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Patricia Drake Oct 2013
Our paths are paved here
with smooth black asphalt
lined with s-cut stones
so we won't have to touch
ground
between our semi-detached
houses
and our small fenced gardens.
Our paths lead to nurseries
and to school
and a medium sized supermarket
and they are all flanked with well kept
bushes and lawns
This is Suburbia Danica
Our paths are made like circles
so we stay
Our children don't get lost
and our happiness doesn't
escape.
Again, this year, Denmark has topped the list of The Happiest People in the World. The poem is a footnote...
O make me a mask and a wall to shut from your spies
Of the sharp, enamelled eyes and the spectacled claws
**** and rebellion in the nurseries of my face,
Gag of dumbstruck tree to block from bare enemies
The bayonet tongue in this undefended prayerpiece,
The present mouth, and the sweetly blown trumpet of lies,
Shaped in old armour and oak the countenance of a dunce
To shield the glistening brain and blunt the examiners,
And a tear-stained widower grief drooped from the lashes
To veil belladonna and let the dry eyes perceive
Others betray the lamenting lies of their losses
By the curve of the **** mouth or the laugh up the sleeve.
loric Jan 2013
How many chairs have we parked ourselves on,
side by side
in these 6,205 days of marriage?
Side by side at our wedding reception
principals’ offices
school graduations
courtrooms
funerals
new baby nurseries
counselors’ offices
new cars and
bars.

In lawn chairs
pews
rockers
couches
backseats and
airline seats.

The size and shapes of the imprints
we leave behind
changing over time.
The faces of others seated with us coming and going.

Always, we have tried to leave a trail of love,
like the slime of slugs and snails.
And for each other, an extra measure.
LR Thompson Jun 2016
It escalated rapidly
Sending arcing sparks racing in different directions...
Between the whoosh and the whistle,
Shrill and omnipresent,
Was an anticipation
This emotion,
That permeated the sky
And all the stars that joined to observe the spectacle

As a distant hum began to echo out across the void,
The cold empty darkness,
Began to heat up,
Excited for the upcoming eruption of varying colors
That were sorely missed amongst the monotony
Of the blackest of spaces...

...All went Silent as the world expanded
In a bang it was announced that a star had given birth
Sending fireworks out into the cosmos to deliver the wonderful news
That a new generation had begotten a stellar nursery
Full of healthy little twinkles
Shining their light,
Because in the universe,
Even the dark is afraid of the dark
Thou know'st my praise of nature most sincere,
And that my raptures are not conjur'd up
To serve occasions of poetic pomp,
But genuine, and art partner of them all.
How oft upon yon eminence our pace
Has slacken'd to a pause, and we have borne
The ruffling wind, scarce conscious that it blew,
While admiration, feeding at the eye,
And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene.
Thence with what pleasure have we just discern'd
The distant plough slow moving, and beside
His lab'ring team, that swerv'd not from the track,
The sturdy swain diminish'd to a boy!
Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain
Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er,
Conducts the eye along its sinuous course
Delighted. There, fast rooted in his bank,
Stand, never overlook'd, our fav'rite elms,
That screen the herdsman's solitary hut;
While far beyond, and overthwart the stream
That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale,
The sloping land recedes into the clouds;
Displaying on its varied side the grace
Of hedge-row beauties numberless, square tow'r,
Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells
Just undulates upon the list'ning ear,
Groves, heaths and smoking villages remote.
Scenes must be beautiful, which, daily view'd,
Please daily, and whose novelty survives
Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years.
Praise justly due to those that I describe....


But though true worth and virtue, in the mild
And genial soil of cultivated life,
Thrive most, and may perhaps thrive only there,
Yet not in cities oft: in proud and gay
And gain-devoted cities. Thither flow,
As to a common and most noisome sewer,
The dregs and feculence of every land.
In cities foul example on most minds
Begets its likeness. Rank abundance breeds
In gross and pamper'd cities sloth and lust,
And wantonness and gluttonous excess.
In cities vice is hidden with most ease,
Or seen with least reproach; and virtue, taught
By frequent lapse, can hope no triumph there
Beyond th' achievement of successful flight.
I do confess them nurseries of the arts,
In which they flourish most; where, in the beams
Of warm encouragement, and in the eye
Of public note, they reach their perfect size.
Such London is, by taste and wealth proclaim'd
The fairest capital of all the world,
By riot and incontinence the worst.
There, touch'd by Reynolds, a dull blank becomes
A lucid mirror, in which Nature sees
All her reflected features. Bacon there
Gives more than female beauty to a stone,
And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips....


