"landscaped" poems
we lay together, 6:00am, body warmth touch-sharing,
as the June morning summer chill coming off its night nadir coolness
surrenders very reluctantly,
full length pajamas, blankets and coverlets in use,
keeping cold out while bodies touching generate heat -
a big difference
through these layers of cotton controversy, my right arm,
my cunning, falls awkwardly upon her, advising I am woken
and aware she is as well, hear her earbuds emplaced, make shushed
whispering noises re the future of artificial intelligence
and other such mental knottings
my awkward angled arm rests on her landscaped outline of shape,
coming to rest where legs meet at the top of an upside down V spot,
which makes no request, but accepts my bequest of steady
stroking of her ****** as an unnecessary
but atheist-acceptable to her
morning prayer ritual, kept at the intersection of the
physical and physics theorems
funny how some prayers,
where recitation comes thoughtlessly and routine,
uttered without any contemplation are yet
deep comforting for their inherency,
so I pray a stroking repetitive on her body,
well hid neath a summer coverlet,
wordlessly chanted, wordlessly accepted, silence connoting approving permission
I comfort her,
above and through a floral coverlet for her floral coverlet,
till the sun rises enough to truly warm up our plot,
my praying reaches the end of its rope,
where quality and quantity achieve unanimity resolution
no longer needed,
but am appreciated, besides my arm is cramping,
not designed for the rising, unleveled angle of her breathing bodice
my comfort is her extra comforter,
an offering of coffee my reward,
for my daily work has begun,
and I have many more poems stillborn
that require coaxing stroking
to become
witnesses to living
Jun 17, 2019
Jun 17, 2019 at 7:32 PM UTC
***Estranged in summer rains'
landscaped dissolution
evincing season's discontent
neath sun's suffocating alienation;
used to rhyme with warmth
and effulgent delectation,
emotional realms fizzled in a
heated halfhearted sizzle
of down-pour's restless manifestations***
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 7:33 AM UTC
She sat beside me in a cloud of smoke,
Ash falling to my knees like a tree that just gave up on standing straight
And finally lay its head on the ground.
I am tired of feeling rooted in an earth I no longer believe in;
Tired of climbing trees to defy gravity and I know I can't win.
Not this fight, nor the next, or even a game of poker as my lips
Just can't stand being straight.
I am that fallen tree and sometimes I forget to breathe,
Leaving each breath like my car keys you tell me I don't need.
Who needs the earth when I have you landscaped before me?
These foundations are ours and you build me these walls
Just so I can knock them down.
I'm destructive like that, we are indestructible like that
So lets take a page from my book and draw ourselves a map
Right to this moment in time,
Where I whisper *"I've fallen for the girl, and you know what?
It's fine."*
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 7:02 AM UTC
Our snowmen, they're not made of white,
they're tumbleweeds, rolled up tight.
No top hat upon his head,
a cowboy hat sits there instead.
His face and buttons, tree ornaments,
boots and lariat, his accoutrements.
Saguaro cacti with lights wrapped round,
illuminate the landscaped grounds.
Old horse drawn wagons get the festive touch.
With lighted garlands, packages and such.
Porch rails glow with colored lights,
Christmas trees in windows, warm the nights.
Our little town gets all decked out.
Then we gather along the old parade route.
Folks on horseback with ribbons and bells.
The horses know the parade route well.
Marching school bands play Christmas songs,
trucks and tractors carry carolers along.
Floats abound from businesses and groups.
Braving the cold, the Christmas Cowboy Troops.
We all stand up to clap and cheer,
as Santa, as usual, brings up the rear.
Waving his red cowboy hat, in a horse drawn sleigh,
Welcoming Christmas, the Wickenburg way.
Dec 10, 2010
Dec 10, 2010 at 11:42 AM UTC
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.
