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Robert C Howard May 2017
Through an open window, I hear
      the Big Thompson's steady music
drifting up from the valley below.

May breezes and gentle rains
     coax the snow-capped peaks
to surrender their alabaster cloaks
      downslope into gathering streams.

Silhouetted by light from the waxing moon,
      a cinnamon bear lopes along water’s edge,
pauses for a draught and meanders on.

A bull elk newly coifed with velvet antlers
        folds his legs beneath its belly
and kneels into grasses beside a tranquil pond.
        while the Big Thompson rushes on.

Spring beauties, calypso orchids and geraniums  
       shake off their winter's sleep and
dot every vagabond trail and verdant hill
        while fresh new leaves adorn the aspen boughs.

The Big Thompson inexorably presses on
        bound for rendezvous with time and space
and tumbles into the always patient sea.

© 2017 by Robert Charles Howard
DivineDao Feb 2016

Soft lovely water
Meanders by our bare feet.
A salmon jumps out!

forged in the likeness of you
the whisper meanders in my memory bank
it dances softly on a burgundy velvet glove
that covers my wrinkled hand
it visits me in deepest dreams
and speaks in hushed tones
of the infinite days ahead
when we shall once again dance together

forged in the feeling of you
I live each day like the last
holding onto the past
like a cat with a caught bird
not allowing it to die
waking to the sounds of winter winds
and old favorites on the radio
the ones we listened to together
so many years ago
those years that forged a love so strong
that I rarely blink twice
without the thought of you dancing by
12/2006 slightly revised
Nico Julleza May 2017
(Just like these days)

When my heart
sang a placid song
the speaking brooks
meanders my soul
Wild hounds
hovered the meadows
And the sky was blue
ethereal as the billow
strews in shades anew
For Daybreak
is awake

On the fields
of glowing weeds
a subtle flower blooms
through the breeze
And to thee,
it kisses the gentle mist

Oh! what a Morning
Oh! what a day

When trees glistens
from beams
of never ending sun rays
made me so ***
so yes, it can be.

(Just like these days)

Like Diamonds & Gold
upon barren land
and rubies worn
by a maiden’s hand

Oh! what an Evening
Oh! what a way

When monarchs flew
from voluptuous crooks
dodging witches
and evil dukes

Callous, Treacherous
"A Foolish Irony"
might I say
but yes, it can be.

(Just like these days)
"The poem tells about how a person can have such uncanny days,
still even though how hard or easy it would be. Its Just like those days we would agree".

Inspired of Wild Child by Enya

#Days #Nature #Life #Love #Pain #Joy
(NCJ)POETRYProductions. ©2017
Benjamin Dec 2017
The soil and sand remember
how the cities wept,
the towers bowing and breaking,
collapsing with the weight
of the blame they kept within;

the coastal causeway meanders
down a bone-dry path
to nowhere,
passing nothing in particular
but some stilted shacks
in the former fens;

and my own familiar forest,
where I trapped a fox
and made a friend,
was caught off guard by
a flash of light, and some
freakish violent wind;

and now I sit on a stump,
glowing green with
weaponized dust,
to scan this new Sahara
for some sign of life—
some vindication, or some

but alas,
it’s now past midnight,
and we are all just
lX0st Dec 2018
On nights like this
Tired eyes reminisce
Of a former life
Like French doors opening
To familiar gardens
Where prunes grow on fingers
And lavender blooms
In the iridescent luster
Of warm water droplets
Serenading shoulders
Where reason and chaos blend
Into peach white tea
Swallows carry songs
Through their wings
Stirring decadent incense
Of exhaling trees
Sunlight waltzes with
Saturated leaves
Their indelible patterns
Rhythmic marigold sleeves
Carefree meanders along
Luscious promenade, swathed
In pomegranate-stained poppies
Ripe for the picking
In them, a fragrant ecstasy
Alive inside this memory
ardnaxela Apr 2018
4/29/18 5:47 pm

