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NickBlockOneLove Jun 2016
Patagonia Free my mind
gazing through the sun
we having nothing but the time
what is free
you can't happen to believe
what you can perceive
high up in those trees
Patagonia free my mind
gazing through the sun
we have nothing but the time
set me free
I am just a simple thing
wondering this world
I believe it to be a dream

It was a simple decision
and I was lonely that day
just my disposition
led me to enjoyment
and a moment of cognition
a thought
I believe it to be dormant
sitting in that broken diner
simplicity was on my shoulder
unlike those insecure and brainless lonely
shareholders
i'm not looking for the finer
materials
I just seek a little water
dying of thirst
I am in need of what I can't find
these distractions bring the worst
humanity you'll never come first

Patagonia Free my mind
gazing through the sun
we having nothing but the time
what is free
you can't happen to believe
what you can perceive
high up in those trees
Patagonia free my mind
gazing through the sun
we have nothing but the time
set me free
I am just a simple thing
wondering this world
I believe it to be a dream

There comes a moment
in every beings life
add the sun
of every component
some may be frozen
while others they are broken
like the lost poet
Jim Davis Apr 2017
In the last
three decades,
after we became one,
I touched
amazingly beautiful things,
horribly ugly things,  
unbelievably wondrous things

I touched nature's majesty;
hued walls of the Grand Canyon,              
crusty bark of the
Redwoods and Sequoias,
live corals of the
Great Barrier Reef,
dreamlike sandstone of the Wave

I touched magical and strange;
platypus, koalas and
kangaroos Down Under,
underwater alkali flies and
lacustrine tufa at Mono Lake,
astral glowing worms
in the Kawiti caves

I touched holy places;
Christianity's oldest churches,
the Pope's home in the Vatican,
Hindu and Sikh temples and
Moslem mosques in India,
Anasazi's kivas of Chaco canyon,
Aboriginal rocks of Uluru and Kata Tjuta

I touched glimmers of civilization;
uncovered roads of Pompeii,
fighting arenas of Rome,
terra cotta armies of Xian,
sharp stone points of the Apache,
pottery shards from the Navajo,
petroglyphs by the Jornada Mogollon

I touched fantastical things;
winds blowing on the
steppes of Patagonia,,
playas and craters of Death Valley,  
high peaks of the Continental Divide,
blazing white sands of the  
Land of Enchantment

I touched icons of liberty
and freedom;
the defended Alamo,
a fissured Liberty Bell,
an embracing Statue of Liberty,
the harbor of Checkpoints
Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie

I touched glorious things
made by man;
the monstrous Hoover Dam,
an exquisite Eiffel tower,
a soaring St Louis Arch,
an Art deco Empire State Building,
the sublime Golden Gate Bridge

I touched sparks from history;
the running path of an
Olympic flame just off Bourbon,
the last steps of Mohandas Ghandi
at Birla House before Godse,
******'s Eagle's nest and the
grounds over Der Führerbunker

I touched walls of power;
enclosed rings of the Pentagon,
steep steps of the
Great Wall of China,
untried bastions of
Peter and Paul's fortress,
fitted boulders of Machu Picchu

I touched strong hands;
of those conquering
Rommel's and ******'s hordes,
of cold warriors of
Chosin Reservoir,  
of forgotten soldiers of Vietnam,
of terrorist killers of today

I touched memories of war;
the somber Vietnam memorial,
the glorious Iwo Jima statue,
the cold slabs at Arlington,
the buried tomb of USS Arizonians,
Volgograd's Mother Russia  

I touched ugly things;
shreds of light in
Port Arthur's prison,
horrible smelly dust
in the streets from 9/11,
ash impregnated dirt
in the pits at Auschwitz

I touched oppressed freedom;
open ****** plazas
of Tiananmen Square,
smooth pipe and concrete
of the Berlin Wall,  
tall red brick walls
of the Moscow Kremlin

I touched constrained freedom;
heavy ankle and
wrist slave chains
in the South,
little windows
in Berlin's Stasi prison,
haunted cells in Alcatraz  

I touched remnants of madness;
wire and ovens of Auschwitz,
stacked chimneys and
wooden bunks of Birkenau,        
Ravensbruck, and Dachau,
the tomb of Lenin,
toppled Stalins

