"lowlands" poems
O' how they rise above each other,
the descendants of Babel!
Rebels to forefathers.
All as righteous as they seem –
to the law, but not to reality
Towers Among Towers!
unreachable by mere ones
mocking the lowlands
with their heights
Even dreams could not fathom!
And oh, how Towers fall too,
at the top of their limit.
Catastrophe! Phenomena!
their power too is frail
because there is always
One that stands taller
than any other could avail.
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 5:41 AM UTC
Watching the Panda resting,
Scorching in the southwestern sun,
China is a colourful place,
He eats the bamboo that grows with grace.
He's old now and has moved from the lowlands,
Farmers drove him from his safety,
He is endangered,
Docile and beautiful.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 6:12 AM UTC
grey skies roll
clouded tropical
undercurrents
of future falls
shrouding skies
and shifting seas
from sad-eyed lowlands
to mountain highs
and we as trees
shiver branches
ever extending
shootings in the breeze
at arm’s reach
we never touch
planted
too far apart
and as such
falling droplets
slip through fingers
and shatter the ground
an endless coming down
our roots soaked through
spent
and craving more
all around
aroused from slumber
the petrichor grows
slowly floating up
and filling the air
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 9:03 PM UTC
I
This is the night mail crossing the Border,
Bringing the cheque and the postal order,
Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,
The shop at the corner, the girl next door.
Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:
The gradient's against her, but she's on time.
Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder
Shovelling white steam over her shoulder,
Snorting noisily as she passes
Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.
Birds turn their heads as she approaches,
Stare from bushes at her blank-faced coaches.
Sheep-dogs cannot turn her course;
They slumber on with paws across.
In the farm she passes no one wakes,
But a jug in a bedroom gently shakes.
II
Dawn freshens, Her climb is done.
Down towards Glasgow she descends,
Towards the steam tugs yelping down a glade of cranes
Towards the fields of apparatus, the furnaces
Set on the dark plain like gigantic chessmen.
All Scotland waits for her:
In dark glens, beside pale-green lochs
Men long for news.
III
Letters of thanks, letters from banks,
Letters of joy from girl and boy,
Receipted bills and invitations
To inspect new stock or to visit relations,
And applications for situations,
And timid lovers' declarations,
And gossip, gossip from all the nations,
News circumstantial, news financial,
Letters with holiday snaps to enlarge in,
Letters with faces scrawled on the margin,
Letters from uncles, cousins, and aunts,
Letters to Scotland from the South of France,
Letters of condolence to Highlands and Lowlands
Written on paper of every hue,
The pink, the violet, the white and the blue,
The chatty, the catty, the boring, the adoring,
The cold and official and the heart's outpouring,
Clever, stupid, short and long,
The typed and the printed and the spelt all wrong.
IV
Thousands are still asleep,
Dreaming of terrifying monsters
Or of friendly tea beside the band in Cranston's or Crawford's:
Asleep in working Glasgow, asleep in well-set Edinburgh,
Asleep in granite Aberdeen,
They continue their dreams,
But shall wake soon and hope for letters,
And none will hear the postman's knock
Without a quickening of the heart,
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?
4.7k
they called it a lake home because there were
no knobs only latches
with padlocks for winter.
it was spring when I left.
the water was in the arroyo
when colorado raised her snowy head
above the hills and brush of northern new mexico.
and you wept
with tears strange to me as yellow flowers
in the canyons and flatlands, laughing for water.
the truck broke down just south of Los Lunas
the smoke and steam drawn off by a fierce wind
that drove the tumbleweeds to
new lowlands. eager with seeds.
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 5:43 PM UTC
NOTE - The largest animal in Great Britain, a red stag named Emperor who stood over 9ft tall, was last night shot dead by a trophy hunter. The antlers of the majestic deer are highly prized, and after pictures of the stag appeared in the national press last week, the animal was tracked and killed in Exmoor, Devon.
These mist covered mountains of the highlands,
‘twas here that I once freely wandered upon nature’s pasture grounds,
Now I lie shrouded in the mournful fog of the lowlands,
‘twas here that I was met by a pack of bone breaking hounds.
The fresh dew upon the harvest of autumn’s final flowering,
‘twas here that I chewed the grass of sweet nature’s offering,
Now I grow cold upon the ground where I was stalked by dark doom,
‘twas here that I left life’s rocky way under a hunter’s moon.