God made the country, and man made the town.
What wonder then that health and virtue, gifts
That can alone make sweet the bitter draught
That life holds out to all, should most abound
And least be threaten'd in the fields and groves?
Possess ye therefore, ye who, borne about
In chariots and sedans, know no fatigue
But that of idleness, and taste no scenes
But such as art contrives, possess ye still
Your element; there only ye can shine,
There only minds like yours can do no harm.
Our groves were planted to console at noon
The pensive wand'rer in their shades. At eve
The moonbeam, sliding softly in between
The sleeping leaves, is all the light they wish,
Birds warbling all the music. We can spare
The splendour of your lamps, they but eclipse
Our softer satellite. Your songs confound
Our more harmonious notes: the thrush departs
Scared, and th' offended nightingale is mute.
There is a public mischief in your mirth;
It plagues your country. Folly such as yours,
Grac'd with a sword, and worthier of a fan,
Has made, which enemies could ne'er have done,
Our arch of empire, steadfast but for you,
A mutilated structure, soon to fall.
Akemi Feb 2017
Lily marked the gravestone. A white streak across grey cobble, the crumbling visage of a turning sky reflected in the puddle beside her. New dusk brimmed grey gold, a heady dust galloped with the rising easterly winds, a white streak across grey skies. Lily marked the edge of her notebook, nine-past-ten, the end of second period, a break in consciousness, then a tang of blood from her swollen gums. Lenin rose above the rooftops, a hand brushed her forehead as the paramedics left, a black bag.

The answer was heat death, compartmentalised energy, like fireworks falling into darkness. Burning rice, spilt coffee, Ain’s smile. Nights on counter, pad paper, day old rain. Lily fell into a nightmare, smooth black, a single light dissipating as the universe died. She spat blood, missed the bus and collapsed on the walk to school.

It was the anniversary. Setting sun, plumes of white, the exit sigh of a wasted day. Lily woke hours later. She returned to an empty home, suffocated in a dream and rose four hours too early for school. Climbing the roof, she watched the sun rise, grey and formless.

There was ash in the hallway to class, the remnants of the incense from yesterday’s memorial, pencil shavings from the forest, fingers blurring out of definition like the trees around her, the soft empty breath of loose soil. Ain came to the store on a night like this, wind gathered silent around her frame. They found themselves atop a bus shelter, lights rising from a sea of nothingness.

Eight-forty-five, the chalk felt heavy in Lily’s hand, white dash across infinity, city blackout. Everyone went to see the dam, cracked pavement, Ain dripping blood, Lily wreathed in ravens. Below the river, forest spirits wove among power lines, bird bones cracked beneath the soles of children, motes rose. Lily lost sight of Ain, the dam broke and children cheered.

Time passed. Ceaseless time.

Lily drifted through petroleum smoke, dashi, the burning husks of gods. She watched the river ryū sweep through her street, turbid with the broken heads of graves, mad with phantoms. She visited memories yet to form, nurseries of dust, cosmic return of the infinite perceiving itself. She cried, remembering everything, the smell Ain’s wet hair, ricochet of a glass bottle, Lenin’s dirt-smeared skin, the birth and death of the universe; mother unable to afford pad paper, sakura bursting the sky pink, couples riding past on too expensive bikes, father drunk on sake. Ribbons of light danced around Lily, a playful susurration, feeding her more and more memories.

Isn’t it beautiful? Existence burning through itself? A departure with no ending, no beginning, no becoming? Haven’t you lived a full life? Won’t you live it again?

Lily screamed. Split dam flooded the empty grave. The same smell of soy, dust and sweat every day. Lack birthed in the space between, like teeth, lacuna bleeding. Nightmares and old memories pouring out like a knife. Ryū stiffened, red streak across the sky, tail burying into the earth. Rice steam filled the air, a passing train carried Ain and Lily into the city, crowds of smoke, her crescent eyes reflected in a storefront, the eyes her mother loved. April awakening of the forest gods, cool spring rustled the hair around her neck, a humid breath descended from the mountain to the lake. Warm rain fell in sheets, city smudged out of focus, bokeh lights departing, Ain’s wet skin—

The city retracted; a whimper escaped her mouth; her fingers passed through power lines, wood smoke, pavement; seasons collapsed, superimposed like holograms, snow and humus; gyoza steamed, air sirens blared beneath the shadow of foreign planes; kodama rose as ancient trees reclaimed the land; volcanic blasts shook the ocean, AI sped to singularity; reality vanished like light falling off a mirror and Lily ceased to feel.

Space is illusory.

Lily.

It travels ceaselessly through itself.

Lily, stop.

And we don’t exist.

Lily grinned, rising from the reeds, a cattail in each hand. She sped towards a screaming Ain, who tripped on a willow root, and began bopping relentlessly.