I touched hands of survivors;
of Leningrad's siege,
of German POWs and
of Russian fighters
of Stalingrad's battle,
of Cancer's scourges  

I touched grand things;
deep waters of the Pacific and Atlantic,
blue hills of Appalachia,
towering peaks of the Rockies,
high falls of Yosemite Valley,
bursting geysers of Yellowstone,
crashing glaciers of Antarctica and Alaska    

I touched times of adventure;
abseiling and zipping in Costa Rica,
packing Pecos wilds and Padre isles,
flying nap of earth Hueys to Meridian,
breaking arms in JRTC's box,
fighting Abu Sayyaf, and Jemaah
Islami in Zamboanga City

I touched through you;
wet sand beaches of  Mexico and Jamaica,
mysterious energy of the monoliths of Stonehenge,
rarefied air in front of the
Louvre's Mona Lisa,
ancient wonders of Giza,
Egypt's tombs and pyramids

We shared soft touches;
drifting in Bora Bora's
surreal waters,
joining hands camel trekking the
Outback's dry sands,
strolling along Tasmania's
eucalyptus forest trails

basking in swinging hammocks
under Fiji's bright sun,
scrambling in
Las Vegas' glittering and
red rock canyons,
kissing under the
Taj Mahal's symphony of arches

We shared touching deep waters;
propelled in gondolas
through the city of canals,
Drifting atop Uru cat boats on Lake Titticaca,
Swooping in jet boats
up a wild river in Talkeetna

Racing in speed boats
around Sydney's great harbour,
skimming in pangas in Puerto Ayora,
paddling the Kennebec for
East's best petroglyphs,
cruising Salzbergwerk's underwater lake

We touched scrumptious things;
Beignets and chicory coffee at DuMonde's in the Big Easy,
Hot *** with sesame sauce
in the walled city of Xian,
Peking duck, dimsum, scorpions,
snake and starfish on Wangfujing Snack Street

We touched delicious things
Crawfish heads and tails at JuJu's shack
and ten years at Jeanette's,
Langoustine at Poinciana's, Fjöruborðinus and Galapagos,
Cream cheese and loch bagels
at Ess-a' s in the Big Apple

I touched your hand riding;
hang loose waves of Waikiki,
a big green bus in Denali's awesomeness,
clip clopping carriages of Vienna, Paris,
Prague, New Orleans, Krakow,
Quebec City, and Zakopane,
the acapella sugar train of St Kitts

We shared touching on paths;
the highway 1 of Big Sur,
the Road of the Great Ocean,
the bahn to Buda and Pest,
the path to the North of Maine,
the trail of the Hoh rainforest,
and time after time, the way home

Yet,
I could spend
the next three decades,
in simple bliss,
having need for
touching nothing,
other than you!

©  2016 Jim Davis
A poem I wrote last year for my wife!  Posted now since it matches the HP' theme for today - "Places"
stéphane noir Dec 2017
sometimes i wonder if shakespeare was behind the pen
that fiddled and diddled in that old church parking lot
i drove by it the other day but there was no one there
nobody freezing their buns off in the wake of the open door
nobody trying to canoodle in the back seat that wasn't folded down
nobody even thinking about pulling into that darkness.
would you even do that again? i would a hundred times think.
what even happened to that kid who used to write songs
and play them as if he were playing in front of a hundred eyes
but they were all your eyes and there wasn't a flame in existence
that was brighter than they when each lit up in its own way.
what even happened to the girl who showed that boy her house
and the colonial colloquial drapery and carpeting wall to wall,
her little sister sticking her finger into the brownie batter
and protective mother who i've gotta admit was 100 percent right:
stay away from the bad man with the non-leather patagonia jacket
and all of his sassy ideas that got him good grades in k-8
but really started to expose his weaknesses steeped in frivolity
when he got into the upper level courses and advanced placements.
[a GD mile wide and an inch deep, that's what me thinks jar jar binx]
stay away from the burnt out eagle scout who let his guard down
and allowed your guard down both metaphorically and not sooo... but
remember that coffee shop show that you never came to?
strange, it feels in this moment like an aching sore thumb.
i listened to joshua radin all the way home and thought
christ what am i even going to do about this can this work and
if it can work how can it work but if it can't work why can't it work?
because lord knows this lady is easy to please when we drink. but
silly,you're tough as ***** ****** nails when you need to be told no.
& i aint never heard of sucha thing as a dude who's charming as hell
when he's telling a gorgeous woman sum'thin she don't wanna hear;
make me a pill for that and i'll sell it on The Street for days without end.
[so how much supply you got when the thing aint even fda approved?]
"lose yourself in what you're doing and you'll never work a day" is
what they tell me while they cast me into this steel bending furnace
and demand me to find a way to be cool and relax and chill the f out-
been doing that on my own and there's no milky white ear to listen
or a record to put it on or even a GD vocal box that feels like working
unless it's singing showtunes in the car or harmonizing to justin bbr
like i'm the **** 6th man in the pentatonix or however many there are.
capitalistically useless thing i was born with and worked really hard at
until one day it told me i don't have the capacity to scribe anymore.
so i'm forever speechless like the kid who got coal for christmas last year.
& you'd catch me in that backyard again with all the 15 year old girls
still kinda trying to impress them but mostly you, & give my shirt away:
wear it and be proud that you snubbed the bad man who passed through
with the non-leather patagonia jacket in the old church parking lot.
and then i watched jim and andy
Antelope Nov 2013
Stars shining by the billion
There's a halo around the moon
The view is quite astounding
When I'm sitting here with you
Jen Grimes Sep 2016
The Dog