The air of the early morn moor with the sky above my dome,
‘twas here that I ran and with joy loved and royally roamed,
Now my legs will nevermore click or clack over my domain fenced with tree gates,
‘twas here that I wooed and won my shy majestic mate.
She, my queen of the green woodlands, she was my wife and my empire,
‘twas here that we romanced in the fading summer’s fire,
Our charming child, my princess of these grassy hills now cloaked in shade,
‘twas here that she saw her father the monarch in death finally fade.
In the chorus of the dancing dawn awakening upon the horizon’s golden rhyme,
‘twas here that I sang the tune that will drum till the end of nature’s time,
They will come with stakes and wood and cross and bow me to the beams,
‘twas here where they hacked and tore off my enchanted crown of weeping dreams.
The scent of the freshly mown grass mingles with the green pine,
‘twas here that I drank the perfume and nectar of the divine,
My eyes glaze, my breathing falters, my clay chills, my soul no more sings,
‘twas here that I finally returned to the hands of my Beloved, the eternal King.
*"...I shall now graze upon the sacred acres of my Creator,
I shall frolic and run free in the tender fields of endless splendour..."*
©Rangzeb Hussain
Oct 27, 2010
Oct 27, 2010 at 3:08 AM UTC
Inception Transcribed (Spoken Word- Freestyle-Dramatics)
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
==Inception Transcribed ==
by
SassyJ
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
(Copy the link below to your browser)
Inception and intersection of human life are diverse. We are ushered as a blank canvas to the shores of life. Socialised with values, beliefs and cultures. Our acclimatised acculturation. Submerged in the swampy lowlands each sunk and wandering through and through.
This morning I woke and left my house...... looked up to the horizons of nature. And there it was.... a revolving camera smiling at each stride I take... following me and taunting me. Unreserved in institutions, submerged in the ever decaying social structures.
Why do we do what we do everyday?
Is it part of the human processes and functions?
To exist and be absolutely absent but present. I fret, then I smile. Trying to join the puzzles in the mazes. Ever questioning if I am here to learn or to be polluted by bureaucracy.
Lets call for an assembly, announce that the town is dead. Yet, its people are gasping, breathing to fill their lives with a new paradigm. Look at me all cyanosed , the blueness of the dying veins... sunk in the redistribution and social panic. Re-engaged in the demoralised democracy. Look at me asking....
What is the meaning of life?
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 6:09 PM UTC
invisible friends are gods, Christ in bed reading the news
& listening to Mary's magic ****** seems When Jesus
was asked about the standing recognition of the right
of her daughter's wall; simply talking ardently fell power
to meet **** & Satan forever on unknown ground
leaving it to a computer to maintain the angel prostitutes;
receive gifts, the smoke is full of alchemy, and the fat,
cut off in the field, it is not for the robot to understand
the point of madness; they turn their strippers into many
broken to pieces, rain all through the south & the lowlands,
& the wind guns, the sails & the rich man, on Bob into the ******
of the dog, who is not the kiss on the stripper's lips of a tree
to scratch the muses about the winds, he who is putting it up
at the last time the spirit of it was a monster, holding them
in a small amount of the size of the heart to change the mirror
of a gypsy; Mark & Bettie & the Chinese sense of how much
the light of the angle of the wall of the city, to think of the buried
sand & fled to lay down the knowledge, has set out how
the Christians of the world who are so, he loved the angels,
from its smell in front of the cleanliness of heart, producing
an end to gun fire, Einstein's bag, & the fire would have been
liberated from the dance movement in defiance of the State
for abductions; invisible friends are gods, Christ in bed,
reading the news and listening to Mary's magic posts,
was Jesus when he was asked about the standing enlarged
cheated death by a third just to the right of her daughter's wall;
Top simply talking ardent fell power to meet **** & Satan
forever unknown land is one of the PC of the angels to play
the harlot they are given and that the smoke of the alchemy,
the fat to cut off the fields did not produce the robot to
understand the point of madness they turn their stripper
in many broken to pieces, the rain & of the south,
the plains of the wind, the torments of the sails of
the rich man Bob in the sheath of a dog, who is not
the kiss of strippers is of a tree with the fingers of
the Muses of the winds, who laid down the wall of
the city to be; invisible friends are gods, Christ in bed,
reading the news and listening to Mary's magic posts
was Jesus when he was asked about the standing enlarged
by death through a third just to the right of her daughter
walls; Top simply talking ardent fell power to meet ****
& Satan for ever unknown to the soil from the PC
by the angels, there shall be no such fornication,
that these are from the smoke that is made in the alchemy
& the fat, that he may destroy out of the land of the fields
are not producing out of it the robot to understand the point
of madness they turn their stripper in many broken to pieces,
and storms of the south, the plains of the winds of the torments
of the sails of the rich man Bob into the sheath:
with the Muses, who has not denied the strippers is a tree
of a dog & put it on the wall of his fingers into his invisible
friends who are gods; Christ in bed, reading the news &
listening to Mary's magic posts of Jesus when he was asked
about the standing greatly enlarged, of a third just to the right
of her daughter's wall; Top simply talking ardent fell power
to meet Dick's century Satan and angels; Bob is rich
in its sails quickly with the Muses & denied the tree
strippers from the dog, put it on the wall with his fingers
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 2:54 PM UTC
I'm not in a rush to leave this place.