“Lily!” Ain cried, squirming on the ground. “Lily, stop!”

Lily grinned, rising from the reeds, a cattail in each hand. She sped towards a screaming Ain, who tripped on a willow root, and began bopping relentlessly.

“Lily!” Ain cried, squirming on the ground. “Lily, stop!”

Lily grinned, rising from the reeds, a cattail in each hand. She sped towards a screaming Ain, who tripped on a willow root, and began bopping relentlessly.

“Lily!” Ain cried, grabbing Lily’s wrists. “Haven’t we done this enough?”
[3] time is a flat circle perceiving itself
/
[1] hellopoetry.com/poem/1554623/the-end-came-a-long-time-ago
/
[2] hellopoetry.com/poem/1798516/an-echo-of-ain
/
Seán Mac Falls Oct 2014
Love is a flower open to the sun,
Hate is a cavern, a hole, craven,
Black, empty, a dank drowning,
Under light.  Love is one season,

Hate is transitory. Love is eternal,
Of vast nebulas, to outer reaches
In galaxy are nurseries with stars
Being born, light, alive with light.

Love is the lasting of conquerors,
The first line, defense, existence,
Love takes all in one communion,
Breaking the dark as the morning
Sun.  Love is conundrum, love IS.

Hate is a construct, the blotched
That bleeds where life is seeding,
Rot better to cut, spoil unneeded,
Hate will come to nothing, for life
Is love, love is all and everything.
antony glaser Apr 2012
Everybody said we were erstwhile, rather quaint
and could never pay our back rent ?
You listen to the silence of seashells
I grow colchicums for nurseries.
I often inquired what was your favourite animal
You always replied "Ursine"
something to do with Bears ?
Perhaps we should voyage to Newfoundland
and see them face to face,
recalling the word "Reseverez Vite"
Would that be any quicker ?
and dry your eyes
I love talking to you in the cyan light.
Often I thought a cup of Guayacanera
could tide our differences.
I think conversational poetry has its advantages, a direct mood input
Paul Donnell Dec 2016
It started with an S. Humbly mumbling yes no maybe i dont know oh **** vertigo should i let go. my brain was blasted, a cocktail of chemicals and superfluidious ether. The push pull ying yang fung shui grabs the heat seeking missle and grabs the brain, attracts sychronized vertacies but the magnitism flips as imaginary consequence givesway to repulsion of the imaginary sense. Pulsars pulsating sending shock waves through space time highways a terrible silence is heard then music then woah. Gravity wells staring me down warping and warming WARNING particle collision is immenent a stellar nurersy might be born of this hyperspace supernova scintilating energies might synchronize for the bonding of bodies creating a binary star system carefully dancing and explosivly romancing or it could be too much the system overloads entropy wins hot matter turned cold a black hole is formed.

Complicated intracacies to be sure. I think a caphonany was born if only i could phrophasize and figure out where my head flipped out and if there would be any imminent fallout. Wise to withhold or a missed chance to experience an amazing incredible moment where time and space may have seperated and two bodies joined in between the seams. Just amazing.
...

Thou know'st my praise of nature most sincere,
And that my raptures are not conjur'd up
To serve occasions of poetic pomp,
But genuine, and art partner of them all.
How oft upon yon eminence our pace
Has slacken'd to a pause, and we have borne
The ruffling wind, scarce conscious that it blew,
While admiration, feeding at the eye,
And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene.
Thence with what pleasure have we just discern'd
The distant plough slow moving, and beside
His lab'ring team, that swerv'd not from the track,
The sturdy swain diminish'd to a boy!
Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain
Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er,
Conducts the eye along its sinuous course
Delighted. There, fast rooted in his bank,
Stand, never overlook'd, our fav'rite elms,
That screen the herdsman's solitary hut;
While far beyond, and overthwart the stream
That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale,
The sloping land recedes into the clouds;
Displaying on its varied side the grace
Of hedge-row beauties numberless, square tow'r,
Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells
Just undulates upon the list'ning ear,
Groves, heaths and smoking villages remote.
Scenes must be beautiful, which, daily view'd,
Please daily, and whose novelty survives
Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years.
Praise justly due to those that I describe.

...