I found him, outside the basketball court
Sunday morning.
His golden coat seemed soft like
A Patagonia in dead winter, like
a blanket over your legs when the summer breeze hits.

I found him outside the basketball court
Sunday morning,
He came up to me with curious eyes; like
A child in a candy store, like
Detectives, always curious, like
staring at the phone waiting for your mother to reply
Curious.

I found him outside the basketball court
Sunday morning,
His gold tail hiding between his legs, ears perked like
when the caffeine finally kicks in, like
recognizing your best friend in the hallway, like
the addition of red roses to a bouquet, like
her ******* when the water is cold

I found him outside the basketball court
Sunday morning,
His fur was matted, his body emaciated like
The body of an anorexic, like
A child rotting from leukemia,
No longer soft, like a Patagonia.

So I covered him with a blanket,
His eyes fearful, not curious but wet
Like his nose hitting my arm, like
Carrying him in my arms, soft
Even in chilly November;
light as a feather.
Anais Vionet Jan 2022
Annick (my 28 year old sister) came down to NYC, from Boston, for a day visit. It was one of those warm, cerulean days between Christmas and New Years. Annick’s in a surgical residence, in a pandemic, but still somehow, she got away.

We’re dining on a shaded, outdoor, sundeck - I arrived first, by a moment but then the elevator opened and Annick emerged, looking like a model - familiar but I don’t know - more completely adult - more than ever like my mom. It was all I could do not to weep for happiness when we hugged.

After that long hug, Annick gave my clothes a slow, censorious looking-over. When my mom and I shopped for “school clothes” last year, in Paris, I bought some stunning designer (Anna Molinari) clothes - only to find out they were completely out of place at Yale. Now they’re sentenced to a trunk under my bed and my replacement clothes are from FatFace and Patagonia. Ordinary clothes, bought for their ordinariness.

I’ve been dressing to disappear but I wanted her to see a “new me.” How I’ve survived in a rough, academic country - not just survived - but thrived. I also wanted her to think her sister was beautiful and hoped I didn’t seem too strange. She cupped my chin - just like my mom does - “You look wonderful,” she said.

Annick mentioned we’d have company for lunch but she was alone - then this tall, fair-haired, man was with us. He slipped his arm around Annick’s waist and they smiled, together. I’d never met one of Annick's boyfriends before so this was a little disconcerting - part of me wanted to pull her away and say, “MINE!”

Annick made the introductions, “Anais, this is Gerard - Gerard, Anais.”  Gerard leaned into la bise then half hugged me, patting me bearishly on the back. I decided he was too tall and too handsome and began to examine him for flaws.

He wore a dark-charcoal-gray cashmere suit with a light-gray oxford-cloth shirt. “Are you always so dapper?” I asked? “I wanted to look substantial,” he said, with a very slight French accent. He held me at arm’s length. “You’re definitely sisters,” he said, smiling.

