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Alissa Rogers Mar 2012
A glance from you is a seed of kudzu.
The madness spreads,
wrapping around each tree,
gripping it in a panic.

This is not healthy.
I use you like I would pop pills
to forget about things
I don't like about my existence.

Can you lose yourself
within yourself?

Sometimes,
when I sit alone,
I wish the forest of my life would burn.
I would light the match,
and I could once again
see the sky.
Cyril Blythe Aug 2012
Hot off the press as in I finished this piece about thirty minutes ago, any advice? I love and appreciate all of you beautiful people. -Cyril*

I yelped when the third blister popped and David shouted to me from a few branches above, “if the blood flows you have to make your mark here, Jacob.” Frustrated, I pull out my dulled Wal-Mart knife and notch Old Pine where my blood broke this time. I look around for my notch from last week and spy it a few feet below my right foot.
“You’re getting higher each week! I know you’ll make it to the top next time. I can just feel it, man,” David said. The hope in his voice always kills me.
I’m higher than before but still not high enough. I look up Old Pine and see the circle of deep notches where David stands, dyed red with generations of my family’s blood. I wrap my left arm around the base of Old Pine, skinnier at this height, and I close my eyes. The taste of iron and winter fills my mouth as I gingerly take the corner of the torn callus between my two front teeth and rip the rest of the dead skin clean off. I let the blood pool up until my palm is full and I smear the puddle into my moist notch in the tree. My ***** red blood mixes with the pine’s regal, green blood. I pull my hand away and see the two bloods combine. The smell of blood always makes me dizzy up this high, but I can’t show weakness in front of David. Not at Old Pine.
“I’ll see you at the bottom. I’m done for the day.” I say and before he can reply I leave. I begin the climb back to the ground, dodging empty crow nests and old scared over gashes in Old Pine’s skin, pushed along by cold fists of wind. The blood sneaks through the hole in my palm each time I push it into the spiteful bark along my descent and I try to ignore it.
I dangle from my one good hand on the bottom branch and fall to the dying grass below. My hungry toes feed on solid ground again. I sigh, grabbing a handful of the kudzu that grows on Old Pine’s base to put in my mouth, and I plop to the ground. The breeze here licks my sweaty neck in an apology for its merciless stepbrother who, sixty feet above, whipped and spit across my face. I hear a light thump and feel a breeze behind me and as I turn I see David gracefully landing on two feet.
“You were almost there this time. Just a few more climbs and I’m sure you’ll breech the top.” David’s determination is the only reason I come back with him to this god-forsaken tree. I do it for him, not myself.
I spit the chewed up Kudzu into my palm and mash it into the red holes to help them clot faster. Father taught me about Kudzu’s medicinal uses when we used to hunt together before the fall.
I look up into Old Pine’s green canopy above my head and feel the silence between the three of us. Old Pine is our father now and David thinks it’s his fault. Old Pine is the tallest tree on our farm and the only one infused with generations of our family’s blood. From the very top you can see all of our family land. It’s a view every man in the family has to see when he comes of age. Dad took David up when he was only fourteen. It was on their climb down that he fell. I was nine.
“It’s the view, Jacob. The view is like nothing else you’ll ever experience. Holding onto the rusty-red notch circle and looking out on our land, it’s almost spiritual, man.” I don’t look at him, but I know David is crying.
We looked up to the canvas of green and brown and David asks if I can hear Dad’s whispers, but I all I hear is the creak of old branches.
Wade Redfearn Sep 2018
The first settlers to the area called the Lumber River Drowning Creek. The river got its name for its dark, swift-moving waters. In 1809, the North Carolina state legislature changed the name of Drowning Creek to the Lumber River. The headwaters are still referred to as Drowning Creek.

Three p.m. on a Sunday.
Anxiously hungry, I stay dry, out of the pool’s cold water,
taking the light, dripping into my pages.
A city with a white face blank as a bust
peers over my shoulder.
Wildflowers on the roads. Planes circle from west,
come down steeply and out of sight.
A pinkness rises in my breast and arms:
wet as the drowned, my eyes sting with sweat.
Over the useless chimneys a bank of cloud piles up.
There is something terrible in the sky, but it keeps breaking.
Another is dead. Fentanyl. Sister of a friend, rarely seen.
A hand reaches everywhere to pass over eyes and mouths.
A glowing wound opens in heaven.
A mirror out of doors draws a gyre of oak seeds no one watches,
in the clear pool now sunless and black.

Bitter water freezes the muscles and I am far from shore.
I paddle in the shallows, near the wooden jail.
The water reflects a taut rope,
feet hanging in the breeze singing mercy
at the site of the last public hanging in the state.
A part-white fugitive with an extorted confession,
loved by the poor, dumb enough to get himself captured,
lonely on this side of authority: a world he has never lived in
foisting itself on the world he has -
only now, to steal his drunken life, then gone again.

1871 - Henderson Oxendine, one of the notorious gang of outlaws who for some time have infested Robeson County, N. C., committing ****** and robbery, and otherwise setting defiance to the laws, was hung at Lumberton, on Friday last in the presence of a large assemblage. His execution took place a very few days after his conviction, and his death occurred almost without a struggle.

Today, the town square collapses as if scorched
by the whiskey he drank that morning to still himself,
folds itself up like Amazing Grace is finished.
A plinth is laid
in the shadow of his feet, sticky with pine,
here where the water sickens with roots.
Where the canoe overturned. Where the broken oar floated and fell.
Where the snake lives, and teethes on bark,
waiting for another uncle.

Where the tobacco waves near drying barns rusted like horseshoes
and cotton studs the ground like the cropped hair of the buried.
Where schoolchildren take the afternoon
to trim the kudzu growing between the bodies of slaves.
Where appetite is met with flood and fat
and a clinic for the heart.
Where barges took chips of tar to port,
for money that no one ever saw.

Tar sticks the heel but isn’t courage.
Tar seals the hulls -
binds the planks -
builds the road.
Tar, fiery on the tongue, heavy as bad blood in the family -
dead to glue the dead together to secure the living.
Tar on the roofs, pouring heat.
Tar is a dark brown or black viscous liquid of hydrocarbons and free carbon,
obtained from a wide variety of organic materials
through destructive distillation.
Tar in the lungs will one day go as hard as a five-cent candy.