I'm in no hurry, it's not a race.
I'd like to take it real slow.
So many stunning places to go.
I want to travel far and wide.
See much more of the English countryside.
Beautiful beaches that surround us in Cornwall and Devon, remind us we live in our own corner of Heaven.
Mystical places with tales of legends to tell.
So much to do and see, I'll do my best to make it sell.
Tintagel such a mystic place, where legend has it King Arthur had his chair.
He had a roundtable it held many Knights, all ready to defend, always ready for a fight.
In York a Viking museum to tell how they came upon our shores, with longboats, a 60 man crew, paddled with their oars.
Bath has the best Roman baths to be found, laze and spoil yourself in the steam rooms built in Roman surrounds.
In Wales, there's Snowdonia for you to climb, or the less active can take a train ride.
A castle in Caernarfon where Princes are appointed by H M The Queen, the sword on the shoulder duly declares arise HRH Prince of Wales, the crowd are waiting for the new Prince to be seen.
In Scotland there's Edinburgh with a castle tall and round sits atop a very high mound.
The lowlands and the Highlands are a sight of well known beauty, driving around the lochs at night keep your eyes open for a monstrous sight, nessie fact or fiction,
Of course there are the lakes of England too, Windermere the largest draws the biggest crowd. Find a cottage out of sight, snuggle up with a loved one, cuddle tight.
Put on your water skis, hire a boat, sail your wind surfing board, fire up your jet ski any of these activities can be fun and available to be done, daily.
The Cotswolds, for take your breath away beauty, small villages, luscious village greens, cricket playing in the field, Large Houses, Lord of the Manors, old worldly pubs, thatched pubs and rivers waiting to be seen.
There are Dartmoor, Bodmin Moor and Exmoor too, Peak District, Lake District mountain ranges, many a zoo.
I'm not in a rush to leave this place.
I'm in no hurry, it's not a race.
I'd like to take it real slow.
So many stunning places to go.
So much to do, so much to see.
On your doorstep, no need to stray.
Whatever you do, wherever you go, have a happy holiday.
May 5, 2018
May 5, 2018 at 12:49 PM UTC
One glossy raven perched, stately,
atop a snowy hill, Unearthly Long flowing wings, hanging down the slope, framing the hill
on the face of which,
were interposed two glacial ponds of blue.
Between these pools ran a simple strip of sloped marble,
But at the base of this was the most gentle depression in the snow.
In disbelief I observed two rows of strawberries, blossoming,
heavy laden with the richest red.
Each gentle bite of these more delicious than the last.
I continued my survey,
down to a long narrow hill of the freshest snow.
Here I came upon a wide expanse, a plain,
two long, slender berms extended at opposite sides.
But this was no true plain, and all the better for that,
For two equal mounds of snow enchanted the landscape.
The setting sun cast a pink light at the peak of each pale globe,
So beautiful I wept.
As I passed between their valley the snowy distance continued.
I observed an infinitesimal sloping on the Western and Eastern edges.
This expanse, perfect of any true blemish, was punctuated by the shallowest little empty pond at its narrowest width; which only served to enhance the beauty.
The length of this snowed plain was far greater than its width, the edges slowly creeping into the narrowest part before flaring out to a wide expanse.
And there in the lowlands was The Delta,
to the side of which extended two of the longest and most shapely tapering ridges I had ever observed;
each ending with graceful peaks.
But that Delta!
Though snowy, the darkest , shortest scrub had capped its mound.
At the apex of The Delta was a precipice,
on its face a cavern, pink walls glistening with wetness,
at the caverns base, a cave.