I wish you wouldn't blame yourself
For those memories I'll never get
I wish you wouldn't flinch so much
At dinner
when the conversation
meanders to my name
I wish my happiest moments
were shared with some of yours
I wish my accomplishments the same
I wish you could make a guilt-free trip
To see me.
I wish when I smiled
Your soul would adhere and do as such
I wish those times when I was knocked off balance
Your love would have been my crutch
I wish in our text messages there was no distance
I wish phone calls between us existed
I wish my existence didn't make you so uncomfortable.
I wish you would have gotten to know me
I wish you could have helped to paint my canvass
I wish you knew I'm not upset
I wish it wasn't too late
the dreams are forgotten quickly
no longer a source of interest
of mystery
or even sadness
they are simply accepted and left to vanquish
into the ether
the years
the words
the search for fire
in a dormant soul
the light is flickering
the voice is quieting
the vision of a kindred spirit
is all but blind hope
the poet in me
meanders alone in his thoughts
that are short and void of secrets
he no longer hears the call
no longer seeks the path
to discovering
the perfectly articulated
cant think of any
David R Mar 1
In her dream, the waterfall torrent
Crashes to effervescence,
With force and verve, vivacious apparent,
Shoots arrowed iridescence.

In cruel reality, a rivulet meanders,
Blind to mountain and fell,
Downhill she flows, barely seen,
Pebbles and stones part of her scene.

Here she circumvents boulder and rock,
There gives way to shout and shock,
Hiding her head between her knees,
Longs to lose herself in the seas.

I knelt down close to hear her cries,
Allowed her tears wash over my eyes,
Caressed her soft water with my hands,
Sprinkled her sweetness o'er the land.

'Sweet stream', I whisper, 'The waterfall you dream,
Lives through its roar ‘n terror,
But life lives not in its awesome scream,
Life lives not in its horror.'

'Without you the doe could not parch their thirst,
Frogs could not breed, nor dippers immerse.
Heavenly daughter, jeweled traverse,
One silent ripple is an angel's universe.’
What4221 Sep 2018
Let's delve deep into the human psyche
Ya know
Really get a feel for it
Because maybe somewhere in that vast unexplored frontier we'll find an answer

Because maybe I'm messed up and I have scars because of an unconscious retribution
Maybe my dad's alcoholism was a gift of unholy origins
Maybe my mom will stop crying at night

Protect the kids
They can't hear the pain if they're asleep

Somewhere in our cosmos there has to be an answer
Of why when Jack met Jill they didn't get a happy ever after

I'm still waiting for test results of the taboo
And I hear people say it's my fault
Then it's not my fault
Then it's okay
Then it's not that bad anyway

I hate it when you wear the skimpiest clothes you can find
For body positivity
Part of loving yourself
Is respecting yourself

Let's cycle back around
I'm talking my perspective
I'm just writing this poem so I can forget about what happened

So I'm sorry it meanders

Because sometimes wanderers are lost
And I don't think I'm ever gonna be found
It was a good thought, Dear Evan Hansen
But I can't even find windows to look through

I lost my shot
Middle of the night
And all I can do is hate
Hate myself

They all think I've got a chance
It's nice people believe in me
I just wish they could also see me

I erased a few lines in here
Just in case you're reading
I don't think you are
But you were my best friend for years
I know I wasn't yours

I don't want everyone to know the darkness that creeps inside of me sometimes
It scares me

Let's take a rocket ship to understanding and relearn tolerance

Love ya hon.

I know you don't love me.
sweet serendipity pouring through our veins like honey
timeline tragedies are existential certainties
stolen virtues and symbols of power are certain to remain
i wish to show you something that you’ve always known
in the tower of love we shall take our cover from the fire and the rain
forever faithful even after the entire world has been swallowed
in the flames