Liberty Food Mart
Cheapest Prices on Cigarettes
Parliament $22.50/carton
Marlboro $27.50/carton

The white-bibbed slaughterhouse Hmong hunch down the steps
of an old school bus with no air conditioner,
rush into the cool of the supermarket.
They pick clean the vegetables, flee with woven bags bulging.
What were they promised?
Air conditioning.
And what did they receive?
Chickenshit on the wind; a dead river they can't understand
with a name it gained from killing.

Truth:
A man was flung onto a fencepost and died in a front yard down the street.
A girl with a grudge in her eyes slipped a razorblade from her teeth and ended recess.
I once saw an Indian murdered for stealing a twelve-foot ladder.
The red line indicating heart disease grows higher and higher.
The red line indicating cardiovascular mortality grows higher and higher.
The red line indicating motor vehicle deaths grows higher and higher.
I burn with the desire to leave.

The stories make us full baskets of dark. No death troubles me.
Not the girl's blood, inert, tickled by opiates,
not the masked arson of the law;
not the smell of drywall as it rots,
or the door of the safe falling from its hinges,
or the chassis of cars, airborne over the rise by the planetarium,
three classmates plunging wide-eyed in the river’s icy arc –
absent from prom, still struggling to free themselves from their seatbelts -
the gunsmoke at the home invasion,
the tenement bisected by flood,
the cattle lowing, gelded
by agriculture students on a field trip.

The air contains skin and mud.
The galvanized barns, long empty, cough up
their dust of rotten feed, dry tobacco.
Men kneel in the tilled rows,
to pick up nails off the ground
still splashed with the blood of their makers.

You Never Sausage a Place
(You’re Always a ****** at Pedro’s!)
South of the Border – Fireworks, Motel & Rides
Exit 9: 10mi.

Drunkards in Dickies will tell you the roads are straight enough
that the drive home will not bend away from them.
Look in the woods to see by lamplight
two girls filling each other's mouths with smoke.
Hear a friendly command:
boys loosening a tire, stuck in the gut of a dog.
Turn on the radio between towns of two thousand
and hear the tiny voice of an AM preacher,
sharing the airwaves of country dark
with some chords plucked from a guitar.
Taste this water thick with tannin
and tell me that trees do not feel pain.
I would be a mausoleum for these thousands
if I only had the room.

I sealed myself against the flood.
Bodies knock against my eaves:
a clutch of cats drowned in a crawlspace,
an old woman bereft with a vase of pennies,
her dead son in her living room costumed as the black Jesus,
the ***** oil of a Chinese restaurant
dancing on top of black water.
A flow gauge spins its tin wheel
endlessly above the bloated dead,
and I will pretend not to be sick at dinner.

Misery now, a struggle ahead for Robeson County after flooding from Hurricane Matthew
LUMBERTON
After years of things leaving Robeson County – manufacturing plants, jobs, payrolls, people – something finally came in, and what was it but more misery?

I said a prayer to the city:
make me a figure in a figure,
solvent, owed and owing.
Take my jute sacks of wristbones,
my sheaves and sheaves of fealty,
the smell of the forest from my feet.
Weigh me only by my purse.
A slim woman with a college degree,
a rented room without the black wings
of palmetto roaches fleeing the damp:
I saw the calm white towers and subscribed.
No ingrate, I saved a space for the lost.
They filled it once, twice, and kept on,
eating greasy flesh straight from the bone,
craning their heads to ask a prayer for them instead.

Downtown later in the easy dark,
three college boys in foam cowboy hats shout in poor Spanish.
They press into the night and the night presses into them.
They will go home when they have to.
Under the bridge lit in violet,
a folding chair is draped in a ***** blanket.
A grubby pair of tennis shoes lay beneath, no feet inside.
Iced tea seeps from a chewed cup.
I pass a bar lit like Christmas.
A mute and pretty face full of indoor light
makes a promise I see through a window.
I pay obscene rents to find out if it is true,
in this nation tied together with gallows-rope,
thumbing its codex of virtues.
Considering this just recently got rejected and I'm free to publish it, and also considering that the town this poem describes is subject once again to a deluge whose damage promises to be worse than before, it seemed like a suitable time to post it. If you've enjoyed it, please think about making a small donation to the North Carolina Disaster Relief Fund at the URL below:
https://governor.nc.gov/donate-florence-recovery
Emily Jones Jun 2015
A simple peace exists
In all the lines between
And balanced upon the throne
You are, precariously strung up
Let go of the crumbling precipice
Breathe in the lucid flame
Strip the grey of your soul
Proceed to devour the filth
Enjoy the stonehenge of your years
Make another mark in the Earth
And bind the roots of life
To the dreary mists of days long past