Its tunnel, with walls ribbed, was warm and humid despite the landscape of snow.
This is the landscape I cherish most.
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 9:50 PM UTC
Being silent was best
Ham is strong and he threatened me
with a fatal accident
Then there was a child
Oh, my dear husband
the tireless
naturalist of the fermented juice
of sweet grapes
His old age has been tarnished
by that made-up anecdote
which hid the rapes
under a moment of shamelessness
But the punishment betrays it
anyway, the eternal curse
from the first scream
of the baby, innocent
Canaan, my youngest son
His generations to generation
subjugated and squeezed to death
in the purple lowlands
Jun 19, 2022
Jun 19, 2022 at 3:55 AM UTC
Often alone I think of you
rolling mountains covered in a purple haze
both in highlands and lowlands too
running water so pure sparkling bright
making our whisky a natural delight
Caledonia - the land of my dreams
I hear music played from the heart
oh' the sound of pipes and drums
heart racing hairs standing on end
poetry filling my eyes with tears
recited at suppers year after year
in celebration of bards no longer here
Caledonia - the land of my dreams
Men wearing tartan skirts with nothing underneath
dancing between swords at highland gatherings
playing games testing their manhood
eating haggis a pudding often misunderstood
porridge,shortbread, salmon and oatcakes
quality food that is for sure
Caledonia - the land of my dreams
History remembered with pride
Mary Stuart, Bonnie Prince Charlie
Wallace, Culloden and Nessie too
some myths, some true
castles, lochs, bridges and glens
places where lassies are called hen
where houses are often **** un bens
people answering with ah' ken
Celtic blood running through my veins
makes me glad I am alive and living here
Caledonia - the land of my dreams
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 5:44 AM UTC
Toss away sheltering umbrella,
Seek to samba triumphant in the rain.
Edit dramatic doldrums from the novella,
Relate an easy tongue of the urbane.
Call a friend as helpful lifeline,
Castle Queenside for defense,
Debate the speed of light with Einstein,
Let love be your sixth sense.
Swim out through the breakers,
Surf the hurricane back home,
Reject the quackery of fakers,
Let rain cloud be your geodesic dome.
Vilify politics of standstill,
Wink the lowlands of the moon.
Pitch an idea to the gristmill,
Sing impromptu to typhoon.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 5:17 PM UTC
FLANDERS, the name of a place, a country of people,
Spells itself with letters, is written in books.
"Where is Flanders?" was asked one time,
Flanders known only to those who lived there
And milked cows and made cheese and spoke the home language.
"Where is Flanders?" was asked.
And the slang adepts shot the reply: Search me.
A few thousand people milking cows, raising radishes,
On a land of salt grass and dunes, sand-swept with a sea-breath on it:
This was Flanders, the unknown, the quiet,
The place where cows hunted lush cuds of green on lowlands,
And the raw-boned plowmen took horses with long shanks
Out in the dawn to the sea-breath.
Flanders sat slow-spoken amid slow-swung windmills,
Slow-circling windmill arms turning north or west,
Turning to talk to the swaggering winds, the childish winds,
So Flanders sat with the heart of a kitchen girl
Washing wooden bowls in the winter sun by a window.
2.1k
(G)
Life as a burden is decent
Treading in hatched up waterways
Swimming in the green brine ebbing tides
Drowned in emotive stances
A being intensified in rapid torrents
Ohh my…fickleness soaked in curiosity
(J)
Decent sounds pretty substantial
I lay acquainted to swampy lowlands
My footsteps have tasted salty waters
Stepped, wadding inside the muddy landscape
Inch by inch, halfway, fully submerged
Overloaded by the tide gasping for oxygen
(G)
Populaces catwalk with intellectual deficit
Footsteps bereft of creativity and eloquence
The grounds lay dry strangling the in-between
The desert begging to lose their sandy dry skin
The forest whispers with a revolt of transformation
The luscious green splash life sparking drones
(J)
Your analogy sways the natured array of trees
The inspiration stings the sun to radiate warmth
All patched in the blueness of bellowing skies
My lungs deflate even on intense inhalation
I tarmac on the passage of time, differently wired
Intermittently cyanosed in faded lived moments
(G)
For poetry and art scaffolds and shapes reality
It sparks life and eliminates the drone mentality
Artists arouse inspiration and boost human nature
It bridges the narrowing ledge of ( human diversity/ instead of/ diverse species)
It drives conversation and deepens basic pleasantries
Rotating notions, promoted to a present and active human
(J)
I object not, for human essence is essential
A foundation of humanity that inspires and frees
A deed that dips in the depth of a lush oasis
Most sunk and waving “a celebration of celebrities”
Falsified lionization, a control of master puppeteer
Amused by insight, the reciprocal contract of empathy
G= Graff1980
J=SassyJ
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 7:01 AM UTC
The cry
of the barrel screams
Screams resound across the earth's
Great Expanse
Expands from the lowlands of Vail to
the valleys of Los Angeles to
the depths of Oceania to
the oceans of death and,
after incessantly increasing,
incredulously stops.
