ConnectHook Sep 2017
Kyoto rock garden:
mist rises among the pines...
where is that remote?

Bashō-san help me !
That big frog on lily pad
scared me with Haiku.

Shinto temple dawn...
monks ringing the temple gongs:
what a hangover.

Island of robots
poetic soul of porno
and those weird soft drinks

From bowlegged troops
invading the entire East
to bland consumers.

Japanophilia:
weakness of the western mind
grass no greener
Japonaiserie

noun: a style in art reflecting Japanese qualities or motifs;
Jeff Gaines Mar 27
The leaves …
dead,
have all turned brown.

Once …
green in the wind,
now scattered upon the ground.

The branches …
bare,
like cold aching bones.

They creak and whistle
in that wind …
lonely and alone.

The air …
silent,
all wings having fled for the sun.

Skies and forests once filled …
now empty.
Not a stir to be heard … not even one.

Snow …
barren
as a desert without life.

Water has become like stone,
as is a man
without a wife.

Monochrome vistas … everywhere you gaze.
Ethereal …
like this swirling mist that is my very breath.

Peaceful, stark beauty …
found only during Winter …
standing in stoic contempt … of all it's magnific death.
A bit of a cryptic/metaphorical piece.
It is about the things I've seen during winter.
But I've taken those elements and scenes and metaphorically turned them into elements of myself and my life ...
My accomplishments and experiences, my inner self, my friends and family, even my heart ... and how I can still be strong and even content as I enter this time ... still finding beauty in it all.
But, it is also about me facing the winter of my life.
They laughed at the caterpillar
Now they admire the butterfly

Their laughter became their sorrow
Pain, agony, they now swallow
While choking on their egos

Success and Beauty takes time
laugh now cry later
Cry now laugh later
The story is yours to tell
Like tall tales
All fails if pain doesn’t exist in the mist
zebra Nov 2017
i feel like talking tonight
reciting poetry to your big blue eyes
and raw pink mouth smiling
high as a wind whipped kite
discussing
art, ontology, and existentialism
sitting like lotus
at the
Cafe Figaro on McDougall st
in the west village
the  belly of a ghost
lost in a vagrant memory

afterwards
we go to a
little one bedroom flat in the east village
haunted by the vapors of history
a slight stench of piss
and wet cow tongue
dripping toilet
all peeling walls
intimating births and funerals

after a hot bath
of lathered torsos
we would follow each other naked
winding around a table
into a swaying bed
that beckoned
fuck here my darlings

and i licked and drank out of your drenched
rose red blossom for hours
it licking back
salvaging my soul between your thighs
like a wounded dog whimpering
thanking God with every graze and thrust
you all supple shifting limbs
and
your company
your company
your sweet droplets
of company
a caressing balm

we looked in the mirror
reflecting on my secreted glistening face
all red raspberry
my lips emerald hydras
laughing our asses off at how artsy i looked
smeared
with your rust painted thighs
appearing as if half eaten by a cougar

and you growled swallowed  and
licked big butter stick
till your nose ran like the Ganges
gagging
eyes bloodshot pools of fire
cooing and oowing
driving me maniacal
with every thrust of your wild glinting tongue

we poured our selves into each other
viscous creels gushing
coursing like tidal waving lava  
radiating

and finally worn to the marrow
we found ourselves drooping
our eyelids  leaden

the night mist fell upon us like breezing shade
and we drowsed
in careless embrace
our sex shriveled
like cast-off umbilici
and we fell to sleep steep
floating
like two buttermilk clouds
adrift
sex sex sex  love memory fiction nostalgia
Brother Jimmy Mar 20
The head, bowed
The sucking silence
Those fingers clenched
To stave off violence
 
The face obscured
By cloak and hood
The hunger pangs
The lack of food
 
The knowing gaze
That pierces through
To very soul
The target true
 
The sound erupts
With sudden horror
The echoes bounce
Off walls and floor
 
And as you cross
To yonder shore
Wending your way
With scythe as oar

The mist grows thick
The view is strange
Your focus narrows
Your thoughts derange

And now you know,
With ransom pawned,
Your debts erased,
What lies beyond.
When the daylight dims its shiny face,
among the sky's exuberant show;
Our hearts are mellowed by the mist,
and once again the moonlight glows.

In the evening when the whispering trees,
tell poignant stories of a summer's love;
We hear their mournful voices crying,
to reach heaven's starlight up above.

The night grows soft in perfumed air,
of sweet jasmine, wisteria, and violets;
The canopy on high becomes a rainbow,
of varied hues from a sumptuous sunset.

A hush soon envelops this welcome scene,
while hearts embrace its wonder and romance;
The porch-swing sways as subtle tunes,
caress us with the joy of Nature's dance.
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