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CK Baker Mar 2017
lady craighead played the blues
on a stand-up samick
in the ***** room
along side the parsons project
and squabbling dogs
and night moves

stairs creek
up the mezzanine trek
wool sheets slide
on finished floors
little angels
play late into the seventh
(a closing match nearing
the midnight hour)

croaking toads and cicada
sing in the blue moon
musty smells and mothballs
settle deep in the vault
the kettle boils
and cat coils
as the pump house rolls
its heavy drawl

the red phone rings
and bird clock sings
(behind the ruddy stall)
a sleeman variation of the ruy lopez
employed heartily
by the incomparable master jack
marble toast burning
wringer wash churning
chris craft running
near the old carp canoe

rooster calls
and west wind squalls
rustle through the porch screen door
chicken *** pies
and rogue flies linger
a rocker chair placed
near the  sepia face
(softened by the intricate frame)

donkey in tow
(with a fastened ***)
maggie in her dreams
of green tambourines
the nocturnes
reflections
and whispering gospel bells

tractors pull on
the grinder stone
horses lay still
in the mid-day sun
a trump card is fingered
at the furnace click
(crosswords and puzzles are next!)
while the sparrow
and that **** rabid fox
are drowning
deep in castles well
Logan Robertson Aug 2018
Twas the night before
Hawaii islands on the radar
A monster opened the door
It shoulders a storied scar

Of the last time, it hit its mark
Rearing its **** head, ahead of pace
As the eye looms '82 in the dark
Wrinkles on this  eve sit sadly in boldface

Kauai sat once in unnatured infamy
It sunny shores hit once by the beast
Clouds of villains played in that symphony
With the next generation looking to feast

As the residence brace for the worst
Of the monster stepping on its paradise
With category four winds and cloudburst
The hope is that the monster plays nice

With the Aloha Spirit preserved with leis
In place of bold headlines of strung wrath
Hawaii can pray rays of light in the coming days
Willing the monster to take a different path

Logan Robertson

8/23/2018
This honor catches me by surprise, so much that I can't wait for the next dawn, sunrise, and all the days that follow. Thank you. Thank you for all the well wishes and support. It means looking at the sunrise, a new dawn, with newfound exuberance and eagerness.

To my friends and relatives on Oahu, I pray. Update-monster played nice. Outstanding was its piano play. Storm went from a 5,4,3,2,1 ... miss. With the Aloha Spirit preserved with leis
In place of bold headlines of strung wrath. Thank you.
Lily May 6
You are a sun-kissed lane,
The type of lane that I skip along,
Not worrying about
What's behind me nor what's ahead.
You are a sun-kissed lane,
The type of lane that heroes
Start adventures on,
Going off into the great unknown with
Nothing but a sack and a
Best friend.
You are a sun-kissed lane,
And I will not let anyone rip your flowers
Or trample your caterpillars
Because you are my sun-kissed lane
And I will not let anything happen to you.
You are my safe haven.
CK Baker Jan 2017
They brought them
from the hollar
to the barge
to the field ~
into the wallows
in prayer
skinny little pinkers
cropped by ivory gates
buzzed with hot wire
hooked on bug worm
whistling dixie
around scrummers
and **** pen

peckers squawk
down eden lane
(nipping at jean lint
and fraystring)
deep in the hollows
a mad crow
(with a steady tap)
snouts high on
grunters
and squealers
stomping past
the feather pack

folded fingers
on the gatekeeper
(an engineer by
trade they'd say)
pigtails and
slack line
down the dusty lane
a snap of the jawbone
and lawn chairs settle
(facing north)
the bold script
and chimes
uneasy
CK Baker Feb 2017
late night by the holland sill
white framed and frilled
alongside the meadow
down by the grand
where cat fish
and cow pies
and silly yellow bees
make their stay

there are swings now
and an empty barn
(with quiet corners
and broken walls)
echoing chambers
that speak to the past
...and little dogs
not big ones

the plaster cracks
and wheat sways
from a warm west wind
it’s about time
for that late afternoon pour
you know how it cleans the soul
old percy would say

and flanders
the holder of those pigs
who fed us good
with sow and milk
as we plowed the
dusty fields
into the
hot summer sun

i can still hear the screams
of river dreams
the grand slams
and flints run dry
the barks
and breaks
and bends
a world past
with forbes
and dolls
and crab apple trees