We settled in. At first we were a little stilted with each other, uncertain how to best introduce ourselves. Annick said that Gerard is a “Child Neurologist.” “Funny,” I said, “you look older.” and he laughed. I was warming to him.

“How’s school going?” Annick asked later, moving some of my fly-away hair out of my face - a trace of the maternal in her solicitous fussing - but I liked it.
“Easy peasy,” I said, the lie warming me like an ember or black magic.

There’s no real sibling rivalry between us. Imagine you’re Beyoncé’s sister, what are the odds that you’ll eclipse Beyoncé? Yeah, it’s ZERO.

“Ha!” she laughs, “you are such a little fibber.”
“I am NOT,” I hotly say, but my defense is ruined by my laugh. “I’m doing ok - but it’s a lot,” I say, to erase the fib.

They’re ENGAGED!
I tried not to act stunned but I doubt I was very convincing. The news thumped me like a gust of wind. Suddenly, I knew. Our yesterdays were no more substantial than a story we’d read together growing up, that you can mourn and rejoice at the same time.

Otherwise it was a family lunch, although at first I was a bit nervous around Gerard. At one point Annick says, “What are you doing?” as the table gently quivered.
I smiled wincingly, “Making circles with my ankles,” I said.
Annick smiled knowingly.
a slice of college, Christmas holiday
RMatheson May 2011
I shake like a drooling fool,
exhale a snore
am spent as my drizzle creeps towards her ******.
The loose flesh of me weighed down upon her,

but she wasn't there

She was running through fields of fresh emerald spears,
chases the wild horses of Patagonia
never catches them as she is overrun
carried away by the stallions from behind,
blooms a water lily opens and closes over and over,
Cereus opens with the touch of the Moon over and over,
feel the dust hear the waves of trampling hooves

as her face, a tense string,
shatters into an open mouthed smile and shout of,

"I am life, and you are the most blessed of creatures, here.
I am the glamor of everything.
I am Mother Earth in this moment,
screaming, fitting, wailing, quaking, coming.
Your diminishment has made this possible.
Bathe in the spinning cradle of life,
and stay still before you retreat from it."
land of the big feet
In Argentina, Chile
Patagonia
Margo May Jul 2016
hey there drummer boy
it’s only been a little over two years
(yet it feels like so much longer)
since we befriended and adopted you,
creating a new musical fam
and look at us now.

same church
same school,
immense musical growth
passion to worship,
new adventures
all year long,
smiles and waves
that remind me of
deeper friendships
that will stand the test of time.

although sometimes i tease and laugh
(and i sincerely mean no offense),
see it’s really because i care
and whether you like it or not,
you’re like the twin brother i never had
but secretly always wanted.

one of my favorite drummers
i easily follow your lead
you are reliable.
one of my closest friends
i never have to worry
you accept me for who i am.

whether it’s the denim shirts and hipster boots
or patagonia tees and baseball caps,
when life gets crazy once again
don’t forget that i’m always here;
i got yo back brotha.
to jb, the twin brother i never had, you'll always be one of my favorite drummers to lead worship with. thanks for being you. you rock.
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2014
and he does not think it strange,
watching two hours of the hottest hip hop,
in freezing cold surround sound air,
returns home to a medium warm bath,
where the drink served, icy cold vitamin water,
liquefying the mournful, dismal~gloomy,
lugubrious poems of lost love he finds
under his hello poetry pillow,
that gives no one relief,
neither to the writer or the victimizer

and he does not think it strange

reads strange takes n' poem tales from Avenida Paulista,
but his body dances to an Argentine milongia melancholia,
a contrast and a contest,
his heart asks where is Patagonia,
as the Arctic Vortex melts into the bath water

and he does not think it strange

for he know, he knows that this makes little sense,
but perfect sense to the poet-man,
try to see it his way,
there is a fussing and fighting inside,
that cannot be worked out

and he does not think it strange

but this be the funk groove of his extra
ordinary life wherein his body and heart,
and hundreds more,
can be held aloft
on a single wrist with fluid ease,
if allowed

and he does not think it strange

when he says,
aside aside fellow dancer,
and he does not think it strange,
he wants you to understand
for that, you must be
*be beside beside, fellow dancer
You deserve some explanation.