Take first the heart of jaded lies
Then shatter the cracked backbone
Let loose the tides of weary men
And bring forth the unspoken champion
Refuse the offer of eternity
Trust the deception in reflection
For who am I when I am with you
And who am I when solitary
You wish to journey in fluorescent tunnels
To find many paths left untrimmed
Brush past the weeds and kudzu
That degrade the refusal of submission
Woody Jun 2019
Through a sparrow’s eyes
paradise must look a lot like
that overgrown lot of scrub
pine, leafy vines and what not
behind my fence that I view
as an eyesore just waiting
to be taken over by kudzu.
In the eyes of the beholder.
z Jan 2015
there was an interesting
night to roam; to be indoors, and
she knows she'll never be upright,
a nuisance;
i am actually a big difference
between what i have been
a great deal with.
so don't try to get me.
we're just imperfect
and you, a crippled horse.
and if i had the time to get a free
chance
it would not be worthit.
hogwash, like the vista cruiser
forgotten in the kudzu.
and in the brambles do you question?
what does it mean to matter?
if you're no better than what you envision?
cxbra Sep 2017
I still can't put into words how I feel about you
so I'm going to close my eyes and say the first five things that come to mind
One
Every single time I look at you I can feel the butterflies knocking at the door, dressed up as a pizza delivery guy, only to deliver more butterflies, such a shame that I am still unable to fly
Two
When you told me that I may never see you again my hands froze and it became harder and harder to continue my drive home
You probably thought nothing of it
We both live in the moment but I wanted this one to last forever
I just hope you don't forget me
Three
I told you that it feels like I fell from heaven and landed in your arms yet it all seems to feel the same
Maybe I wasn't meant to fly
Maybe, maybe I was meant to lose my wings
falling right into the place that I was so afraid to be
see, the last time i was here, love had made a fool of me and I haven't been myself since
but love, when I'm with you I'm more of myself than I've ever been
Four
It's been a long time since self confidence was in my vocabulary
I look into the mirror now and I see myself and smile
Knowing that I'm looking at the face that brings you just as much happiness and you bring me
Please believe me when I say I don't need love nor do I rely on someone else to make me happy
It's been a long time since self confidence was in my vocabulary
I look into the mirror now and see myself smile
Knowing that I'm looking at the face of the man who takes all of your stress away just as you do to me
maybe we were made for each other
Five
I wake up thinking about your voice and how it gives me chills even in the hottest of weather conditions
Five
I haven't had a bad dream since the day I met you
Five
Sometimes I think I like you more than you like me and that scares me because my love is like kudzu and I just don't want you to suffocate
Five
you make me feel like I can fly
Brandon Conway Sep 2018
Behind these eyes, insanity
a slow permeation of a voice
screaming truths and half truths

I just don’t want to listen
so I flood the head
just to drown the haunting

but it is ******* immortal
every night I send an eagle
to gnaw on the larynx

every morning it’s there to greet
disguised as a fictional friend
                  fiend. I meant fiend.

it’s kudzu it’s ******* kudzu
every day is a mid spring day
even in winters delicate palms

I spend the nights soaking in a bath
last night I let the water ******* tongue
soon it will feast on my lungs

I can go out like Plath
except my poems are bad
and my novel is only a paragraph

I will not
     let the inner
          demons win.
Auntie Hosebag Nov 2010
Stage Design/American Drama


Down front on America’s stage—
awash in a universe
of light arranged by
the ultimate technician.
Come closer.  Anticipate
spectacle.

First sun-splash
on these shores fashions
fool’s gold of surf that heaves against
foam-smoothed, lobster black,
slick rock beaches of northern Maine/
bubbles about black rubber boots of men in boats—
another day, another dime,
shivered away in ancient rime—
adrift in fog on the black
                                          glass
                                                   harbor
                                                               surface.

Grand Canyon sunrise
          EXPLODES
               copper and white/
                    orange and green/
                          blood red/
over many thousand pounds
of brash brown
        dirt—
in every direction/especially down.
       Soldierly shadows armed with swords
       of slivered sunlight hack through scrub
       like so much meat, to each day’s final
       battle at the canyon’s rim/
while a mile below the torment
called the Colorado
turns silver and gold,
black, blue, and
thundering
mud.

Louisiana bayous trickle chlorophyll caramel over twisted hickory sentinels, monumental elms and sycamores—even the alligators.  More mystery here than far-flung nebulae—and everything fighting back ***** green kudzu.

The Badlands of South Dakota, striped like the surface of a ***** peppermint planet—sizzling in the sun, bone cold in the shade—knobby tan canyons wrapped in ribbons of rust that dribble sounds one can neither recall nor reproduce.

Same phenomenon frames dawn over spongy folds of tall green cilia ocean called simply The Plains.
Kansas, Nebraska, horizons so far away thunderstorms creep along like dark, threatening slugs.
Distant night fireworks laden with punishing hail hide tornadoes and winged farmhouses in the horizontal gloom.  In the morning—those sounds again.  Critters?  Wind.  Ghosts, maybe.

Spectral mists of the Great Northwest cloak clear-cut sores on Nature’s sacred,
fragrant, deep green shores, falling steep to the creamy Pacific.
Light's a plaything here.  Big Sur
renders color to gem, sparkles
down the coast
to rusty Golden Gate and grimy LA,
where the sun goes down brown
and the rain shines
like gun metal.

Georgia soil—
homicidal redheaded cousin running loose, looking for trouble—
grows swampy hardwood groves/
leaves hung limp from humidity/
masking antebellum secrets/
offering sanctuary to voodoo practitioners and moonshiners alike.
Magic, danger, ******, and ghosts
of slaughtered slaves wander tight-packed old-growth forests.
Some say the soil is red from ancient conflict,
unanswered pleas for mercy drowned
in the drenching rains
of hurricanes
strayed north from the Gulf of Mexico.
Others claim tears of countless mothers will never leave
Civil War blood completely dry.

Northern New England foliage--
master maples drunk on fresh cider/
psychedelic finger-paint exhibitionists high on
the year’s last harvest,
intoxicated by Nature’s largess/
symphonies of scarlet, tangerine, lemon, even purple--
regal birds migrate over lakes so blue
you could chip your teeth on them,
and a diehard hemlock conducts its final green opus to a sea of primary colors.

Iowa is quiet and corn, obscuring whole towns and the lives held captive therein.  All the green on Earth is planted here; all the sun, all the sapphire sky feeding knee-high-by-July crops, bleaching spare white churches, white picket fences, white-on-white generations and all their vanilla dreams.

Linger beneath Montana’s cobalt crystal canopy to know why it’s called Big Sky.
Stark, Crazy Mountains chase stuttering clouds above treeless, tumbleweed towns,
bathed in the same blues as Wyoming, blown through a wild man’s horn.

A wink of sunlight
mirrored in unseen peaks
perhaps hundreds of miles away—
snow so white/Rocky Mountains so hard and gray—
behind a universe of wheat flatness beckoning the eye to infinity, slowly,
slowly, the Continental Divide rises
from the horizon like a monster parade balloon filling with gas on another continent.
The Flat Irons--majestic stone slabs lounging against Boulder's nearby foothills--
were cursed by ancient observers.
One peek at their precarious slopes compels you to return.
Been back three times and I’m still not sure I believe it.

