberry fields that fizzle on my hands in the wind that can dance. The vinyl green stem leafs sit stagnantly silently awaiting the moon.
Hoppers crescendo in a frozen moment singing in stillness that refuses to relent.
The trees around them bask in the energetic massage from the moving sections of recently called air vapors.
The Hi- C haircuts that nature reminds me it inspired bobble from the vectors.
This climate ecology scenery breeds the moments religions were made for me.
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 8:33 PM UTC
When sleep eludes me at night
And my mind floats aimless
Like a sail boat idle on the sea
When on my bed I lie staring vacant
At the pale moon that gleams,
A medley of sounds falls in my ears
I hear the chirp of cicadas, the screech of bats
The hooting of owls, the flutter of moths
The staccato notes of the crickets
And the shrill sonorous music of grass hoppers
Among these and the silent music of the stars
The one sound that delights me most
Is the sound of the whistling Thrush
Her loud song cuts through the air
And mingles with the soft hush of leaves
Hidden in the blanket of darkness
I am not privileged to see this beryl bird
To me, a Goddess of enchantment n’ magic
Sometimes like a sweet secret
She emerges from the depth of a ravine
Sometimes she hides in the leafy coverage
Of a nearby poplar tree
Always she starts with a hesitant whistle
As though rehearsing her own art
However gaining confidence
And happy over her trial attempt
She soon bursts forth into 'full throated' song
Creating such sweet vibes of warm feeling
And producing in me an instant healing
Nay, she sets my soul on fire
And swallows me whole
Creating in me an eternal longing
To hear her pour out that celestial melody
Sitting in some far fringe of Heaven
To make me lose myself within myself
And slosh my soul in mad ecstasy!
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 7:17 AM UTC
There were grass-hoppers once, in these fields of green.
Leaf-hoppers too and a myriad other tiny wing'ed ones.
Now bees fidget fretfully along the hedgerows.
Lady-bugs, now only the twelve-spot greenhouse slaves.
Monsanto's beetles badgering them as they fiddle.
These ditches that once housed frogs and musk-rat, ferocious diving beetles,
The sky absent the wheeling martins, the boisterous larks.
Gone the pests, I rue the dearth,
bring me back my mud, my earth.
Never was I annoyed by them, always an ally that buggy thing,
Who yet knows how the June bugs sing?
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 8:34 PM UTC
We grow in a ragged garden
whose caretaker no longer cares
for himself except to prune back
only the most strangling branches
of his mind's miseries.
Effectively, we are left to
our own wild ways.
In all directions,
time's vine sprawls unnoticeably
slow in its natural haste
to overtake every creature.
We are the berries
strewn along this vine.
Our thin skins stretched and aching
around poisonous pools of bitter juices,
desperate for a touch,
a cause to burst,
a moment in which our existence is fulfilled.
To die in defense of the vine
is why we are here.
Most of us will never do but rot;
stuck to a stem that roots us in
idle uselessness.
It is my brightest & deepest, berry blue hope
not to rot here with the lot of you.
So, with great want I watch the passing birds
fly in the sky and seethe in need for the
little hoppers who come so near
just to tilt their tiny heads
and maddeningly flutter off.
There must be one who makes the mistake
of choosing me.
One who plucks me right off with its beak
and bolts to dine in some high, safe place.
It will die for its hunger,
and so too will I for satisfying it.
But, for a moment between boredom's end
and attaining purpose,
I'll see the garden from a different view;
a bird's eye.
I'll see the entire vine for what it is,
and hopefully; finally, know why
it's worth protecting at all.
BURST
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 1:46 AM UTC
The cordoned enclosure saw room for exposure, for left was a gap in the gate
Climb too, or come through because you are just you, others will just have to wait
”Pass right along” they pulled from the throng, you’ve made it to pass, what’s wrong?
What’s wrong?"
Statistically I’m missing from the list if it’s your interest, I’m fit to pencil in a premonition’s false opinion
Prequisites parameters convincing your decision, it’s easy to chew if you pursue, (yes I do, yes I do).
Does it matter if the gap between the passage and the trap was rapidly adapting to the path of least resistance?
(Knock it down)
The fence was built for me, you can see, you can see, and I slipped through where the crow
bar cut the seam at your insistence.
(Knock it down)
Now you can pass for normal if we’re looking through my eyes, but for the sake of records,
please mark all that applies:
Are you now or at any time have ever been hispanic, how much cans of beer were drunk
this week, now tell me did you plan it?
Are you a woman, are you gay? Are you black, or something else, how much money do you
make and did you make it by yourself?
(Knock it down)
List the creed that most reflects your personal beliefs, condense it for the register, it’s such
a big relief to know
That we can track the chart, we can craft the slope
We can tell you just by looking if for you there’s any hope
but X asks Y if it’s a study for the pundits
then tell me how we’re told to build if no one plans to fund it
Climb the fence it’s common sense, the barbs are not for you
Go on boy you’ve made it, climb on through, climb on through.