Saw two hours of this dance company

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5EZ-eS-LClY


went out into the sub freezing cold.
climbed unto the holy water to
read and write, and reads poems on HP from SP,
and poems of busted love while
McCartney sings We Can Work It Out
writes of the streams mingling,
and he does not think it strange
but duty bound to ask you to join
the ride, and herein he signs your
permission slip,
for his woman is off dancing Argentine tango at a milonga
till long after he falls asleep
Dara Brown Dec 2014
i want to sit in
Buenos Aires
drink coffee
till i am as wired
as the skyline
at midnight

i never sleep anyway

i want to kiss strangers
fake-ly
like they were my friends
i lost somewhere
but recently found

i need new friends

i want to tango
with a white Patagonia
rose
clenched in my teeth
while my clenched *******
rise and fall
to the beat of the waves
in my water bra

i never had lessons anyway

i want Argentina
full of faux marble
dance hall floors,
scuffed shoes, burned beans
and fish markets full of thorny
roses

i need to feel full
allen currant Oct 2014
catatonic patagonia rumbles off beyond the tilt in world spheres unknown unproven
a wasteland
not there, here but who wastes land decides where the waste lands as mist obscures trees like it knows its aesthetic knows the beating heart the focused eye rolling forming subversive lands and wanderings unmasked only by forward march and direct sunlight move like mist feel the fog crawl up rock faces and empty spaces foot calf hamstring submerged in secrecy
shoot bearings lose bearings shoot bearings lost bearings the bering strait rushes further than the south andes get strait to the point the peak the top unfolding dips and precipices, teetering on the edge of identity can't see can't see where what
but the fog relents revealing a why that sits a while then crumbles like a letter left in the laundry or the will to lift both feet from this earth
Christian Bixler Dec 2015
I once walked a lonely path,
that threaded its way so elegantly,
throughout that vast and wooded
sea. I had thought to walk for peace of
mind; for that calm and refreshing clarity,
that comes from long unbroken solitude.
But instead, to my increased confusion,
knowing as I do that all men walk with the
seeds of chaos and confusion buried in their
hearts, I found that my thoughts walked
with me, down that lonely mountain path.
My attention lingered, as it were, on the
roughness of the track, and from there leapt
from wood to sky, to consider the path itself.
Such a wondrous creature, this winding thing,
such a strange and marvelous structure! So simple
to see, to comprehend, upon ones first inspection,
but upon further query and strain of ones senses, one
sees that indeed, against all sane reason, it warrants some
further reflection! Oh true, very true, this thing of which I
speak, so endearingly, is merely a track, an ignominious scratch,
stretching its dusty way through these unending woods, but think, for a moment, simply think, about all this, all that I have to say, regarding this humble path. Think how it stretches, for miles, for years! All unbroken and unwearied continuing on through cracked gorge and wooded valley, over hills and mountains tall, never speaking a word of complaint or discomfort, only seeking to deposit its travelers at their desired destination, and continue on its way. Consider if you will the vastness of this earth, of the uncounted millions of miles that lie between her frozen poles. If you are certain of nothing, be certain of this; that this single path stretches the length and width of our planet entire, be it a dirt track through a sighing wood, or a goat path high among the jagged cliffs and peaks of Patagonia, or even the mighty ocean currents used by those unknowable dwellers of the capricious sea.  There is only one path, one long mighty river with innumerable tributaries, which stretches its way to the ends of the earth, and back again, and everywhere in between. Such were my thoughts that day, as I wended my way down that interminable path, and such was my concentration upon the fascinating madness that lay within them, that I hardly noticed that the sun was dying, and evening was coming on, and only when the light was gone, and the darkness began to weigh heavily on my soul, that I roused myself from these winding thoughts, and even as I did so, a light drizzle began to fall, which soon compounded into a driving rain, under which I was left to stumble and trip my way back down that terrible path, back to the small hamlet where it began, or passed. And yet I was glad, for I had gained, if not what I had desired, a thing of worth at least as great, if not more so, and that strange mad enlightenment which I had gained while walking the long and wearying miles of that mountain path would, I knew, remain with me, for better or for worse, for always, and for forever.
A strange train of thought. I really have no idea where it came from. Perhaps it was something I read awhile back. Whatever. Read if you will, comment if you do.
kelia Feb 2018
you are so lovely in your wicked ways
you are heavy
i can feel it, so can the room

everyone is waiting for that pause
the one you find yourself existing in

you are so lovely in your wicked ways
finding the quirks
the imbalanced romanticism in their dialect