sweet embers burning
the state of the world is turning
towards darkness again
as dharma fades
what shall we name ourselves
when all is lost
what cost will we have to pay
how can we live again
there is no other way
save the road of innocence
all is a gamble
a sentient mess
the world is fading fast
as despair rises
its hard to know what to do
sing or dance or run away
give up hope or rock the boat
what an ephemeral day
starts out fresh and ends in sorrow
burns the fingers and soothes the soul
tomorrow is another opportunity
are we going home
or heading into the shadows
what are we here for
the lion roars and bares his teeth
as we sink into deep remorse
unsure of ourselves
we cast longer shadows
and break our spirits
darkness meanders like a heavy fog
the road is long and windy
spines are twisting
like vines for climbing
combining memory with freedom
m Aug 2018
love of mine; kingdom come's own crowned prince and esteemed warrior all the same, forever rising and falling in bounteous attempts to revive a dwindling empire barely abiding atop humbling fingertips for more lifetimes than any mortal soul could foolishly count. our daring voyager, he who meanders through realm upon realm, ever meticulously perusing and incessantly seeking, not once laying aside his sole benevolent purpose.
Ryan O'Leary Feb 11
The last snake in Ireland
is the poisonous Asp.

It meanders from Derry
to County Down.

Republicans call it, the
Anglo Saxon Presbyterian.
A bone meets another bone
And you have a joint !
Joints are allright !
Cartilage !
Without them you couldn't possibly dance !
Imagine only your sacrum and your ilium
and no sacro-iliac joint
And no innominate bones
Imagine just a second a pelvis without coccyx
And your seven cervical
Your twelve thoracic
And your five lumbar vertebrae
Hanging loose !
How could you possibly swing your pelvis
From one side to the other
Without your pelvic floor ?
No more grand plié
No more passé développé à la seconde
No more attitude en avant on pointe
Farewell penché
Farewell attitude derrière !
See what I mean !
That's why I always say
I'd rather be with no bone
No skull no heart
Ï 'd rather be a hurricane
Wind has no skeleton
Wind needs no joint
Wind goes naked
No shoes, no underwear
And despite of all that
Wind is a ballet dancer, a danseur étoile
With no dimples in the back.
Wind can lie supine and stand upright
Feet parallel, legs stretched
Wind has no greater nor lesser trochanter
Wind has no right gluteus maximus muscle
No feet flexed, no ****** femoris muscle
Wind never gets pinched, stuck nor jammed
Wind is constant ricochet, yo-yo, meanders
Gulf Stream !
Wind is a catwalk model
Dancing its swinging walk
I sweep the patriotic streets
In need of beauty and feeling
History has a way of dealing with people like us
That can be rough and kind of cruel
His story wavers like a lonely old man
Savoring a cup of coffee in the morning
Or some soup in the middle of the day
We pay attention to the attitudes of companionship
We find memories change course along the way
Our journey meanders but we are safe
To raise our voices in dismay
Whenever I feel we’ve gone astray
You slip your fingers into mine
And say, I'll see you in my dreams
Again someday
Not far from thine eyes there’s a garden
And in that garden rolls a strange river,
A river though older than ancient Eden
Hath lost her silvery luster never.

In merry flowers of spring she rolls through,
Meandering past sweltering fields of summer,
Down through verdant meadows of autumn,
Till bids adieu strange barren plains of winter,

Serpentining through flowers of spring again.
And this proudly rolling river akin to any river
Thou canst not touch her same waters again
For swifter than a comet she gallops forever.

This, men of now and of yore have known,
All animals of the woods, all birds of the vale,
The poor and those who wear a golden crown,
For fickleness of this river they know well.

Hark! If thou hast noticed not this river,
A river that meanders from clime to clime
Evermore, thy mind's eye remains blind forever,
For this's the strange river by name, Time.

©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros,
Los Angeles, California, USA. 03/28th/2019.
What if ye viewest "garden" as the "world" and "river" as "time". For if ye take a mental squint about the second verse of this poem, this river rolls through the four seasons of the year: "From flowers of spring, past fields of summer, down through meadows of autumn, right through barren plains of winter and then right back where it began which is spring, what could that be if not time?" #just saying...Loll

And if ye realise well, this river(Time) existed before ancient Eden but her strange water hath lost never its silvery glow.

Otherwise, unto ye all my poetry lovers, I'm truly so sorry it has been a while since a poem last rolled off my tongue due to lack of time but today I took time to muse about time and that's what I came up with. Hope ye hast enjoyed my muse about how time goes by and by.