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 3:43 PM UTC
Gazing down from my hotel balcony, a beautiful breath taking view, acres of landscaped gardens, flowers, trees of every colour and hue
My eyes travel over an azure blue bay. To a thousand coloured sunshades assaulting my mind
An ants nest of seething half naked humanity, burnt red and covered in oil. Surrounded by discarded bottles and cans and wrappers of ice cream stained foil
For a week they're going to lie there, bodies burned raw by the sun. Their idea of enjoyment, their idea of holiday fun
I have walked the length of those bright golden sands, smelt the stench of the stale cooking oil. It gives me no pleasure to linger here while I have the real Malta to enjoy
Beyond the human pollution the sand dwellers love a burnt barren ridge gainst the sky. And yet from this red brown earth an existence bis clawed by the strength of a strong Maltese hand
My gaze travels left to the beautiful church and the cream coloured town just beyond. The old and the new joined hand in hand where concrete marries natural stone
How many of the sand dwellers have enjoyed what this beautiful land can provide? Have they truly experienced this island, seen life on the other side?
In a few days they'll be up there flying back to the place they call home, but from what they experienced of Malta they might just have well been to the moon
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 4:26 AM UTC
Snuggled in the corner
of his crystal castle
warding off wind’s whip,
head pillowed on phonebook pages,
warmly wrapped in dreams.
Street light serves as lunar glow,
While courtyard is landscaped with
cigarette butts and a broken bottle.
He’s Prince of the Paupers.
King of this urban domain.
Apr 12, 2010
Apr 12, 2010 at 11:03 AM UTC
Even a wayside **** can ignite
greater passion in the heart
than a well potted garden plant
at the centre of a tastefully landscaped plot
Even a child’s prank can be more hilarious
than all the cranky jokes of an acclaimed comedian
Even in the warble of a lonesome bird
there can be more flooding melody
than in the well tuned violin of a music maestro
There can be greater poetry in a simple ditty
than in all the lines of verse in a great epic
A tear drop may contain greater salinity
than all the waters of a great ocean
Perhaps a simple nod of head or a wink of the eye
communicates much more than a whole bunch of words
I don’t know why I love the dainty flowers of May
than perhaps the exotic lotus of the day
Don’t we love the homemade fare served with love
more than all the delectable cuisines of a posh restaurant
The small things of life thus,
prove much bigger than big things
Just as the joy of life is not always ruined by fatal errors
but by the recurrence of injurious little things,
Greatness is achieved not through momentous actions
but by the little things done in a great way
Sep 3, 2016
Sep 3, 2016 at 6:40 AM UTC
A landscape between two
Bridges the distance between
Me and you
And these imperfect minds alike
Aren’t too far away
To hear a perfect lover’s cry
Or a sweet melody in the night
A landscape between two
Cannot tame the ripe waves of ecstasy
Or the light rays up above
Oh yes!
I see the sunken ship
On top the sea
And I see an anchored love
From my landscaped view
A landscape between two
Bridges the distance between
Me and you
And the birds chirp
While the earth turns
The faithful flute plays
Towards a landscape between two
- Lily Bajo
Mar 3, 2018
Mar 3, 2018 at 1:42 PM UTC
On campus--at the very top of the new
eagle pole--a raven struts, one fleck of blood
stuck to his beak from morning carrion, bright
black eyes the same primeval color
as those on the pole. This ode to nature,
this prayer, this harmony of adzeman’s skill,
tradition, inspiration, and sacred task—I’ll
admire it later—was carved by folks who knew
from childhood each crest and its nature.
Mostly from the clan, and of course blood
relatives, they memorized each color
of each crest, how to mix together bright
pigments from this root, that bulb--right
amounts of everything, reagent to skill
to alchemy--required to make each color
sing. The importance of ritual to renew.
Significance of Nature, consequence of blood.
Black iron raven in landscaped nature
patch consults his brother. “Our nature
is belligerent, our destiny to chase bright,
shiny objects and live off the blood-
sticky leavings of another’s ****
Don’t you think we should blaze a new
path for ourselves?” Replies the other, “The color
of your coat is lighter than the color
of your mood today.”All around them Nature
labors. “Brother, we don’t need a new
direction. Our future, as always, is bright.
