Robert C Howard Sep 2014

Yellow horizon
Sunflower fields gently sway
just beyond the crest.

Pixievic Aug 2016

I gaze upon your beauty
Breathtaking in its wonder
I lie nestled in exquisite solitude
Beholding your majesty
King to my Queen
In hushed reverence
Dominating my vision
Noble in simplicity
I surrender myself to your moment
Giving up my heart
Abandoning all sensibility
Knowing you will never forsake me
Lulled by the gentle flooding
Of desire to never leave this place
Or your fascination

(C) Pixievic

In holiday in one of my favourite places ..... The title is the Welsh name for where I am Anglesey - North Wales
Gladys P Sep 2014

The spirit of spring rises,
Into a blissful gate to heaven,
Where dreams revive, and flourish,
Into a luscious landscape,
Set like a haven.

When the sunset shields,
Against the vibrant contours of nature,
In a garden of enticing and cultivated blossoms,
Leaving a spectacular scenery,
With glamour, and a feeling of rapture.

Sarah Richards Nov 2015

It's not one thing
It's not five
It's not something I can
point to on a map
of my wrongdoings and my
rights
The geography of the
darkest places I have
within me
and the landscaped
version that I share and
I've
refined,

I'm sorry

It's not one thing, my love,
It's not five

It's all things all the time.

The field
of olive trees
opens and closes
like a fan.
Above the olive grove
there is a sunken sky
and a dark shower
of cold stars.
Bulrush and twilight tremble
at the edge of the river.
The grey air ripples.
The olive trees
are charged
with cries.
A flock
of captive birds,
shaking their very long
tail feathers in the gloom.

Now this must be the sweetest place
  From here to heaven's end;
The field is white and flowering lace,
  The birches leap and bend,

The hills, beneath the roving sun,
  From green to purple pass,
And little, trifling breezes run
  Their fingers through the grass.

So good it is, so gay it is,
  So calm it is, and pure.
A one whose eyes may look on this
  Must be the happier, sure.

But me--I see it flat and gray
  And blurred with misery,
Because a lad a mile away
  Has little need of me.

Abigail Shaw Dec 2014

It stretches,
Blotting out the sun in jagged ribbons,
Standing below it, my shadow is lost,
Absorbed,
If it fell, so would I.

To one who’s name is written in the faint perfume upon my neck
Your hands gently tend my landscape with their caress
Each and every flower, you gracefully bedeck
In the richest warmth of your undress

You move your morning breezes into the darkness of my night
Until I no longer know the season or present year
Time is of no essence within my sight
Of warmth or cold, I have no fear

To one who’s name is written on every single line of my heart
In your ink flowing from the radiance of our eternal sun
Your hands tend my landscape in a world apart
Marked on a calendar of none

The cares of life, waft into silent pieces as they come to light
When your morning breeze moves upon my flowers
Each one you tend with your hand’s sight
Forgets these cares of ours

To one who’s name is written in my eyes as my master gardener
My flowers will always seek the ink flowing from our sun
My landscape will be your garden harbor
From your breezes, I will never run

A reading of this poem can be found at:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pwC8EL3QAPA
Copyright *Neva Flores @2010
www.changefulstorm.blogspot.com
www.stumbleupon.com/stumbler/Changefulstorm
JR Rhine Nov 2015

The concrete jungle.
Home of the dreaded concrete beasts
Who lie in plain sight for the world to see

Crouched in marble ledges, twisted in metal beams
Wrapped around handrails, perched in their cemented trees
They laugh at those who cannot perceive
Because they don’t believe.

And who am I,
Yes possibly me
To find my identity
In removing my wooden sword from its sheath

Placing it beneath my two shuffled feet
To answer the alluring call of the beasts beckoning
To my hero’s heart, for my eyes to blink
To suddenly see them as they were meant to be.

In a world between
Real and imaginary.

For it is I,
Yes I believe it to be
Chosen to find my destiny
In a single push

That propels me
Into the path of the snarling beasts
Approaching their stairs and rails, ledges and beams
Gaps and bumps and ramps with speed

And as they stare at me hungrily
Opening their mouths expecting me
I will stand strong on my wooden sword
As the wheels of fire erupt beneath

And the scenery blurs in the flash of the rapidity
I bend my knees and grit my teeth
My eyes narrow and the drum in my chest crescendos its beat
A shout explodes from my chest, a primal scream

As I press on
In the concrete jungle.

Home of the dreaded concrete beasts
Who quiver in plain sight for the world to see
And whimper at the sight of who they now perceive
Because I do believe.

And it is I,
Yes undoubtedly me
Who will find my destiny
Conquering the concrete jungles of the world unseen

Surfing the concrete waves of the world between
With my loyal vessel being the wooden sword from the sheath,
That remains steady in the face of danger beneath my feet.

I am alive
In the concrete jungle.

I love skateboarding.
Amitav Radiance Apr 2015

Surreal landscape
Silky smooth winds
Assuring caresses
Enlightened bonds
Glamorous display
Enthralled spectator
Nature’s sanctuary
Alluring wilderness
Untamed hearts
Rolling over
Nature’s carpet
Enticing gazes
Euphoric moments
Pristine backdrop
Unrestrained hearts
Sweet surrender
Intense meanings

KA Feb 2015

The dream passes,
kids and images of love lost,
the hope and potential lost.
giving yourself away,
the manipulation and control,
your self inflicted participation,
to wake up and have enough.
decided to be you,
perfect you,
ridiculed but free.
Free to be you.
Free to dream your dream.

To live in Wales is to be conscious
At dusk of the spilled blood
That went into the making of the wild sky,
Dyeing the immaculate rivers
In all their courses.
It is to be aware,
Above the noisy tractor
And hum of the machine
Of strife in the strung woods,
Vibrant with sped arrows.
You cannot live in the present,
At least not in Wales.
There is the language for instance,
The soft consonants
Strange to the ear.
There are cries in the dark at night
As owls answer the moon,
And thick ambush of shadows,
Hushed at the fields' corners.
There is no present in Wales,
And no future;
There is only the past,
Brittle with relics,
Wind-bitten towers and castles
With sham ghosts;
Mouldering quarries and mines;
And an impotent people,
Sick with inbreeding,
Worrying the carcase of an old song. To live in Wales is to be conscious
At dusk of the spilled blood
That went into the making of the wild sky,
Dyeing the immaculate rivers
In all their courses.
It is to be aware,
Above the noisy tractor
And hum of the machine
Of strife in the strung woods,
Vibrant with sped arrows.
You cannot live in the present,
At least not in Wales.
There is the language for instance,
The soft consonants
Strange to the ear.
There are cries in the dark at night
As owls answer the moon,
And thick ambush of shadows,
Hushed at the fields' corners.
There is no present in Wales,
And no future;
There is only the past,
Brittle with relics,
Wind-bitten towers and castles
With sham ghosts;
Mouldering quarries and mines;
And an impotent people,
Sick with inbreeding,
Worrying the carcase of an old song.

Haden Chua Jan 2013

Chirping sound of insects echoing,
Resonance of such is ever so soothing,
Enhancing the beauty of the surrounding.
Distinctive landscape encompassing,
Illuminating loving-kindness so calming,
Totally immersed in such a surrounding.

Passing clouds fade along the horizon,
Alluring sunset radiates a mystic neon.
Swirling waves crafted a forsaken cave,
Superb scenery of such is indeed a rave.
Expectation of beauty is well surpassed,
Defying Aristotle's logic and his glory past.

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