Now that ye hast learnt something about time, please enjoy thy life to the fullest, for time's the most expensive gem that can't be bought back by neither silver nor gold.
Lauren Christine Dec 2018
She stands—
every few minutes turning abruptly to no object.
Hips pushing forward, shoulders sliding back,
red soled sneakers and plaid flannel slacks
beneath a dramatic black trench coat,
in the grey shadow of a gothic church.

She smokes the grey and blows white,
and scrolls through the neon screen
with her one ungloved hand,
a bun perched stiffly on her scalp, unheeded,
an afterthought, if there was one before.

Her backdrop—the heavy iron fence of a graveyard,
and centuries old glorious stones watch
as she spends her minutes
in the luminous green of infinity.

it would feel normal if it was a bus stop,
a grocery line,
a hospital waiting room,
even a lonely bench.

But she stands,
and periodically pivots,
meanders two steps and stands,
and jolts three steps back,
glitching through slow time,
anxious and unresolved—
yet so engrossed.

Finally now she is following the fence out of view, slowly,
and I hope she finds rest.
I feel grateful as the sidewalk carries her now
away from my puzzled gaze

The great stones and I exchange long glances,
and perhaps they are more compassionate than I,
for they seem not phased.

Oh stones, teach me patience, teach me rest.
For you are glorious in endless rest,
and I am still anxious and unresolved.
Dr Peter Lim Apr 7
Memory meanders
through but vague images
the mind forgets much
only some it remembers
that which is deeply embedded
whether such be suffering
sorrow, pain, love or joy
in part imagined, convoluted
magnified, exaggerated
but still unknowingly accepted
never to be forgotten
as the rememberer is trapped
in the dark corridors
of the sub-conscious
in strange reverie wrapped--

and where do I stand
in this scheme of things?
it would be better
it does seem
to remember to forget
and forget to remember
the past to put to sleep
and life will then assume
a fresh new slate-
to be a child in innocence
where all the woes of living
have all taken
their disappearance
* after Emily Dickinson
with every breath
we each are breathing
molecules from julius caesar,
of aristotle and every one of
our prophets, leaders, even
god for some of us, all those
molecules of carbon and oxygen
that have travelled through those
same lungs, too, molecules that
have travelled around through
epochs too numerous to be
easily counted; i like the
idea of it, how connected
we all really are on such
a fundamental level

ღ ღ ღ

just as history is the
memory of human beings,
true or false, right or wrong,
mother nature is the memory
of the entire earth, and the
carved meanders of this
little creek indicate
her patience and the
irresistible force of her
will; i seem to recognize
how alive in a way our
entire ecosystem is, each
part, each of us, are like
vital organs in her body,
valleys are her wrinkles,
as are all things that return
to dust; like a great sculptor,
she molds all things as God
intended for her, her chisels,
wind & water & sunshine,
exquisite tools that have
their own logic and cut,
her hammer is time

ღ ღ ღ

time flows by
at the exact same
rhythm of your water in
front of me, all these baby
ducks and goslings and a pair
of graceful swan and their cygnets...
they are so beautiful to watch, and
something almost magical happens
as i watch them for so long, and with
the baby fox popping their heads out
as if a game of whack a mole, or some
sort of complex, silent musical instrument
i somehow seem to start to think like
that which i am watching in awe of,
they get inside my head, or maybe
the other way around, and i feel
even more a part of nature as
they so much more obviously
are. one head of lettuce and i
can't think of a better investment,
as one brave mallard came right up
and ate a leaf out of my hand as
i sat my notebook down and acted
and watched before writing anything
for a change, this spot becoming like
a battery of sorts, and a place to go
that is quiet, and just secluded
enough that i know no one will
cross my path so i can be alone
with that which i am a part of
with the walls that block the
awareness of that crumbling so
quickly as i force myself back
to silent observer, the lettuce
all gratefully gobbled down.

ღ ღ ღ

yes, i had become a water fowl
for a few moments at least, my
spring creek being that flow of
time, with its currents and eddies
and whirlpools and rapids and all
other movements trace out our own
wrinkles, and memories, and the
current is as inevitable, as irresistible,
and understanding that simple obvious
concept, but feeling the living metaphor
lapping against my bare feet dangling
in the water with an eye out for leeches,
it makes it so real that it's a frustration
to not be able to describe it well, but
more gratitude than anything else.