think i’ll take a trip
up the back lane

they’ve cut the brush
and opened the line
Mary Gay Kearns May 2018
The road lay empty down the lane
No bird flew out across the sand
Alone this trampled world goes by
And dancing hours beneath me call
But in this place that is no more
The latched gate closes once and all.
My grandparents’ backgate to their garden and bungalow in Totland when they lived on the Isle of Wight.
(not far from Tennyson’s Lane )
CK Baker Mar 2017
fischers rap
on a hot tin roof
bristol creek pools
over rock and seed
english wolfhound (and the barkbuster)
stroll pine lane
vibrant colors
of a cool spring
in cob yellow and
forest green

field mice squander
in cotton wind
goats and ferret
hold seven hour trim
raven and ****
meddle and forage (on a splendid fiaker goulash!)
crickets and frogs
hidden
in swollen grey logs

creepers fill the
cut stone walls
coy wolf high
on a frayed white rope
eagles perched
at trudy’s bend
catamounts laze
on a snow base cedar
(pared arbutus bent  
through a failed ground rock)

brush spider spins
a timely web
brown bears fumble
at the spirit jamboree
quizzical squirrels
***** their nuts
as pillow clouds float
over telegraph trail

12 point dances
on talus and scree
hen hawks float
in a big hard sun
clydesdale and coach
trot copper smith road
(glancing down
on finch and the warbler
whistling through
colander row)

lavender fills
the peat soil box
mountain cats
guard the heavenly gates
black eyed ridge
is wide and open
the country squire hails
this fruitful land
Through the driveway that connects the road to the lane
The purple in my sunglasses makes reds a darker shade

Making the man on the bicycle look short of breath


I come so far for the worst tasting tea
I don't care what anyone says boiled is better than microwaved

But the kids at the counter are so eager to please


My little ones have fun for an hour and a bit
The silence is supposed to be a reprieve

But I miss them terribly when they aren't with me


Counting the seconds until I can return again
'Til I return home to cuddles and stories and little hands

Up over the bridge past the sunset


Pressing buttons for traffic lights and learning how to wait
Until we all get home again

And to sleep and to wake to another day


And one day they'll be grown and gone
Their hands full of little hands of their own

But I'll always remember that lane


The weather warming and then cooling
Looking back, it wasn't such a long driveway

Looking back, I'd walk it all again
Alaina Dec 2018
The old tree on  Maple Lane stood unwavering on the cold December night

that the young girl ended her plight

it creaked sorrowfully

as the child that once swung from its ancient limb

was buried on that evening so grim.


The old tree on Maple Lane danced to the rhythm of the wind

that glided all about, completely undisciplined

it flowered wonderfully

as the joyous winter that brought it innocence

was replaced with a warm immanence

The old tree on Maple Lane
had seen so much beauty
and so much pain

The old tree on Maple Lane
was completely beautiful and wise
Until it was slain.
save the trees!
Sara Kellie Jun 2018
Twenty years in the fast lane, speeding
was ecstacy at the time.
Sweet heady bubbles of coke,
buzzing at feeding.
No softeners added, lemon or lime.
My therapy, my medication.

******, my mind on a long vacation.
Knowing this time would
one day arrive.
My restless legs, my tired insides.
My not so central nervous system,
twitching fingers, flickering eyes.
This to me is no surprise.
My therapy, now my reprise.

Peotyr by aKydee.
Drugs saved my life once.
Gods1son Feb 26
Fast lane
Slippery road
Dangerous zone
Don't push me there

It's no one's race but mine
I'll stay in my lane
No competition
Only self fulfillment
Shadow Puppet Feb 22
I awoke under a canopy
The vicinity was uncanny...
I remained inane, in need to retain the venues address,

I rolled off the bed,
Impeccable marble bruising my once undistorted mindset

I stumbled onto my feet noticing the luxuriant substances surrounding my loss of balance
Rootlessly searching from one room to another finding ones that only emulated the previous

An amorphous shadow appears before me
I immediately vilify the object

"Why are you holding me captive?"
I ask knowing I am no damsel in distress
Its stolid voice rejects the question's request of knowledge

Intelligence full of compunction fabricated by nadir of the time

I am lulled by the shadow's signs
I hope it will not be onerous to set aside the vestige of my frustration
Replacing it with prestige for the mysterious constrain of the situation

I annex the didactic without further noise
It has hushed me with persuasive manifestation of reasonless roaming
Until we reach a glass door

I assume it to open clearly, but to the touch I'm falling
Into distant realities

I come to realize I am standing on sand,
Observing the gray of the window to the soul of a moonlit stranger I will never know

Holding the hands of a madman whilst eyes of affection hold me
Feedback wanted.
Although I will say I'm sick of writing love poems.
Shofi Ahmed Mar 2018
The material body was yet in the making
The first and foremost luminary feminine
ebb and flow heartily pans out
flawless flow to the finest angle.
Across the nadir to the zenith
Fathima eyes on upon it like it
shapes and forms are waxing lyrical:
The pure masterpiece without a mirror!