But though true worth and virtue, in the mild
And genial soil of cultivated life,
Thrive most, and may perhaps thrive only there,
Yet not in cities oft: in proud and gay
And gain-devoted cities. Thither flow,
As to a common and most noisome sewer,
The dregs and feculence of every land.
In cities foul example on most minds
Begets its likeness. Rank abundance breeds
In gross and pamper'd cities sloth and lust,
And wantonness and gluttonous excess.
In cities vice is hidden with most ease,
Or seen with least reproach; and virtue, taught
By frequent lapse, can hope no triumph there
Beyond th' achievement of successful flight.
I do confess them nurseries of the arts,
In which they flourish most; where, in the beams
Of warm encouragement, and in the eye
Of public note, they reach their perfect size.
Such London is, by taste and wealth proclaim'd
The fairest capital of all the world,
By riot and incontinence the worst.
There, touch'd by Reynolds, a dull blank becomes
A lucid mirror, in which Nature sees
All her reflected features. Bacon there
Gives more than female beauty to a stone,
And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips.

...

God made the country, and man made the town.
What wonder then that health and virtue, gifts
That can alone make sweet the bitter draught
That life holds out to all, should most abound
And least be threaten'd in the fields and groves?
Possess ye therefore, ye who, borne about
In chariots and sedans, know no fatigue
But that of idleness, and taste no scenes
But such as art contrives, possess ye still
Your element; there only ye can shine,
There only minds like yours can do no harm.
Our groves were planted to console at noon
The pensive wand'rer in their shades. At eve
The moonbeam, sliding softly in between
The sleeping leaves, is all the light they wish,
Birds warbling all the music. We can spare
The splendour of your lamps, they but eclipse
Our softer satellite. Your songs confound
Our more harmonious notes: the thrush departs
Scared, and th' offended nightingale is mute.
There is a public mischief in your mirth;
It plagues your country. Folly such as yours,
Has made, which enemies could ne'er have done,
Our arch of empire, steadfast but for you,
A mutilated structure, soon to fall.
Terry Collett Jun 2013
Monica watched Benedict
practise Judo
with her brothers
on the grass
by the fence.

She watched
from her bedroom window.
She had parted
the drawn curtains
with her fingers

enough to see
without being seen.
She cheered him on
in an urgent voice.
She would have gone down

and cheered him on
from the sidelines,
but she was still
in her nightwear
and by the time

she had a wash
and dressed
they would be gone.
Watching him
made her excited;

it was a physical thing,
something she could
almost point to,
sense and touch
with her fingers.

She stared down at him,
watched his every move.
Sometimes he would
take on both boys
at a time and defeat

them both, other times
he took them
one at a time
and they would end up
on their backs

on the grass.
Wish he would put me
on the grass, she whispered
to the pane of glass,
touch me

as he does them.
She couldn’t describe
how he made her feel.
Whom could she ask?
Her mother would

scorn her
for even asking
such a question.
She wished she had
a sister to ask,

but all she had
was three brothers.
There was cheering
from outside, Benedict
had fallen. He had

miscalculated a move
and fallen on his back.
There was laughter
as he rose and dusted
himself off.

Oh, she murmured.
She put a hand
to her lips.
His head turned
towards the window;

she backed away.
Had he seen her?
Heard her voice?
She moved back
to the window

and peered out.
They were practising again.
But this time
it was karate,
they were breaking

pieces of wood
with the side
of their hands.
She wished
she could be out there.

Near him,
sensing him close to her.
He came most Saturdays
to be with her brothers.

They worked in the week
at the nurseries
half mile away.
Sometimes she was up early
and caught him

before her brothers were out
and she talked with him.
Once he took her
to see the peacocks,
riding on their bikes

to get there.
She had wanted him
to kiss her, but he hadn’t.
So near to her,
yet she daren’t

reach out
and touch him, that day.
She stood at the window
and stared at him.
He had taken off

his jacket and was
in tee shirt and jeans.
They fought each other now,
their blows barely touching,
the karate touches

merely skimming the skin.
Odd this sensation
flowing through me,
she said, this expanding
desire within.
Michael Marchese Oct 2017
My archetypal anima
Could dream a billion dreams
Yet none elucidate my psyche’s
Shadow self-esteem
It yearns to be made whole again
Detaching from the soma
Yet can not mend the mandalas
That fracture its persona
From the superego servant
Of unconsciousness collective
To the individuation
Silent tyrant introspective
Still projecting as the pedagogue
The hero and the saint
But the mystic rebel overlord’s
This portrait that I paint
For I’m an evil genius author
Penning nurseries of rhymes
I am the psychopath symbology
Just read between the lines
Noandy Jan 2015
They said that the breeze
Told them nothing but miseries
They said that the grass
Inhaled nothing but nurseries
They said, “We seek you for tragedies,
And we want our tears to pick your lyers;
we made you dreams of catastrophic allegories,
and we want our grief to mourn over your prejudice
of undesired futures.”
They claimed that they were conjured of
Passion and mysteries
Of knowledge other than blasphemies
They said, “We chant you for the last morning tea
We desire you for your ever-after evening satires,
Stay, and keep us for the crystal wires
Of your undying lyres.”
They said so as desired and as deprived,
Yet if they are so afraid to lose
Why do they seek in the first place?
Silence Screamz Mar 2017
Why do you have to take my only need?
Do I have to bleed down the river
for you to not see?
My corridors are filled with pain covered walls
and shock induced traumas.
Drowned emotions in cast iron tubs,
rust through my life
at the bottom of the ocean
I know not but temptation and contemplation,
it only bounces around inside
like a drug store explosion.