ღ ღ ღ

the tree in my front yard that i cut
a big piece off, that strangely made
me cry to do, i counted the rings of
just that one huge section branching
out near the truck, 66, 67, 68 years,
rings etched by time just as it traces
my laugh lines and the deepening
furrows of my brow, and i like them.

ღ ღ ღ

i like not railing against my aging,
i like embracing it, even stuff like
basal joint arthritis, because in losing
a core area of competency, i had to
learn to play again from scratch and
switch to classical and writing songs
with new chords and fretting, no more
solos, just a slow rhythm and intricate
finger picking that made me realize
that i hadn't lost a thing, it has just
grown into something new, and when
i can't do this anymore, i'll switch over
to pure slide, i'm never going to stop
playing, and mixed metaphors and all
that, just how i grew to meet the limitations
of aging in this way, i wish to greet every
new season of life now in the same way,
loving that which i love, not burying any
talents, but adapting with grace, that's how
i want to age, like that tree branch, twisting
and contorting to get it's share of sunshine
on its leaves so naturally and effortlessly
and unconsciously, ring after ring, each layer
of sediment in the earth, as do ancient cites
rebuilding themselves layer upon layer
atop themselves like the rings of the tree, and
life just keeps passing itself on and on and on,
and i think about the veritable ocean of ink
and graphite i've used up with these thoughts
over the years, how many thing of great immensity
i borrow every day, before it all flows back to you.
“Come out of the circle of time And into the circle of love.”
                                                                                        ― Rumi

eric burdon & war - mother earth
Have you ever wondered tell me this Why – 9, 10
sometimes the bones of the situation – 11, 10
Are better than the flesh of tepid in- – 14, 10
-security Why daisies weep and sun- – 11, 10
flowers face away – 5

A blue shattered glass floor begging to be – 12, 10
set free Rotten cake with melted candles – 10, 10
unblown Hidden TEN word notes inside pa- – 14, 10
-ges of pre-lusted books The revving of – 11, 10
my brain as it meanders In exact- – 13, 10
-ly TWENTY TWO different directions – 10

Away from white sheets of evenly ruled – 12, 10
paper And skeletons of discarded – 15, 10
unintended promises Unmade beds – 10, 10
and dusty floors of disgrace – 7
Syllable love
Andrew Guzaldo c Dec 2018
"I am now bedeviled by her conjure of obscurity intensity,
Could this be hers it must for I know nothing of such alchemy,
Enmeshed now is my fate with this seemingly obscurity afore,
Is she the curer or the harm that meanders amidst daily logic?
Who may save me from torrid anguish beguiling my heart?
I know not what may have been cast upon my simple soul,
In my prior enraptured by you I am now left disparaged,
Delusional I now bare reecho sounds of vibrancy of rivers,

Sources of solidity have evoked water like fateful bouts,
As then my tears and gains across the sandy rivers edge,  
Expounded breaking down on the way all earthly lakes,
Coppice compact walls disengages the planetary quartz,

Nostalgic planetary feelings as droplets of rain fall upon me,
As they soothe my heart and cleanse my bedeviled soul,

By Andrew Guzaldo 11/05/2018 ©
By Andrew Guzaldo 11/05/2018 ©   #Poem #141
A message which would cause complications
A truth told from a more somber heart
A message for someone else
A lesson for someone lost
Someone possibly wandering or are they wondering
Still the stream for those meanders
As if words left unspoken or unread
As if chances of all those possibilities
As if the direction may change an flow up the mountain
As if time may flow those lost to them together
A lesson for the idealist
Time corrupts that which is committed to memory
And so the river erodes what once was into fragments which settle further along
For some the river rearranges us
For some there have been so many intrusions
So many stones threw into the stream
Comfort for the visitors is eventually lost
For some the stream is a quiet place where there is rest in silence

So I release my thoughts here and in time expect you to return to me
As if you expect the stream to build boulders from pebbles
As if the sand does not whisper echoes on what was as sometimes truth is not ideal
As if these are the words you deserved to hear

— The End —