Southwestern deserts’ blaze,
haze, and halo—spotlights hot,
focused on towering sandstone totems.
Deep gashes of flowering canyon, adrift in the flat and barren,
rage water, mud, and death during summer storms.
Scrub and sand, dust and desolation, land unfit for demons.
Get thee behind me, Arizona.

Endless, straight, lonely two-lanes
carve the lunar landscape of west Texas
into parcels of wasteland, miles marked by
bleached carcasses of ranch animals
and their predators, some hung
on fences as a warning
that people really do
live there.

Cities have their place,
                    their places,
                    their placement--
but my heart can’t pound to the beat of traffic
like it does to waterfall spray.

Turn your back to the fire in sufficient twilight and a mountain range sharpens into a line—
coyotes prowling, howling on the perimeter.
To spy on a wild animal lost in thought.
The sight--and sound--as swans alight or leave a hidden pond.
Northern lights and swamp gas,
everywhere the stench
of Earth.

This
is what matters—
all around us—
this alone.

Not politics,
not religion,
not countries.

Just this—
stage.
This is about the fifteenth iteration of this piece.  It keeps shifting from prose to poem and back again--or worse.  I lost control of it long ago.  Please help me rein this ***** in.  Workshop?
Sag Jan 13
I have a habit of overthinking
hard as I try I cannot stop the growth of a thought
once the seed has been planted

(I remember driving to the city once
we wanted to take my niece and his nephew to the aquarium
the kids asked about the blanket of vines and leaves that formed wall-like structures on both sides of the interstate
we told them about how it was an invasive species from Asia, and that it spread all across the south and engulfed whatever plants and trees that originally stood there
the whole hour ride they sat in the backseat,
shouting "kudzu!" every time they spotted it out the window)

kudzu
kudzu
kudzu
kudzu
kudzu
kudzu
Brandon Conway Jun 2018
The garden would not take root
Hardly a **** could flourish
No matter how much water absorbed
This muddy field left malnourished

Something was amiss in this mucky space
Ennui entwined climbing up the spine
Hippocampus left asphyxiated
The kudzu of the mind

Nothing but an entanglement of
Thought and emotion
Strangling the heart
In this confusing ocean
Derek Yohn Oct 2013
This is your reality, the brave new world;
i just hang out here:
birthed in the Cradle of Elam,
a mourning son of Baal,
smeared and anointed
with the oil from the
***** fingerprints of
countless scores of
sweaty neophytes;
carried, dropped, dented;
brought forth from eons passed,
updated for the 21st century,
gilded Krylon-gold.

This nebulous gift,
made tangible and
whole by blood,
a form fitting sacrifice,
transmogrified kudzu,
rootless, digging
talons' clutch into
our minds' construct,
seeks strength of
conviction, action.

Our ship is now
veering off course.
i must respond in kind.
i will not be led astray.
i will not have my good
intentions commandeered.
i will hijack your purpose,
screaming mutiny,
holding Occam's Razor-knife
to the throat of your jihads.

i issue a fatwa of peace,
as you once did,
before.

i renounce a kingdom of hate,
as you once did,
before.

i seek charity in effort,
as we once did,
before.

Let us rebuild.
Let us move forward.
***** a new Babel,
forsaking the sword.

Let our forks be on roads,
and not on our tongues;
a forging of union,
as we'd once begun:

My sisters, my brothers,
my family,
as one.
originally, i repeated "my family" in German, Russian, Chinese, Arabic, Afrikaans, Hindi, and Spanish (in that order, for no special reason) between the last two lines....[sorry, i found a super cool translator program online]....turns out i couldn't include it all here because of the character display restrictions....i could probably figure it out, but that seemed like pretentious overkill, and i am too lazy for all that....
I can hear him,
Hear him long 'fore I sees him.
Can hear him stompin
Stompin 'cross the ceilin
Of the earth like he mad at the world.
Mad at us for just bein.
Rain Man stomp so hard
he send the wind runnin
runnin hard runnin mad
kickin up dust an' pickin up leaves
Screamin at the top of her lungs
Pull down ya garments
and shut up yo hatches.
Call in yo chillun's 'cause
Lawd I declare
The Rain Man comin'
 
I can see him now
sees him off in the distance.
Talltoweringhulk of man.
Skin real dark.
But not that ******-baby
kinda dark what look
like somethin dead been
drug through the mudndipped in tar
with fat uncooked sausages for lips
like they got in the picture shows
an shoppin books.
Nah this that pretty kinda dark
Night sky kinda dark
dark so deep
ya get lost in it and find God there too.
Yeah, he got that pretty dark.
But he got them eyes,
them pretty white eyes
sparkle so hard like God
plucked the North star and the Pointer star
right out the sky and stuckem
in his face.
His hair, thick black coils of hair,
grow like kudzu stretch down
his back and move in the wind like
snakes with minds of they own.
He turns his head backnforth
sendin them vines
flyin
stretchin stretchin to forever till
CRACK
they snap back,
snap back so hard they like to
split the air with fury
that shook me to my soul.
 
I can feel him now
feel him as he wraps me in his arms,
what seem to be made of steel, and
pull me into that chest made of
mountain stones firm
firm like the earth I ain't no
longer standin on 'cause he
picked me up clear off my feet
no connection to the ground but him.
I wrap my birdy lil arms round
his neck and bury my
bony lil fingers in the
layers of his hair.
I can feel the warmth
roll offa him in waves
waves like the ones cornfields
make when they kissed by wind,
or maybe even waves like them from
the sea as they reach out for land to
save them from drownin just 'fore
they fall back into the sea, I just
know that he feel good.
 
I can smell him,
smell every bit of him as I
bury my head deeper into his neck.
He smell warm like the earth,
like red clay smell after he and sun
done made out all day, warm like a
man smell after he done spent
all day hunch backed starin
at the earth tryna trick her to
give'm just a lil somethin to eat.
Even his clothes, holey rags they are,
smell like smoke but not that
cold angry smoke what come from the
factory, not that black stuff what
puff itself up to block out the sun
like he mad at her for shinin so pretty.
Nah, his smoke smell like that soft
gray smoke that drifts lazy-like from
daddy's shed after he done bled a
pig for us to eat during winter.
His smokeyness smell like earth.
 