We start to walk down the
mirrored lined hallways the wrong way
I mean our eyes glare off
each other the wrong way.
I mean, "what in the **** am I trying to say?
You just don't get it, do you?
I mean, it goes right through you,
I think I may have a rusty
***** loose or maybe you do.

Your agony runs through my veins,
conversing memories, explaining nurseries and
even a midnight summer's *******.
So let me explain this to you,
in layman's terms,
the ****** broke a long
time ago..
but you seemed to have missed
your period and the point.
I know I am not only one,
I know about all the others.
I mean.
You bounced around those guy's  mattresses
like you are on some gymnastic's trampoline.
Then come home late at night
like a ninja, like I wouldn't even see.

I am not a blind man walking around with a stick,
the true sinister gaze you gave me
is like sinister maze inside my brain.
But I solved this 300 piece puzzle
that you left on the nook
and I didn't even have to open the book.
I think it is time
to close this unbridged chapter in my life
with no unadulterated bookmarks
and bounce around to the end
where I know the words
which will make me a whole lot happier
and much more content
The final chapter
jeffrey robin Aug 2014
^  ^^  ^
==  (                                                    )  ==
) ­     O     (
                  <  (                        ////  • ||                                    )  >            
               (                                      <>                                         ).              
\
/ ( * * ) \
(      )

######

Gather

Gather together

NOW

///

A            Work
of                      Art !

it's supposed to all be a Work of Art !

••

Look

What can we say but

OH WHAT GODS ARE THESE !!!!

//
//

Gather together

Gather together in full color and power

Gather

Gather together

NOW
eli Mar 2013
the cold fire of orion pulls me in --
a gravitational tide;
drowning in colour, in stellar fire --
i am gazing up at it:
an ant beholding mount everest
the fiery heavens are all-encompassing
with ancient flickering fireflies & dark matter & stellar nurseries
nestled in the breast of the great hunter himself
guarding, watching; stark & silent
& i alone bear witness.
(c) shiloh renee 2013
Wake me when the Elephant Ears grow tall , when the first red rose comes to call , as the mesmerizing scent of Gardenia fills the air , when the Butterfly bushes receive their host in Spring ...
Come to my door when the Crape Myrtles stand glorious , as the Peach trees blossom , when songbirds of every shape and brilliant song prepare their nurseries , as the Pink Begonias undertake their beautiful Summer journey ....
Copyright February 21 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
TLK May 2013
She sighs as she settles into the image of star-crossed lovers, fated across a swirling galaxy. She feels the insistent pulsing of his radiation through the hardness of space -- each inch as barren as the last, as clear as glass, a medium rich for the communication of romance. Today he hit her with caring fists, after another of his imaginary lists. Boys, men, women, girls: in his mind she has had them all, attracted by her deep cleavage, by her round behind. She bites her lip to bleed again, to feel that need again, to be the absolute rock-bottom of someone else’s reckless devotion. It excites her to be so repellently attractive, she calls to him with crooked fingers and pretends that the smell of her last conquest lingers. She makes love to him by pulling his **** to her while pushing his face away with snarling fingers. He can’t hide the scratches there. In her bruises welter the endless depths of star nurseries, nebulae, and out of them new madness will be borne.
Liz Anne Apr 2012
Daisies billowing in the wind

Callouses on her broken hands

Peaceful plots and naïve nurseries bloom

And every blossom withers

She once left her home for someone new

Freedom forced her heart to move

She ran past dry dirt byways

As she burned through city blocks

Somewhere searching they’d find

The remnants of flight she left behind

Bristling in the last fall breeze she fractures

Long white wisps fall down her back

Her feathers take to the last bit of wind

Her full heart is breaking

For the bittersweet kiss of mortality

And for all those who will forever

Hold tight to the fallen tendrils

She first let fly under the old willow

They’ll visit her there one day

With her lost feathers in their hair
Patrice Jones Jul 2016
West of nowhere, East of nothing,
directly in the middle; an anomaly has been born.
A galaxy in her own right, a star in her true form.