We’re the keepers of knowledge. Our skill
at irony keeps us relevant. As long as blood
is red They will need us.” He ***** on the blood
red head of the top crest. A streak the color
of snow bounces down the faces. “If you ask, I’ll
reply,” he cackles, which makes Nature
grin. A fuzzy red vole begins to climb right
up the front of the pole, as I realize how new
it is, how fresh the pine. When I think of the blood
shed by men for money I am struck dumb. Right here--the only color
green you ever need--Nature. I’d as soon carve as ****
11/3/10
Nov 5, 2010
Nov 5, 2010 at 1:15 PM UTC
Oh the outback what you've shown me
Uluru is but one piece discovered
This is raw and the real Australia
Beauty here is vast and wide
And wildlife is richer than the people
Culture is purely in abundance
Knowledge of aboriginal tradition is shared
Landscaped variety of same stretched desert
Once changed the view is most dramatic
Visions of geological change in earths' history
Each day makes me want more
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 11:58 PM UTC
After we hung up the phone
and after I heard
the ghost in your voice
singing
(its song of wasted abandon
of histories
of your medicinal haze)
I saw a pile of
lavender
I had yanked up from
the man-made soil
in my landscaped yard-
another man-made object
Vicodin or Lavender
I want to feed them to the sea
(it's a song of reckless abandon
of hope
and of better days ahead)
But you always find another
orange bottle to ease your pain
And I always find another
field of man-made flowers
to take my mind off of
letting you go this way.
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 3:28 AM UTC
Her eyes are more magnificent than the Summer Sun.
And more brilliant than the winter sky.
Her hair flows like the rolling mountains.
And has more color than Northern Lights.
Her lips are red like an Apple.
And sweeter than a peach.
Her soul is rich and full of life.
And her personality is larger than life.
Her body is curvy like a beautifully landscaped roads.
And more beautiful than Yellowstone.
To see the beauty in one you most see everything.
Not just one thing.
I love you babe and want you to know that.
There is nothing that will change the way I see you....
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 1:14 AM UTC
you've left a footprint
in my mind.
/
you've left behind
the traces of the past
the memories
and a concave
wave
/
leaving curvatures
creating
those permanent
steps
across the
expanse of
my brain
/
upon the
landscaped
planes
valleyed
peaks
/
and the blood
vessel'd tributaries
/
I felt you flowing
in my veins-
within me
/
without me
inside upstream
outside downstream.
/
the currents quiet. the tides subside.
/
you've left a footprint,
in my mind.
/
I think you'd be
impressed
with the old
pieces
Ive kept
/
it’s a residual
effect. this left
consistent motion.
similar to erosion
/
changing, rearranging-
kind of like continental
drift.
but sometimes
there wasn’t any motion
just slow motion
/
but some emotions
picked up on all
four seasons
/
breathing an air of cold winter.
once sinister,
brought pure laughter.
the sun luminescent mirroring my skin
came spring and summer
/
I spread
em’ wings
-to be the bird
I’d always wanted to be
/
peaceful.
unleashed.
free.
/
riding the air.
it's the best
feeling-
being alive
to be redefined, unconfined.
/
you've left a footprint
in my mind
/
I was too blind and
I’ll never
forget this
/
I just
felt the need
to disappear with
no dusted prints behind
though...
/
and so I crept out
the back
door slow.
/
because it didn't
feel like those
“traditional” goodbyes.
/
wasn't chiseled in stone.
engraved in bone.
/
no handshake
no promise
we didn’t see-
eye to eye.
/
kind of equally analogous
to the sun rising
into the earth
/
chaos turned
to clarity.
-I left.
but I strived with
/
cold sweat,
with every stride
with every step
/
and the regret I carry
is something
I will never forget.
/
I was climbin’
to the top of
Mt. Everest.
/
except without you,
I fell off the grid.
it was all
plate tectonics
/
my world is
spinning off its axis.
and I haven't been
the same
since.
/
but it gives me a
hopeful glimpse-
when I'm lookin up
at those stars
/
feels like bright day
in the middle of
night.
/
I’d like to
think you’re
lookin’ at the
same stars
/
wherever you
might be.
I hope you’re looking at
that same sky.