I can taste him
taste every memory of him
as I kiss blindly startin at his
neck workin my way up
tryna find his mouth.
Every inch of his face taste sweet,
like the caramel candies them old
ladies at church carry round in they bags,
made even sweeter by the salty tang
of each bead of sweat as it tumbles
down his face and drips on my blouse
stainin the pretty lil flowers.
All I know is he taste good.
There are colors yet unknown in my finite view of Earth , artistic wonders undiscovered , to this day quite alone .. Geometric shapes where Sweetgum trees silhouette the majestic Dawn .. Enchantment with every turn go I , to study my religion by day , collect my thoughts and observations by night .. To interplay among life undiscovered  , to revel someday in its happenstance ... The weathered profiles of a million botanicals unknown or forgotten . An ocean whose riddles remain unsolved , seventy percent of our precious world where exploration has barely scratched the surface .. Dark , rainy afternoons reconfigured with burst of light , the surface of oceans ever mysterious , highlighted by the Moon on hazy nights .. I flew over Moccasin Creek to sample fresh water and take in mountain greenery ..Walked the treetops of the Oconee Forest to witness the floor of the woodlands as a squirrel , crow or eagle ..Slithered along the Georgia clay like a Black Racer , cautiously studied each image before me with the curiosity of a Red fox .. Enthralled with the Savannah Dancers of Tybee Island , precious gulls , blue ***** and brown pelicans .. Welcome every change of season , Dark pine thickets tell of death and renewal ...

                                                          II­
Jagged , blue grass approaches , green straw tops , quiet
cinnamon needle oceans connected by silver streak spider webbing ..
Warm winds divide earthen cover , lifeless termite ridden forefathers lay in testament to bitter destruction ... Our Noon star nourishes bold , sylvan seedlings , beneath her languishing February predicament however ... Grassy field roads lay locked in period of service , daylight path corrections , marble land buoy sentries within thistle , dandelion and Sawgrass .. Gold , knee high cover caresses , reaching skyward beside the field road , lying forgotten , left to the mercy of kudzu , marble and granite .. Scrags reclaim rusted encroachments , tin in battle with the tepid wail of afternoon wind as stick pines mimic the Appalachians , gently roll toward the awaiting lavender blue horizon ... As pasture returns to woodlands , blanketed in hues of brown with forest echoes , carry whispered voices into tomorrow ... Lively crows live to tell their wintry tale , resting among scuttled pulp wood entanglements , to be born again , covered in the pity of lingering broom sage ...                                                              ­                                                  

                                                        III    ­                                                                 ­Across the edge of twilight where soft lavender hues lay at
rest atop her riparian horizon .. Dandelion blooms pepper the
red clay embankments , lone bucks survey brown fields of harvested
corn ..Mourning doves cry for the end of day , wild hogs lay tracks at the rivers edge . Toms sing of their loneliness  , persimmons lay bitter along country lanes , the meat of Chestnut not harvested , the final years of tall , stately Pecans go shamefully unnoticed .. Barbed wire divisions etch Winter burned pasture , Morgans and Appaloosas graze the fertile , ambrosial green narrows .. Manmade pools dot the Crescent lady , cattle ditches appear along creeks and rivers holding Rock bass , Shell ******* , Yellowbellies and Bluegills ferociously hunting the waters surface , Alligator Snappers and Mudcats work the turbulent bottoms ... Hayfields , peach and muscadine arbors flourish , boiled peanuts and sorghum syrup , collards and sweet potatoes ...Blackberry , grape , watermelon and okra ..Water oaks have taken command of the front yard ,  moss and honeysuckle line fence rows , flowing patches of wild grass and snake berry , rocks from Cotton Indian Creeks line hand built flower beds and walkways .. Rhode Island Reds , Buff Orpington's and White Leghorns work these plantations . Sassafras and dewberry , wild plum and rabbit tobaccos . Gardenia , Crape Myrtle , Magnolia , Pine and Chestnut trees  flourish to this day .. The Old Bridge behind Millers Mill still visible , what stories this elder pass could tell before the confluence of the Indian Creeks .. Crayfish , Bream , Largemouth bass , Crappie , Yellow perch and Flathead catfish ! The tale of the Crescent lady lives forever and ever ..
Copyright February 29 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Holly Salvatore Aug 2013
I. That summer the radio
Played nothing but Cat Stevens
While I hummed harmonies
In my first car
It was a wild world indeed
when kudzu overtook
The cornfields
All the ears were foreigners
The leaves basked in light
That dead-ended on route 15

II. That fall we spotted UFO's
Shining over the municipal
Park
We chased them across the
Ballfields
To the high school cross country course
A dirt track running
Through the woods
And when there was nothing
Alien lurking there
Our hopes fell
Faster than the stars

III. The following winter
Three inches of ice cut the powerlines
Impounded our school supplies
With the outtages
And the temperatures plummeting
Seventy percent of our hearts froze
All the parts that were water
Expanding our chests
Like balloons
Expanding our vision too
We thought this was the beginning
Of the end of St. Clair county
We though we'd all get out someday

IV. By spring the graveyard smelled
Like lilacs
And dead town elders
Came out to dance in the scent
We played capture the flag there
On school nights
And the cops could never catch us
Behind the headstones
Of our family plots
We wrote our own epitaphs
"I was water and I could have been
A fine wine"
*I fell asleep in sweet green clover to the sound of smalltown sirens...
Jonathan Witte Feb 2017
We gathered our water
and packs at daybreak
to hike hand in hand
toward the distant ruin—
a tall stone chimney planted
on otherwise empty acreage,
a kudzu-covered tower,
the ghost of a farmhouse
now a home to field mice,
black beetles and bats,
with bricks the color
of weathered blood,
vertebrae stacked
a century and a half ago
by a stonemason’s craft,
still solid and bonded
despite the slow decay
of arthritic mortar.

How long have we
walked together?