Arts on the go Fathima moves on.
Praise be to the Lord she being made
to measure inborn mathematical the pi is her!
(For the perfect circle the circumference is masculine
The pi tends to circle the blank space within is feminine)
She can budge equally in the shadow
in patternless pi decimals and in the open,
in integer into a whole full number!

Hops up her first step she looks for ‘the all’
the complete whole the absolute one Allah.
Time and again she steps up but finds no floor
Her measured step by default lays on 360-degree circle
Scans all things at the first go still finds no bottom!

The first luminary masculine peace be upon him
first looks in the open she takes the veiled angle.
Through the evermore pi decimal micro-hole
She looks on and witnesses the first water drop
surfaces up without a base without a roof on top!
It follows through truly the copy of the original
softly springing around the serene water paints  
of all the maters to be created from this first drop.
Fathima looks at it and veils withdraws her reflection.

It’s still remembered in the sky that follows suit.  
First, a star was born stepping in Fathima’s shoe.
It tried so did the full set of galaxy only to disperse
into a profound constellation never finds a bottom.
Cause amidst this water circle floats the first soil.
Allah called it His house that He first created from it.
Every planetary orb pilgrimage around it in the core
known as Ka’abah up to the heart of the earth it rose.

In the pre-designed world after the first masculine
the first feminine Fathima thus did the first pilgrimage.
She walked the walk did so in the patternless pi veil.

Nature is never uneven on the hidden hand of the pi.
Every little fraction, the small decimal does it count
connects to the dot without showing up a pattern!
Long live, long live the digital charisma is on the rise.

Retracing time and again the sun rises in the median lane,
yet the black box scores it's only a dark chart at the end of the day!
The Moon is yet to moon over an unturned sublunary-dip
It pulls all, the mighty sea that the earth can't
and sync in the feminine water cycle but save only one
with Fathima floating out of the box it can’t link up!

Like millions, ever wonder where Fathima’s grave is?
The earth strived too to the death bite to print her footprint!
Most of the mass visiting Medina look too see the grave of the holy lady Fathima. It has been a tradition since her death some fourteen hundred years ago. There are two graves where she is buried but which one is her is still unknown. Reportedly she wanted her grave to remain unidentified.
This Day, two Biped Ponies each of you ride,
Strolling along the lane Lovers enjoy
To watch this Sweet Scene from way far behind,
A Cheque I'd like to cash-in this Friday
Yes, for Pence-Tales of Romance and Success
Thinking to Follow is easy enough
How many, do those Squirrels squeak at-less
The Time which Currency states on the Rough
I guess Luck's Fair in Friendship does depend
On a Brisket-List sorted in custom
To where each of you in Common does spend,
Well, better than sulk out of sheer boredom.
The Bullseye's paid, admitting my Defeat,
Licking my own Fab's whilst hugging the Street.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Marigolds Fever Oct 2018
Lightning bug Lane
Covered brushed terrain
Blinking lights dance in Grassy knoll
And Dazzle as one gently strolls
Just after twilight
In calm wind
Little specs of light begin
Narrow path filled with soft wings
Human hearts sing
Of bioluminescence flight
That Brings a feeling of utter delight
Grab the hand within reach
A dark perspective for each
Wander to path end
Turn around
And come back again
Flashing light patterns
Seeking mates
By the creek bed
They await
Anderson M Aug 2018
Yesterday’s but a drop
In the ocean of the past.
Its sorrows, joys, triumphs, defeat
Highs, lows all crushed to a uniform
“Consistency” In the crucible of experience.
And so every so often
With the frequency and urgency
Of reaching yearningly for a cookie jar
We reach out to the repository of experience
To live through once again
The moments that inspired either awe or consternation.
Each waking moment, we replenish the contents
Of this cookie jar so it never runs out
Thus partaking of its essence into the unforeseeable future.
The now’s fodder that feeds into the udder of experience,and oh,how we like to milk it dry.
crown of bobby pins and bandana
  she hoists a beer bottle scepter
  dime store paste royal necklace
  moth holed sweater Queen's cape
  her well worn lawn chair throne
  she stays alert in  her tower
  surveys her realm on Alcott Lane
  nothing escapes the queen's watch
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