/
you've left
behind a
footprint
forever
in my mind.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 9:53 PM UTC
The heavens is your throne
The earth your footstool
Earthlings you molded
From clay and then ribs
You gave us some of your air and the right to breath
All I have belongs to you
From my lovely nose to the marrow in my bones
All these you own
So why do I keep getting your attention?
Why do you even care or bother to take away my fears?
What can I offer you when you have it all?
I know what's right and hear my spirit cautioning just when I decide to do wrong
I push you away
and when I do your absence creates a presence about me
A presence that takes over
whenever I refuse to listen to the voice of my conscience
I try to hide
In my folly I feel wise
Forgetting you are omnipresent.
How beautifully have you painted the rainbows!
You landscaped the earth with the flowers and tall trees
The wild geese and birds you never fail to feed
You whose hands are stretched out towards the earth
On Whose palms I sit
Please don't turn your back against me
It’s your face I seek
I have failed you once again
all my promises to you I am too human to keep
Forgive me Lord
I fail to mirror your attributes though a spitting image of you I am
Please let Momma and Papa tarry
If only till three score and ten
Let them relish for tirelessly they’ve toiled
fill their hearts with foy as their third generation in the arms they carry
You asked that I ask
Cause you are equal and more so greater than the task
One more thing I ask of you
when they you call unto thee
That their exit be as they wish
Most peacefully as they bid your footstool goodbye
You know all things and even before the world begun
It was powerless to hide its end from you
You don’t only know the end from the beginning;
You are the beginning and the end
to my humble plea I beseech you, your precious ears do lend
~r3d~
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 4:18 AM UTC
That elusive thought
Danced merrily away
Into the recesses of its play
Mocking me with its glee
Prancing away without regret
Giving me no reprieve and stay
Soul searing, mind wearing
As my mind meanders
And limps through the fray
Across landscaped extravaganza
And deep inner turmoils
The demons do come up to prey
I plod on undeterred in my path
That wayward thought demon
I encounter, confront and slay!!
Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 9:03 PM UTC
Understand me: it's okay to be scared.
I need to buy baking soda and soap.
I have hope. It's good to be prepared.
I want my home to be clean, I want to
be trim and trimmed like a landscaped.
I want to be beautiful to you.
Hold me like you hold your breath,
behind your teeth and in your chest.
Exhale me, I'm nothing more than carbon
dioxide.
Underwhelm me: don't hold weave into my
fingers, don't basket me to bread.
Or please sweep me off worker's boots.
Dec 16, 2011
Dec 16, 2011 at 10:59 AM UTC
Gifts among Thieves
Proportionate to the day is the security he sends though so many obscured by fears
We by fallen human nature have increased the odds to favor the enemy
The promise you will be lead by still waters is voided when we are lead by our peers
You by choice decide who to follow the path of least resistance leads to meager gains
Life is an estate you can live outwardly in the finest manor landscaped so all are enthralled
Inwardly the family is prisoners to a dark foreboding eternal light blocked at its source
You postpone the invitation to except grace nothing outwardly changes the sensitive spirit appalled
From that point on illusion greets every visitor the truth denied only thing left is a deadly lie
It has been said before we don’t deserve the goodness we unceasingly find
Love can’t be purchased this is one of the gifts you can only receive it when it is freely given
Value is intrinsic to the material in marble because it can be worked into a rarefied one of a kind
The other quality highly prized is derived from fragility it is of inestimable beauty but is easily destroyed
God breathed and made us a living soul oh how foolish say the so called wise
Never less we carry these treasures in earthen vessels of clay
In them we touch, feel, give receive love hear see the indescribable all upon this wise
We condemn ourselves to the level of lowest thief if we steal what was purchased with blood
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 11:20 PM UTC
I have drawn portraits
charcoals of Saints
who stayed in one plane
for 200 hours, not moving a hair.
I built a castle, over a hill,
which one I forget.
I have painted oils,
landscaped with smiley faces,
they might look as if they have boils.
I have written, specious, meaning one thing saying another,
poems and probably will do again.
I have laid with Mona Lisa naked,
her perfect breath breathed
into my head.