The morning
is all we have
left to ponder.
We walk for hours;
the chimney grows
larger at our approach.
I want to ask you
a question about
the night we met,
what you said
just before I held
you for the first time,
but then I catch sight
of my hand and realize
I am walking alone,
moving inexorably
toward a ruination
of my own making.
How could I have been
so careless? Unable
to stop, every step
strips something away:
my hair thins and falls,
as white and weak
as sickled wiregrass;
another step and my
body atomizes into
the stuff of stars,
pollen scattered
on a rising wind.

So this is what it
feels like to decay.

By the time I reach
the ruin I am mostly
cinder and ash,
a sorry vestige
sown in a quiet field,
a forgotten landmark
that strangers will visit,
if only to contemplate
how the evening fog
spindles like smoke
along the enduring
column of my spine.
***** down Onceknown Road, an older morning
bursts outta the grit. Flytipt empires,
laidback wasteland warns there'll be no warnings.
Smiths'-song-street all shut suppersuppliers,
where might carpark oak or traffic isle elm
egdeh-comb cyclist's quiff should kerb unhelm,
next to busstop ad for new nervous tic.
Path of trundling on, tumultuously
normal, obliquely extraordinary
now flashbacks draw out, razor nostalgic.

Rowdied w/ 2 hubblydribbling drummers,
crumb comrades of cheeba cheer 'long  this road.
Studenty stovepipe house rhythmic slummers
fauve-fengshui'd, tho' precise narriow abode
alt-rawk teen trashedom PWNed, I'll pass outrite.
This road tho'. Omissive potholelands' tite-
lipt pockpits are due to dumb blip veil, Youth's
doob loop. ******* as scones, but partying
nous postponed postpubesecent perma-aging
for hol of nice naive brave haze, loose truths.

We were 90s grinadiers, lushes lean,
but did svelte sybarites swear off jimjams
& sack jobhunts to trade kugs w/ a Treen,
chug ponders peapodded w/ Grendel's mam?
Thought nonstoppathon tootenanny
altered moodiness like a green granny...
Piffleflaps! Prosphene Raybans of Blowmance
screen 1st gapyear on the dole for gads all
so legendary they sidestep recall;
for we steal liberty from ignorance.  

Later came grinning nadirs: alcaponed
& algerhissed drift from drumming duo,
all my old mates, to ***** & **** alone
on Chronic Island. Years beached like fatsoes
of the ocean, sonar bloaters. The mail
washed up: 'Why did you never find me?' Snail-
mail sans sails, once ale-full, in my own hand,
same grubby starfish that lobbed littoral
letter indicts loner as terminal
islander, tho' I quit Chronic Island.

Just kids, but faked stuff sincerely then, at one
leas' thru fakealong faith in fun. Yet the
quarries of qualms churned, gyres of the undone
unspooled kudzu spinelessness, a kidder
undefinespun. Zhuzhedup Past a plaintive
'sheesh', last niche pastiche, same intempestive
taisch, a disembodied gulp, a limbed fib.
Lightweights in the mist of dawn's roachbow trails
to noon brainjails. Start states sacrosanct, stale.
Tsk, Past teaches how to pish. Sunrise squibs.

Even in England, the nite is slitely
more junglish, even inside. Nite's teen knites
genied swanvestas like titch diwali,
not to sway over choral candlelite
- over gummy coffeetable waitin'
for stoner Noah's dovetail joint. Raven
rectricarse of raspiration adult-
hood's sulferous selflessness will whistle.
'Cras cras!' Dust wassails unexcitable
stardusthood. Asthma, my own stupid fault.
yokomolotov Feb 2015
Find constructed love
a piecemeal beauty
on those winding roads toward
Memphis
within rolling hills of
kudzu
the south, of red roads
black birds and white
in the swamp
a shock

cotton fields span
quiet, still the machines sleeping
the sun seeping
the car were in, **** covered
streaming

tall black and pastel along cars
friendly
I also saw a prison
carved in a hill side along a skinny
road, Mississippi
barb wire gem stone shine
white sign,
do not pick up hitch hikers

the humidity, heavy guilt
on dried clay
boiled peanuts
sightseeing in a
crime scene
Kara Troglin Feb 2013
Brassavola nodosa*: Lady of the Night

Drinking deep the cold water
with her loose, slender petals
that wrap the aspidistra tree,
she waits, just before dusk
to release her moonlit fragrance.

Dark welcomes this ghost-white
orchid that proves love blooms
in nature with a night to drown
the stillness of a leafy bedding.

The wild-eyed child opens her gaze
to this wonder hidden in kudzu vines
of a Brazilian forest that does not sleep
so soundly with its dragonflies.

Only the moon knows she speaks
of fallen petals and longed for rain.
Critiques, pretty please?
William A Poppen Nov 2013
Royal Road slopes

enough so that your toes know

which way you are going.

     Kudzu and ragweed accent the driveway

pitted with bushel basket size

holes amid roaming plastic grocery bags.

     A 1960’s version mobile home

fights Mimosa and blackberry bush

to remain visible.

     As I ascend the creaking steps

a neighbor cracks the quiet

to announce that, “Jesse is on the way.”

     I hear the clop, swish, clop

as Jesse corners onto Royal Road

and chugs toward me.

     Sweat rivers from his beard.

He greets me with,

“Thanks for the groceries.”

     I said, "I need you to sign

to show I brought food."

I didn’t ask, “How did you lose your leg?”
Fickle Silver Maples lie forlorn in the -
stillness of Noon , melancholy belles that change -
their sullen tune by the belated , crosswind steamy Georgia afternoon
Dandelion sprinkled prairie of home , bordered in thick , red clay
trenches , kudzu covered period homesteads , Spring peach
and pecan orchards drenched in wild , unabated orchid and coneflower
Sweetgum cones rattle in nightfalls cooling breeze without respite , riverstone retaining walls , whitewashed barns and gravel drives , Bantam hens perch Live Oak branches along flint , cobblestone pathways
Copyright May 9 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Peasant The Poet Aug 2019
Dark to dawn
ink blue bleed.
Spilling sky
morning seed.
Greedily growing
a clockwork ****.
Smothering slumber
with stealthy speed.
Will laird May 2015
I am from my grandmother,who snuck out of the house to smoke camel non-filtered

I am from the middle of nowhere, not far from town.