No need to be perturbed as fence hoppers were before us
Well the fence was meant for us, you no longer can ignore us.
Knock it down
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 5:49 PM UTC
Freedom was,
that field of grass, tall and verdant,
undulating rapturously,
hand in hand-
with wind's sinuous dance.
The grass hopper ruled it all,
his mind, knew limits, not once, in his life,
he was a wild horse, in the jungle of grass,
**but a great regret he had,
gnawing his heart,
like malicious cancer cells
that would eat away all his grace,
he tried and tried
but never could whistle,
not even a haunting note,
like a nightingale.**
His consort would
try to soothe him, with words
"How you make me swoon,
with your soulful croon!"
his eyes would turn bloodshot,
she would then back off,
feeling left out, not able to share pain.
*" Grass hoppers
are left with no hopes-
they are a cheated lot,
left to rot"*
he audaciously believed,
his face remained always, cadaverously grim.
A boy and a girl, who ran away together,
reached there, to escape the torturous world
tasting freedom for the first time,
stood watching the grass hopper-
with admiring eyes,
and hope brimming in their hearts,
they were so charmed by
the green freedom he seemed to enjoy!
Here, the wind swept grasslands,
looking up to the heavens,
were a world apart,
even the muck didn't look crude!
**"Look at that grasshopper,
bless him, how carefree, he is
I wish I could be like him"
She wistfully said.**
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 11:00 AM UTC
fall hoppers kick to grass
as I walk down
sun-bleach lane
the anhedonia I felt yesterday
is pelted by the wind
away
away
to the breeze beyond
trash-bin creek
I walk past
a meddled roadside lover
kissing her own bloodied hand
must have been
bitten by the white-thing
panting at her feet
the image comes
and passes
with the balanced
autumn sunshine
I touch the twist of barbed wire
that guards a
re-habitated pond
a drop of blood
wells and surfaces
a moon-blazed penny
the dulled copper sting
of flesh and money
merges in the glory
of shortened days
all is accorded to the fleeting
nature of my heartbeat
that which comes and passes
Oct 1, 2017
Oct 1, 2017 at 1:03 PM UTC
I long for the smell of fresh turned soil , an experience I've never forgotten ..
The smell of diesel , oil and grease ..The ringing of harrow and bush hog ...
My Liberty overalls and size ten clod hoppers , suede cowboy hat , pocket watch and Bloodhound tobacco ..
Bob White Quail walking the wood line waiting to
get their fill of turned ground morsels , grains and grasshoppers ..
Curious Whitetailed Deer hiding in the shadows , Redtailed Hawks
with a keen eye for field rats escaping the plow ..
A sixty two Massey Harris that ran like a' Top ' through rain
and heat , never missing a beat !
My mind prays for the simple life of man and machine , the brushfires
of March , the restoration of God's green earth ..
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 2:09 PM UTC
"I am going to punch you in the face" he said
burn
wistling sounds
wiped
wiped again
It's not a falicy
It's reality
you walk, you talk, you die
wonka? He was a sadistic ****
I'd drink his **** if I had it in me
Everlasting gob stoppers. Clod hoppers
Fizzy lifting drinks to poo stink
swallow blood fest
**** out the rest
Sarpinos torpedos
squeeze my labedo chester chito
flaming hot meat he don't eat
so discreat. Now wipe your water on my leg.
is it really midnight.
YEAHHHHH
goodbye
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 1:10 AM UTC
The first rays of the sun were peeking over the green tree tops. The sky masked in shades of rich oranges and amber as they fought back the depths of the dark lonely night sky. Deep shades of reds and pinks collided with colors of the coldest blues and blacks, leaving a beautiful display of purples and violets bursting through the heavens above.
The lingering stars twinkled dimly and were fading fast with the sun rising brighter in the colorful sky.
It had been one of those warm clear peaceful summer nights with the stars and moon full and round, shimmering beautifully high above.
You could still hear the grass hoppers chirping their sorrowful tune as the night faded into twilight with the morning fog hugging everything it could reach.
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 11:41 PM UTC
Grass hoppers
Yummy pepper
Great rocker
Good cricketer
Perfect marker
Cool fisher
This is what I do !
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 8:55 AM UTC
Plastic pistols, cowboy hats
action men, palitoy combat
Hotspur, Tiger and Hurricane
leather footballs, broken panes
Matchbox, Corgi, Airfix, Meccano
Stickle Bricks, and (only) red and white Lego
Triang scooters, Raleigh Choppers
Dunlop plimsolls, orange space-hoppers
Down the park’s obstacle course
Witches Hat, iron rocking horse
Bumps and scrapes, grazes and cuts
rub it all better, just-get-back-up
Home before dark, in time for tea
Billy and Ian, my sisters and me
Dec 13, 2021
Dec 13, 2021 at 2:26 PM UTC
The Blue Nile is a Local Club
It Hosts the Poets Groove,
A Late Night spoken Poet event
That is the culture of the Smooth.