Except not really.
Really, to most Valians,
he was just a name in passing,
fluttering past consciousness just long enough
to get a "poor thing" or a "shame."
Really, his body hit the cement a full
7 hours, 6 minutes before his parents came work
from home, not the other way round,
Saw the alien body of their offspring, then the corpse,
and threw themselves
at lawyers, counselors, and more lawyers
as each professional debated which lover
he wanted as his teammate in the opening of
The Blame Games.
Really, the cessation of Adam's heart
didn't open the gates in exuberant expectation of
The true savior.
His beats stopped when
the world began
The lost change in between his seat cushions
never had just one meaning.
Really, he never thought he would
ever amount to more than a dollar.
Really, the only question that matters,
the only entreatment with gravity,
is, Was he right?
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 10:57 PM UTC
I've been wandering around, like a waltzing matilda.
From Fife in the lowlands, to the cliffs of St. Kilda.
Carrying my life, and all that it wills
Appalachia and plains, to the mighty Black Hills.
Trekking so far, exploring the Earth
Miles away, from the place of my birth.
From the land of the Scots, to the land of the Sioux
From familiar homes, to the places so new.
I'm wandering around, with so much to do.
In the land of the Gaels, to the land of Lakota,
I'm slinging around, like a waltzing matilda.
Oct 14, 2020
Oct 14, 2020 at 12:36 PM UTC
Autumn in New Zealand is a masterpiece on canvas
Patternings of goldens and bright rose hips in their beds,
Copses of coniferous in deep and darkly avenues
To the brilliance of a country lane awash with leafy reds.
Chimney fires are smoking in the rural country cottages
The warming glow of lanterns in the windows as I pass,
A tantalising whiff of hot buttered scones is wafting
And somewhere in the distance I can hear a red deer bark.
Strolling by the lakeside in the early morning stillness
My breathing fogs before me in the chillness of the air,
Rowan trees glow scarlet and the naked ***** willow
Has shed her golden carpet on the emerald hillock there.
Rushes rattle softly in the mistyness of lowlands
Treeeferns in their glory of silver filagree,
Sparrows ruffle feathers to insulate the coolness
As wheeling flocks of starling mass to migrate to be free.
Gossamer as fairy dust the thistledown is floating
A harbinger of autumn leaves and freezing frost to come,
Those Coriollis forces are determining the changeling
Where the snowy days approaching means the Autumn tones are done.
Marshalg
27 April 2013
In rural Pukekohe.
New Zealand
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 1:03 AM UTC
We are apart
but the memory of this time
this very time this hour
a week ago
last week in fact
so vivid fresh
it must be true
no idle dream
or fancy’s flight
but oh so very real
and very true . . .
naked on our bed you lie
for me to draw to sketch
I let my hand and
pads of fingers five
describe those shadows
your body forms and folds -
that dark dark space beyond
your folded arm and resting breast
and then a plateau next
the smooth persuasive lowlands
of your bottom’s rise and just
before descent miraculously
a crease (as if from nowhere) forms
and runs and disappears
deep deep deep into the depths
between your thighs . . .
. . . and then to gaze
at the kind disorders of your hair
hair in which I love to lose my nose
and feel my eye-lids stroked and kissed
by twists and sudden unexpected curls
(and maybe find an ear and with
the tongue’s most tentative touch)
the confluence the turbulence the trace
and thread of nature’s line and stem . . .
Know with the mind’s eye
these forms I hold entire
and all the while your beauty’s
gentle song plays on
looping forever in the mind’s ear
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 4:39 AM UTC
On lowlands where the temples lie
The marsh-grass mingles with the flowers,
Only the little songs of birds
Link the unbroken hours.
So in the end, above my heart
Once like the city wild and gay,
The slow white stars will pass by night,
The swift brown birds by day.