I am from the pine tree with a water hose tied on it, where I imagined  I was Indiana Jones.

I am from the woods, where the cicadas sang at night.

I am from the kudzu that blanketed the trees and menaced the garden.

I am from the apple trees in the front yard, whose fruit                         never turned red.

I am from the middle of nowhere, not far from town.

I am from my grandfather’s plaid pockets, where he would pull out                     suckers.

I am from my father’s mustang that i crashed into the driveway.

I am from my great-grandfather’s picture, proudly displayed on the              wooden mantle.

I am from my grandmother’s bible stories, in the back bedroom where she read every night.

I am from the middle of nowhere, not far from town.

I am from Highway 494, where the trees were leveled to build subdivisions.

I am from the soft red clay and moist brown earth of the backyard.

I am from the moonlight I could see from the top of my house late at night.

I am from the sweltering heat and uncut grass in the front yard.

I am from the middle of nowhere, not far from town.

I am from the small cemetary past the corner store, where my grandfather      lies next to my grandmother,

and my father next to her.

I am from Uptown New Orleans, where my daughter learns her A.B.C’s in the back bedroom

where she prays every night

I am from the brown bag from the Shell station that i fill with suckers, and sneak to her when her mom isn’t watching.

I am from the picture of us dancing at a music festival, her on my shoulders, displayed proudly on the wooden mantle.

I am not from from anywhere, in the middle of town
Third Eye Candy Jan 2013
girls are made of glass crickets and sunshine. they eat words that float.
they wear shoes that hate feet. girls talk.
girls are made of dark secrets and kudzu. they seep through your ghost.
they wear moods. they play deep.  
girls are soft.
girls are soft bombs with long nails, painted.
they buy clothes. they wear food on their hips. they impair speech.
girls know that's ironic. girls dance naked to pay for college.
some learn from it.  others tarnish.
girls are made of everything that's wrong with you.
they have eyes
that sing babies
to sleep

that can **** you.
Invocation Jul 2015
Particularly towards a distant echo
One I hope may reverberate these bones yet
May not be for ages
Life's heartsong is thick kudzu vines furry and soft and little creepy tendrils that can break down walls and smother everything in fuzzy warm green love
That's what the left paw is holding in palm
Courage-bound
For happy comes in three - two to love and one two challenge that fever with rampant fire
Words to start a cross-world touch
Face like furry red flame and I'm sure you aren't cold
Take me by surprise and I'll feed you to my sunrise
Love
<3
Samuel Jul 2011
Oh here is my map
What does it look like today
Oh
Here among the kudzu walls, enthralled
With life and all its possibilities
How frozen the landscape, how
Bountiful the harvest of
Minds filled by ideas, concepts
Burning like the wasp stings around my ankles

Far from the place I will be far from
Soon, but now
Oh here I invest, to
Hear what there is to listen to and
Speak of things unseen, walking
The shadowy path beneath trees and
Taunted by the sun, as

Forever is a world of a word that should
Never leave its cage
                                  [remember the last]
Second before the grasses grew tall and the
Roof sodden with rust, a perfect sandwich
Rotting on your dusty counter to await your
Oh here
of disgust whenever it is you
Plan on returning

Oh here you are beside it
Chomping away at nothing beneath the
Beautiful fountain where
Time means next to nothing and nothing
Lives for time and whatever is thought exists
Not as a conjecture solely but in tangible or
Perhaps an intangible form of peace, a quiet

Hillside on which all good things grow
Inside or out, and no punctuation to
Restrain these words, no sire and
Yes ma'am I do believe we've come to the
End of our tour now, so

Be sure to take your impact with you and
Have a lovely rest of your night while we
Break the morning
Waverly Mar 2012
The winds
only
whisper
when
I'm
drunk.

The tea leaves
wither
in the soup
only when
I'd had a few.

They curl
like disgusted fingers,
or fists.

I scrounge
my pockets.

I litter in Marlboro butts.

I can't go to sleep
without
the biting panther
of the drink.

Those lemon eyes
make sense
by nine
when I've had a few sips
and my lips
are filled with their tears.

Do you know
the forrest of my heart?

Do you understand passion
that destroys
as it grows?

This is kudzu
this licqour.

This is meaning
this licquor.

This is happiness
this licquor.

This is the dissolution
of my anxiety
and fears
this licquor.

I will end
on a sour note
and say
that I cannot sleep.

I cannot sleep
when I am sober.
Countdown to Armageddon precariously hinges
   potential apocalypse outcome, mere smattering days away
if the brazen, fierce-some dragon doth don
   trumps presidential throne -
   ships with whistling  Dixie missiles at bay
will be synchronized with aerial bombardiers
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -   -    -
   to parlay a view to unleash nuclear weapons on cue
destroying a vast swath of flora and fauna,
   and most life forms (inn oh cent), but pay hefty due
to assuage the aggressively cruel, enjoyably
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -   -    -
   growling at his goalie indubitably
   kick *** mindset worse than dengue fever will ensue
a combustible domino effect fueling global horror -
   analogous to kindling tinder logs smoke
   the color - jetblue streaming up fireplace flue
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -   -    -
witnessing sovereign magnum opus trans
   forming much of animal and plant life into flakes of goo
far scarier than any macabre production
   dreamt up by human frightful scenario and no hero
she ma to rescue self or other from deadly debacle,
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -   -    -
   nor any safe haven such as a cool igloo
forsooth complete annihilation will far surpass
   any prior world war, no one will be spared,
   neither gentile nor Jew
which total mortal kombat, and attendant laying waste
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -   -    -
   organisms livingsocial instantaneously cremated,
   where ashes spread dispersed faster than Kudzu
rendering world wide web fetid, offal, and putrid
   far more noxious than the common loo
yet even this general description falls short to where mew
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -   -    -
tinny sans hardy species (according to Google search);
   such as tardigrade, mummichog, and cockroach
decimating, heaving, leveling, poisoning
   every cubic inch of Earth evincing voluminous vaporization
   extant eradication emphatically nixed, punctuated, and radiated
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -   -    -
   pulverization eviscerating the bowels of mankind,
   where nary a survivor could weather and withstand
   hollowed out no mans land bereft of sustenance or water
   where seeds of white lily when coalescence
   of oblate spheroid birthed, nursed, and weaned new
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -   -    -
life especially proto **** sapiens
   and subsequent kin grunting with ah and oew
fast tracked primates, yet inherent within genetic coda
   (perhaps poison ingredient bubbled
  within primordial soup) - steeped quantum mechanical pew
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -   -    -
tar nation housing crucible-
   analogous to planetary size mortar and pestle) queue
sans predestination, where rue
brick, dogma, and fealty honoring justice slew
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -   -    -
by paws of one cancerous, fractious and idolatrous Lothario,
   who opened Pandora Box (rigged shut tight) thorough
lee rendered civilization a footnote
   of cosmological history and universal view
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -   -    -
BUT.... eligible voters can choose alternate
   (Democratic) candidate -
   the majority will exhale a collective gustatory whew
and allow, enable and provide continuance of the human zoo!
Korie Conyers Oct 2010
the inspiration to sleep doesn’t take much
if any of the three
infernal organs
does It’s job
one escape is suspension
then, not even that
grayscale made Technicolor
and now it’s with you still
slipping, weaving, screaming like kudzu rust