Desdamona The queen of the Poetry Scene
Hosted a Cool MC there for Years
Poets, Hip Hoppers and Rappers
All Gathered here bringing there words
Hip hop, Rappers, and Poets Hang
For that Late Night Poets Reading
The House band lays down your Music
Background as you perform the Speaking
The band can do from Jazz to Rap
They latch on to the feel and beat
Your doing your Reading replete
With the musical blendings complete
On the Stage with your Words
For an audience that heard
It gives you an incredible feeling
the Applause makes it all worth Dealing
I've seen Street Rappers Lay it down
Hip Hoppers with Singer Backgrounds
Girls with Love Poems, Feeling Alone
For a Poet its the best show around
All the Work here is licensed under the Name
®SilverSilkenTongue and the © Property of J.Flack
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 11:30 PM UTC
**A stir in the air,
parakeet helicopters,
silence reigns again.**
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 11:05 PM UTC
Buenos días American virtuoso doyen's.
Buenos días English poet's between and around london.
Buenos días African designer's of the untamed poesía,
Buenos días Asian wordsmith's all over new and old Asia.
Buenos días Spaniard men and women of spicy descent
Buenos días to the rich, young, old, poor, to those who don't make rent.
Buenos días to the Arab's in dusty sand's, also those not Arab, just middle-easterners with a pen.
Buenos días to people's not discovered, lost-clans unknown to men, though with their pencil markings on walls- we will discover.
Buenos días to you who are in agony, may that agony leave.
Buenos días to those who smile, continue to be happy.
Buenos días to the hip hoppers and rappees. Freestyle for me.
Buenos días to the country music makers, play the acoustic please. Buenos días to the rock stars, drum a verse and sonnet,
Buenos días to the jazzy's play a saxophone so **** I can't forget.
Buenos días to the bluesies, drop a baseline of the fifties.
Buenos días to the poets in big, large, tall, small, or no cities.
Buenos días to those country, with that southern honey charm.
Buenos días to the east coast, York-jersey-maine-all around, where the city lights take away Your stars.
Buenos días to the Midwest, heart of the land-
Buenos días to the west coast, Washington, Oregon, Arizona, Nevada, Colorado, all of you, especially the cali-forn-i-ams.
Buenos días to all of you, and a Buenos días for the next day.
Buenos días for the world of poetry as a whole.
Buenos días I'll say.
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 9:04 AM UTC
When I think of soul food…
I don’t think of my great grandmother’s collard greens,
Or her delicious black eyed peas…
But instead of the black eyes that the slave masters gave the rebels…
Whose blood lines lead to me…
When I think of culture and song….
I do not think of our young black girls throwin’ it back in a circle…
Or black thirteen year olds contemplating whether or not they should wear that extra tight thong…
When I think of our women …
I remember the hard workers and the change makers…
Not the club hoppers and the rain makers….
I don’t know what you remember about our history…
But what I remember…?
I remember the long nights and the rainy days…
The colored only signs and the church hymns that were meant to break these chains…
As I recall..
All of our ancestors bleed their blood…
And shed their tears…
Took the wrongness…
And the noise that the cat of nine tails upon their back they did hear …
So that for us later generations...
The world would be a much better place…
So my question to you is why are we increasing the negative pace?!?!
One step forward and three steps back….
I don’t know about you…
But my grandfather told me we should be one as a pack…
Unbound from our chains…
UNIFIED AND BLACK!!!
I know you have more fight in you than that!!!
Come on and show the world what you’ve got…
Because the world doesn’t go round ’cause of underage youth’s highs on ***
Our men locked up in jail…
All because of the “suspicious” things they do
And the socially Darwinised stereotype that our race is going to fail…
I am here to influence my generation…
So how hard are we going to fight for our emancipation?!?!
Let’s stop the domino affect…
And start a new…
Because how far our race goes up or down…?
It’s all up to you….
Please review!!!
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 6:58 PM UTC
Where from here
Art thou heading to?
On errand?
I believe
Oh! Wait and hear;
I have a message for 'them'
Branch up there
Tell them for us
That 'they' have done us evil
Tell 'them' their conscience is failing
And we are fainting of waiting
Tell 'them'
They vowed and swore
Vowed to wipe our tears
Swore to stand in for us all through seasons
Not to make it flow the more
Ask 'them' why they idle up there
While our land is wasting away
With our throat dried out of thirst
And our stomach twists daily of hunger
Tell 'them'
They are the leaf hoppers
That eats up our green land
Let them know
We are angry because of hunger
And they are cursed by what they have caused us.
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 8:54 AM UTC
Post deluge, slick hoppers lay suspended, savoring fresh water
Jun 8, 2013
Jun 8, 2013 at 8:28 AM UTC