I have chased Dragons, had a princess by her long hair,
her breast a white snowy her mouth the pinkest gasp.
I have stood taller and fallen farther.
I would, gladly,
do it all again.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 8:41 PM UTC
I play a game with my
beast of a dog.
I say, "Squirrell!"
and she bolts down
the perfectly landscaped
avenue of trees after
the soot colored
critter.
It's tail electrified in
the socket of fear scuttles
up the nearest tree
except this morning
it got slowed down
and my killing machine
clamped down and
before I could beat
the poor animal out
of her locked jaw,
it crumpled to the
ground broken in a
way so inhumane,
the sight of the blood
curdled my stomach
like a glass of cool milk.
None of this is true, mind.
I'm a spineless poet.
Because instead of
saying what I mean about
not being able to save you-
about all your blood-
about those merciless
and invisible jaws
of death clenched around
your throat making a
mess of all things.
One day I'll stop writing in metaphors.
Jul 14, 2012
Jul 14, 2012 at 11:45 PM UTC
Mine was a clean house,
a free, open house
with no restrictions, no frontiers,
naturally landscaped as far as one could see.
For you it was not enough.
You got bored with the view,
took advantage of my kindness.
You defiled my path.
You **** in my rivers,
polluted my sky with your chemical smell.
You tampered with my cooling apparatus,
now the sun can't bounce back.
But talking to you is a waste of time.
You just sit back and sneer,
filling your pockets with stolen hope.
It's too late for a second chance.
You've ****** it up!
Now go find me a brush!
copyright © Caroline Grace 2014
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 12:15 PM UTC
i thought of you
when i was trying to pour
fertilizer into that
little red cranker
that we leave by the gate
& i spilled half of it
onto the ground.
the only reason i know
is because one time,
my best friend
who is also your best friend
(we do have a lot
in common)
went to a concert with me
& asked to be dropped off at
your house.
your big, nice,
well-landscaped house.
when your best friend
started liking me,
& i liked him back,
i went to his house all the time
his small,
untidy,
noisy,
uncomfortable house.
now i feel myself thinking about you
when i'm spending too many seconds
fertilizing my small lawn
in front of my own
cozy, familiar, warm
but suddenly empty
house
& i find myself wishing
i could stand in front of our house
hand-in-hand
with you
Aug 14, 2010
Aug 14, 2010 at 9:00 AM UTC
A Feller's Opera
She sits upon
a bracken grave
with arms like
twisted thorns,
weeping in the
undergrowth
the soprano
widow mourns,
singing
haunting melodies
portentous
and forlorn,
the dying forest
will gaze no more
on sunsets
nor misty dawns.
Her haunting voice
will echo
'tween hollow trees
she calls,
a crescendo of
crotchet splinters
over timber
acres sprawl,
to summon
silent her aria
as mighty oaks
then fall,
to rise no more
in glory,
to stand no more
so tall.
Whirring,
snapping,
crashing down
as the whip
of progress cracks,
rolling,
beating
like a drum,
carving its
gruesome track,
a tympany
of lumberjacks
wave their batons
like an axe,
to the rythmn
of a wooden heart
as the wistful
chorus hacks.
Sweet the sound
of wailing song
across the land
does sweep,
devastating
landscaped eyes
in eerie silence
shall weep,
'tis her prelude
to the end of time,
that was never hers
to keep,
she sits upon
a bracken grave
to cry herself
to sleep.
©RJVHorton2014
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 3:34 AM UTC
My thought process gets clouded
Like a public shower that's too crowded
When you waltz into my mind
My vocal chords are slit open
And pull out from my rotting skin
When you asked me why I'm too kind
The way I treat you is foreign here
On this unassuming blue sphere
I'm an alien to this thing called love
When you act like I praise you too much
And smile at the slightest feel of your touch
I want to take your past to a cliff and just shove
The forest, that is me, cannot be navigated
Only landscaped and appreciated
There is a great view of the lake
Once you make a home and get comfortable
I can give you a life that's more affordable
There's just one favor I'll have to take
Do you have room in your heart for me?
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 3:38 PM UTC