pulling away from it like Velcro
and for a second peace
whilst the reboot-
hell, there’s the three again
so easy
to lapse
and away
blue mercury Nov 2016
the inside of me is overgrown with moss and kudzu.
tell me i am an issue,
cut me down and yell timber.

don't make it a question
make it an exclamation.
a statement of the things you've destroyed
to make room for something new,
but not bright eyed.

i am an overgrown tree
with roots too far into the darkness
of the cool dirt-
smell the musky scent of my bark
after the rain.

even if the rain couldn't wash this away,
at least your ax stopped it
from growing.

no matter how low to the ground
you cut me down
i will still have
my roots.
this is a bit more like my usual work hope you all enjoy it- i feel like i'm losing my touch though.
Logan Feb 2019
If your lips are roses,
soft and sweet with dew,
Then your arms around me,
are ivy or kudzu.

Your eyes are wildflowers,
their beauty so unique.
The first time that I saw them,
I forgot how to speak.

Your smile is sunshine,
on a blue-sky day,
Your laughter is sunset,
Made of colors I can’t convey.

Your thoughts are dandelions,
After a springtime rain,
Sprouting, budding, blooming,
And filling up your brain.

And your kisses, they plant seeds,
In my mind and on my skin,
always helping me grow,
And find my strength within.

So If you are a garden,
May I be a bumblebee?
To take what you offer,
And turn it to honey?

Bring sweetness to your life,
And help your garden grow,
You do the same for me,
Probably more than you know.

I’ll try to be sunshine,
When the clouds are gray.
I’ll be a cool breeze,
On a too-hot day.

If you let me in your garden,
I’ll help tend the weeds,
And shower you with love,
Anytime that you need.
Written for a lover
Elle M Jan 2013
i’ve been losing sleep lately plagued by dreams of strong arms tightly wound around my ribcage like kudzu and an overwhelming scent of musk and dried paint that lingers like a heavy shadow in the breaking of morning light. i stumble through the routines ripping my nylons and bruising my hands along the way. all i can think about are the mistakes and lies i’ve scattered across all that i once held dear to me and how i’ve burned every ******* bridge i ever built in the gold light of vulnerable youth. i don’t know what i want anymore and every man i’ve ever loved ultimately never adds up to the man i imagine them to be. i fill in the empty nooks and black holes within yourself you don’t even know you have and i build you into the man you never have any chance of becoming and it’s just downhill from there, babe. i’ve got my back up against a wall with my spine so firmly pressed into the surface i wonder how hard it would be to just simply fall through and disappear entirely. i look into the eyes of hundreds of strangers everyday knowing i will never see them again and all i can think is how in god’s name are people ever able to find each other?

15 june, 2012
Shining vistas quelled by encroaching -
onyx pall
Rain filled mementos of a confused May
Sky blue wild flowers decorating red loam -
banks , a lonely Heron stands watch o'er -
storm filled , uncertain dominion ranks
Brown leaves become sailboats on laden creeks
Matted pastures , thunders raucous laughter
Rainy songs 'neath umbrella hardwood trees ,
mud puddle looking glass , Box turtle paradise
Twinkling brush , continuous wildlife theater in kudzu terrariums Salamanders , snails and musical tree frogs preside over the misty afternoon stage
Copyright April19 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Farm house windows have been boarded up , dilapidated outbuildings , abandoned water well , farm tractor , implements rusted over . Kudzu has blanketed the garden spot , farm bell lies on the ground , silo in need of paint , repairs ..Clover dominates a fertile pasture , once home for many abundant harvest ! Corn , soy bean and sorghum , sweet potato and collards .. Oak trees , well over a hundred years old with twenty years of unchecked leaf debris beneath them . Apple , pear and peach trees are barren .. A once sturdy white picket fence now unkempt  , frail with rusted barbed wire and nails .. The afternoon train still comes through each afternoon . I can imagine that very train taking the harvest produced by this old farm to market . Macon , Augusta or Albany ? A planter is taking a break beneath a Pecan tree with a bucket of cold well water and a ladle , plug of tobacco , and a daydream or two ! The afternoon train delivers the news of the world , a Farmers almanac , Sears and Roebuck catalogue , corn cake for the rabbit dogs , hog feed from a mill in Columbus , thread and quilt patches for Mother . Off it goes , cloud of steam rising above the mighty engine  , the whistle echoing across cotton fields for many a mile ! The link between city and farm , before electricity , telegraph or telephone . The old Georgia my great grandparents knew . Fruitful Summer harvest , painfully cold Winters laboring , scratching out a meager living and at times barely surviving ! I can still hear the crack of leather , braying of mule , firewood being stacked , horses , cattle and the rooster breaking the silence of night , sunrise announcing the new day to a hard working family plus every hamlet along the way ! .
Copyright October 17 , 2015 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved

— The End —