In stellar nurseries compressed the matter and frequency
which made the core of her being and the corona of her beauty.
To the left is void, to the right is eternity,
directly ahead is he; both together in the middle.
Binary stars bound by heliocentric law,
all else revolving in their gravitational well.
They make love over and with the earth
as tadpoles fly through paisley skies,
bound on by iridescent solar winds procured by her painted lips;
circling a black hole in which all of everything is the beginning of nothing.
On the event horizon is spoken the law, stretched and pinched into pureness, eternally devoured into oblivion.
Which the sweet flavor of is relished by the infinite being of darkness that stretches ever on.
Only to reappear in the farthest reaches of the universe,
the whole of the law spread out into the cosmos.
Her name is Andromeda, and what she wilt, she does.

93 93/93
Frozen fresh water
drifting across the ocean
melting in due time

................................

The reed bed is lush
as the stream trickles gently
mayflies dance with fish

.............................................

It can show your guilt
beading is a tell tale sign
confessions in sweat

..........................................

Waters of sorrow
in tears that fall from her eyes
then wet her flushed cheeks

...........................................

Oh Bromeliads
such nurseries for tadpoles
who do dwell within

........................................

The sound of the sea
the crashing waves on shingle
oh sing natures wild

...........................................

The pitter patter
watching water trickle down
gazing at the rain

..........................................

A life protector
the bringer of all Earth's life
maker of the egg

......................................

Her burden runs miles
dusty roads does she travel
water for mother

...........................

Poison in rivers
fish bobbing dead on surface
such a waste of life


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris



By NeonSolaris
© 2013 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
It seems the Universe has made
all the stars it can.
Black holes gobble up
ribbons of gas
to frustrate any star making plans.

So, Not today and not tomorrow,
but someday, bye and bye,
we will look up at  the cosmos
and see a nearly empty sky.

For, like us, stars are mortal;
They are born they live, then die.
Their nurseries are  nearly empty.
Only God could tell you why.
Scientists predict the end of the star making epoch of our Universe
Seán Mac Falls Mar 2017
~
Love is a flower open to the sun,
Hate is a cavern, a hole, craven,
Black, empty, a dank drowning,
Under light.  Love is one season,

Hate is transitory. Love is eternal,
Of vast nebulas, to outer reaches
In galaxy are nurseries with stars
Being born, light, alive with light.

Love is the lasting of conquerors,
The first line, defense, existence,
Love takes all in one communion,
Breaking the dark as the morning
Sun.  Love is conundrum, love IS.

Hate is a construct, the blotched
That bleeds where life is seeding,
Rot better to cut, spoil unneeded,
Hate will come to nothing, for life
Is love, love is all and everything.
Seán Mac Falls Oct 2014
Love is a flower open to the sun,
Hate is a cavern, a hole, craven,
Black, empty, a dank drowning,
Under light.  Love is one season,

Hate is transitory. Love is eternal,
Of vast nebulas, to outer reaches
In galaxy are nurseries with stars
Being born, light, alive with light.

Love is the lasting of conquerors,
The first line, defense, existence,
Love takes all in one communion,
Breaking the dark as the morning
Sun.  Love is conundrum, love IS.

Hate is a construct, the blotched
That bleeds where life is seeding,
Rot better to cut, spoil unneeded,
Hate will come to nothing, for life
Is love, love is all and everything.
The Original Sin: Rhyming Haiku!

Haiku
should never rhyme:
it’s a crime!
―Michael R. Burch

The herons stand,
sentry-like, at attention ...
rigid observers of some unknown command.
―Michael R. Burch

Late
fall;
all
the golden leaves turn black underfoot:
soot
―Michael R. Burch

Dry leaf flung awry:
bright butterfly,
goodbye!
―Michael R. Burch

A snake in the grass
lies, hissing
"Trespass!"
―Michael R. Burch

Honeysuckle
blesses my knuckle
with affectionate dew
―Michael R. Burch

My nose nuzzles
honeysuckle’s
sweet nothings
―Michael R. Burch

The day’s eyes were blue
until you appeared
and they wept at your beauty.
―Michael R. Burch

The moon in decline
like my lover’s heart
lies far beyond mine
―Michael R. Burch

My mother’s eyes
acknowledging my imperfection:
dejection
―Michael R. Burch

The sun sets
the moon fails to rise
we avoid each other’s eyes
―Michael R. Burch

brief leaf flung awry ~
bright butterfly, goodbye!
―Michael R. Burch

leaf flutters in flight ~
bright, O and endeavoring butterfly,
goodbye!
―Michael R. Burch

The girl with the pallid lips
lipsticks
into something more comfortable
―Michael R. Burch

I am a traveler
going nowhere,
but my how the gawking bystanders stare!
―Michael R. Burch

Here's a poem that's composed of haiku-like stanzas:

Lift up your head
dandelion,
hear spring roar!