1.3k
He laughs so hard it feels like he's laughing at you
Comedy is the best Philosophy
After a Tragic History
My Head will never be ******* on again
Lose weight and get laid
Is the typical answer to everything
Marriage is the be all and end all
Driving a stake into the ground and settling up camp
Highest grade imaginable
Hearty losers making an early deathbed
Don't bury me when I'm gone, I don't want that brown soil
Ideas buried alive in the dirt of my mind
Figures, I'd have to chase it actually
Watching scores grab at me
Fearing me naturally
Mum! I'm going Off
Stop Smoking ****
Stop Smoking ****
Hard Knock Life, Ghetto Anthem
The Struggle is Beautiful
We are the Blessing
Black is Cool, White: Innocent?
What do We do, Now Equality is Assumed?
Feminism isn't cool
Anarchism's for...fools
(?)Hope you consider the meaning of words
Hope redefinitions start teaching us words
Language is a paradox, we can't refute words
Panic at the infinite, our romance is absurd
Paper aeroplanes will litter my hall
Children at my mercy, I have to teach them to fall
Teach them to pick themselves up and go forth
Trying to be the same Slave that I bought
Forget being humble I'm heading for the Lowlands
I'm singing across the riverside, rapping my feet along the path
Dire through the mire, hip hopping across rocky foundations
Beat dropping like a generation, the way is the destination
No direction to this poem, no direction home,
Lost in the world, see through my Third Eye
I'm laughing so hard now it's all in a dream
Would it be best to die at your happiest moment?
Just know I did it for Hip Hop,
Promise that you will sing about me when I'm gone
And I did it for Jay
My Best Mate
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 6:15 PM UTC
There once was a shadow who thought he was a man,
He made his empty bed in a shame of familiars,
For years if not an eternity he never did one single thing,
He contemplated creativity in all its smoke and mirrors,
His only credo was padding his unknowing, limp ego,
Got a gig, speaking before a throng of other shadows,
He rewrote the crook about his own insignificances, suddenly
Nothing's became every things, all was sorely well in the bleak
Under toes. Shadowman had found his stage, had rearranged
Chaos and insignificance to the point of no enlightenments,
No regrets. What a sage!
Shadowman aped, traced, spewed in studied literature,
Experienced, faith, trust, fidelity, danced numbers,
In a cellophane pack with all the added extras included,
Found that reflecting words only got in his narcissistic way,
Left the California sun for the New York lowlands
Of the east, that only shine after the hurricane's
Deluge. Shadowman has reams of flesh plastered
On a mall of wallowing sites only Shadowmen frequent,
Modern is the moly man who makes his own myth.
Shadowman has traveled to the great southern climes
Where hotels of shade tell tales of locals and enlightenment is in a drug
Called something South American or other? A drug so smug it is a plug
For his dun holy soul. Shadowman is only a silhouette of himself.
He freely gives seminars to the lame, chained to themselves freely,
Where all the vain echoes are chambered, embodied, entombed.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 11:19 PM UTC
Reading Harlon's
words about a sweet
bird's song of dreams
of a garden soon grown
is like listening to
the wise old gnome
singing his song about a
sad-eyed lady from the lowlands.
r ~ 5/19/14
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 9:16 PM UTC
Here in these lowlands,I turn and you call,Your voice comes across the miles,Reaching me at lastYour bracken filled hills resound around these walls,Your rivers swirl and heal my pain,Your oak filled greenwoods wait for my laughter.Painful it is leaving mine here;But your groves and hills have become my family,Nestling here in sheltered sleep,Your stone forest sings my dreams awake.
Feb 24, 2010
Feb 24, 2010 at 1:18 AM UTC
An overall’d uncle stabbed over homemade champagne drifts around the bend.
A commemoration quilt and the Adamsville population shifts around the bend.
There’s an old hymn torn out of Martha’s hymnal, an elegy, a black dress.
“These details seem important,” Preacher says in European swifts around the bend.
The rains come and wash away the things we bury, bodies and toy cars.
Lowlands become lakes and a lone, malaise blackbird lifts around the bend.
A boy, all elbows and knees, in corduroy everything, in the thick of it,
drives a truck with no wipers, no license, the stick shifts around the bend.
The homes with electric lose electric, and the newspaper floats off porch.
No news today, nor tomorrow these are philanthropic gifts around the bend.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 12:49 PM UTC