How will you tidy your hair
this near
summer?

Leave to each still night
your lightest affliction,
dandruff.

Soon you will free yourself:
one shake
of your white mane.

Now there are worlds
into which you appear
and disappear

seemingly at will
but invariably blown
wildly, then still.

Gasp at the bright chill
glower
of winter.

Icicles splinter;
sleep still an hour,
till, resurrected in power,

you lift up your head,
dandelion.
Hear spring roar!
― Michael R. Burch

Unrhymed Original Haiku and Tanka
by Michael R. Burch

These are original haiku and tanka written by Michael R. Burch, along with haiku-like and tanka-like poems inspired by the forms but not necessarily abiding by all the rules.

Dark-bosomed clouds
pregnant with heavy thunder ...
the water breaks
―Michael R. Burch

one pillow ...
our dreams
merge
―Michael R. Burch

Iffy Coronavirus Haiku

yet another iffy coronavirus haiku #1
by Michael R. Burch

plagued by the Plague
i plague the goldfish
with my verse

yet another iffy coronavirus haiku #2
by Michael R. Burch

sunflowers
hang their heads
embarrassed by their coronas

I wrote this poem after having a sunflower arrangement delivered to my mother, who is in an assisted living center and can’t have visitors due to the coronavirus pandemic. I have been informed the poem breaks haiku rules about personification, etc.

Homework (yet another iffy coronavirus haiku #3)
by Michael R. Burch

Dim bulb overhead,
my silent companion:
still imitating the noonday sun?

New World Order (last in a series and perhaps a species)
by Michael R. Burch

The days of the dandelions dawn ...
soon man will be gone:
fertilizer.

Variations on Fall

Farewells like
falling
leaves,
so many sad goodbyes.
―Michael R. Burch

Falling leaves
brittle hearts
whisper farewells
―Michael R. Burch

Autumn leaves
soft farewells
falling ...
falling ...
falling ...
―Michael R. Burch

Autumn leaves
Fall’s farewells
Whispered goodbyes
―Michael R. Burch

Variations on the Seasons
by Michael R. Burch

Mother earth
prepares her nurseries:
spring greening

The trees become
modest,
coy behind fans



Wobbly fawns
have become the fleetest athletes:
summer



Dry leaves
scuttle like *****:
autumn

*

The sky
shivers:
snowfall

each
translucent flake
lighter than eiderdown

the entire town entombed
but not in gloom,
bedazzled.

Variations on Night

Night,
ice and darkness
conspire against human warmth
―Michael R. Burch

Night and the Stars
conspire against me:
Immensity
―Michael R. Burch

in the ice-cold cathedral
prayer candles ablaze
flicker warmthlessly
―Michael R. Burch

Variations on the Arts
by Michael R. Burch

Paint peeling:
the novel's
novelty wears off ...

The autumn marigold's
former glory:
allegory.

Human arias?
The nightingale frowns, perplexed.
Tone deaf!

Where do cynics
finally retire?
Satire.

All the world’s
a stage
unless it’s a cage.

To write an epigram,
cram.
If you lack wit, scram.

Haiku
should never rhyme:
it’s a crime!

Video
dumped the **** tube
for YouTube.

Anyone
can rap:
just write rhythmic crap!

Variations on Lingerie
by Michael R. Burch

Were you just a delusion?
The black negligee you left
now merest illusion.

The clothesline
quivers,
ripe with unmentionables.

The clothesline quivers:
wind,
or ghosts?

Variations on Love and Wisdom
by Michael R. Burch

Wise old owls
stare myopically at the moon,
hooting as the hart escapes.

Myopic moon-hooting owls
hoot as the hart escapes

The myopic owl,
moon-intent, scowls;
my rabbit heart thunders ...
Peace, wise fowl!

Tanka

All the wild energies
of electric youth
captured in the monochromes
of an ancient photobooth
like zigzagging lightning.
―Michael R. Burch

The plums were sweet,
icy and delicious.
To eat them all
was perhaps malicious.
But I vastly prefer your kisses!
―Michael R. Burch

A child waving ...
The train groans slowly away ...
Loneliness ...
Somewhere in the distance gusts
scatter the stray unharvested hay ...
―Michael R. Burch

How vaguely I knew you
however I held you close ...
your heart’s muffled thunder,
your breath the wind―
rising and dying.
―Michael R. Burch

Miscellanea

Childless
by Michael R. Burch

How can she bear her grief?
Mightier than Atlas, she shoulders the weight
of one fallen star.

sheer green stockings
queer green beer
St. Patrick's Day!
―Michael R. Burch

cicadas chirping everywhere
singing to beat the band―
surround sound
―Michael R. Burch

Regal, upright,
clad in royal purple:
Zinnia
―Michael R. Burch

Love is a surreal sweetness
in a world where trampled grapes
become wine.
―Michael R. Burch

although meant for market
a pail full of strawberries
invites indulgence
―Michael R. Burch

late November;
skeptics scoff
but the geese no longer migrate
―Michael R. Burch

as the butterfly hunts nectar
the generous iris
continues to bloom
―Michael R. Burch

Keywords/Tags: Haiku, Tanka, coronavirus, nature, love, heart, family, mother, son, seasons, spring, summer, fall, winter, sun, moon, rhyme, rhymed
Seán Mac Falls Apr 2015
Love is a flower open to the sun,
Hate is a cavern, a hole, craven,
Black, empty, a dank drowning,
Under light.  Love is one season,

Hate is transitory. Love is eternal,
Of vast nebulas, to outer reaches
In galaxy are nurseries with stars
Being born, light, alive with light.

Love is the lasting of conquerors,
The first line, defense, existence,
Love takes all in one communion,
Breaking the dark as the morning
Sun.  Love is conundrum, love IS.

Hate is a construct, the blotched
That bleeds where life is seeding,
Rot better to cut, spoil unneeded,
Hate will come to nothing, for life
Is love, love is all and everything.
Rachel Eileen Oct 2016
Kindling fires under bedsheets,
after drunken nights and sloppy kisses.
The smell of old cigarettes dusts your hair soft as silk.
I never cared for the color brown until I fell for your eyes.
Running through cornfields,
heavy breath in the frigid air.
Can you feel my black heart beating?
The yellow tulips whipping in the sweet autumn breeze.
Weeping willows drooping over the old golf course pond.
Oh how I miss those summer nights,
Those sweet, sweet summer nights.
Where we'd lie outside the cabin in the woods,
Mosquitoes biting but there were no cares to be found.
You kissed me for the first time two summers ago,
and the taste of your lips still drives me.
The drunken howls of our closest friends echoed across the lake,
and off into the abandoned horizon.
You make me feel needed.
You've created labyrinths in my mind that I never want to escape.
We danced through naked meadows,
kissing at every chance we could possibly get.
Cylinder brick silos reverberate the melodies of our drums.
The nurseries of Black Oak farms at 1 AM lit by a harvest moon,
the euphoria from our marijuana sparked in the trees.
My mother always told me about how I must "find god",
and I did, I found this "god" within your body.
I found god in your arms.
I found god in your deep forest kisses.
I found god in ******* you.
not sure if finished????
Seán Mac Falls Oct 2016
.
Love is a flower open to the sun,
Hate is a cavern, a hole, craven,
Black, empty, a dank drowning,
Under light.  Love is one season,

Hate is transitory. Love is eternal,
Of vast nebulas, to outer reaches
In galaxy are nurseries with stars
Being born, light, alive with light.

Love is the lasting of conquerors,
The first line, defense, existence,
Love takes all in one communion,
Breaking the dark as the morning
Sun.  Love is conundrum, love IS.

Hate is a construct, the blotched
That bleeds where life is seeding,
Rot better to cut, spoil unneeded,
Hate will come to nothing, for life
Is love, love is all and everything.
Paul Butters May 2
It’s a well-known thing
That I worship Mother Nature
Like many more.
For her works adorn the sweeping panorama
Of our world.

From the mountain tops
To unfathomable ocean floors,
Lush rain forests
To polar ice caps
And boiling hot geysers
Her empire almost has no bounds.

Yet our planet is but a blue speck
On an endless beach
That spans the universe
And maybe multiverse.

For Mother Nature began her work
Long before our “Earth” was born.
She began from Nothing:
Some “Singularity” expanding
To form our Universe.
Clusters of galaxies were formed,
Swathed in clouds of dust and gas
Nebulae nurseries, birthing stars.
Light stars lived and died
To reform as heavy stars
With planets and moons.

So now we have a realm of worlds,
Nestled in the Goldilocks Zones of their suns
Teeming with water
And possibly Life.

The formula is everywhere:
Worlds, water, warmth, minerals
Carbon, Oxygen perhaps
With other well known building blocks of life.
Of life almost inevitable.

So we see
That the realm of Mother Nature
May well be infinite
And eternal.
We must help her as best we can,
Guarding our own health first of all
Then always seeking
To make her garden grow.

Paul Butters

© PB 2\5\2020.
Mother Nature!

— The End —