'yeah, i’m a southern boy'
the kind you swore you’d stay away from

you spent too many nights with knights at rogue water
underage but over your limit

oh boy, that patagonia
slinging country song quarters into the jukebox

take me home!

you are so lovely, even in your wicked ways

do you like country music?
he turns left for the freeway
do you know how to drive stick shift?

you are so lovely, even in your wicked ways
i didn’t fold her laundry
she left my XXL t-shirts without wrinkles
pink, without wrinkles

you are so lovely in your wicked ways
he mixes a couple of drinks for you
reaches to grab your hand from across the bar
seared by the tea-light candle

i waltzed out of that bar like i had him
he is small and beautiful with a temper
i could love him all while hating him

i’m just a gal whose nose bled
after falling into his bed (more than once)
more than once
Claire Ellen Jun 2016
Be careful who you tell empty promises too.
I'm afraid I've heard one to many from you
and from him and from him before that.
These lost words of living up to your word
decay
day by day.
Hit me up if you'd like, but don't tell me you will
when you know you won't.
I'd love to love you, I'd love to hold your hand.
Thats a promise I'd love to keep,
   if you'd ever let me.
I just wanted a friend. I just wanted to spend some time with you.
So, Mr. Starbux-Colorado-Patagonia man,
I'd love to live up to my promises
if you'd ever live up to yours.
Kendra R Feb 2015
I once met a man,
with a remarkably even brow,
who promised me we’d dance naked on the ice caps of Patagonia.
He swore it like I was the torch that lit fire to his blood;
swore it like he could already feel the earth beneath us melting away.
He called to me, “Kendra”,
and ate all the letters as they slid over his tongue.
I believed him only for the way his mouth moved.
I followed.
I poured myself into the stream of his praises, poured my breath onto his hungry tongue,
I poured, and poured, and drained myself empty.
I awoke alone
to my first crystal splintering: the crisp and brutal dawning
that most full nights will waken to empty mornings.
P I Watson May 2019
Frost is longing.
I longed for the thaw as soon as I saw
Icy blue eyes and a navy Patagonia
Reflected up from a small square of light.

Longing to see you but settling for bantered texts and drunken facetimes
That only make me long to know you more.

Longing to clasp your neck and pull you to me,
Over a copper table in candlelight.

Longing to collapse twelve days into one
So we can take the next step down a path
Of myriad possibilities.

Frost is two roads not yet contemplated.
We have barely set out.
There will be many chances to diverge,
Each one a "what could have been."
But now there is only one reality -
A fantasy of who I want you to be
Whatever we will be, we will never be this.

Frost is nipping at my nose
With teeth like wintergreen chiclets.
I have eaten roasted chestnuts.
Seduced by the smell,
I am always disappointed by the taste

Yet, ever optimistic, I try again.
And again I come closer
To making fantasy real.
All we can have is close enough.

Frost is on the window.
Scratch with your finger to see through.
Delight in how it rolls under your nails before it melts.
Grace Feb 2021
When I was zero
I hope Dad felt like a hero
Holding me between his fingertips and elbow  
I scream from the shallow depths of my premature lungs
Nothing could calm me except for my thumbs
He carried me to the crib Mom built in a freshly painted room
It was probably white, but I can only assume
He could feel my pulse through his skin as my chest billowed
Dad laid me down gently so my head rested delicately atop a light pink pillow

When I was three
I was sad to leave the table under the lemon tree
And say goodbye to my artwork
To be enrolled in preschool at Mom’s work
Where employees build satellites and rovers
In the kid’s room, refusing to be a pushover
I got in trouble on the train track carpet
My cheeks burned scarlet
And scraped my chin falling off the money bars
For a moment I saw beautiful stars
I sat at lunch with apple slices
A few miles away Steve Jobs builds electronic devices

When I was four
God added to us one more
She’ll grow up to be taller than me
Only by an inch
When she scared me I wouldn’t flinch
Some days it felt like were Cain and Abel
As we sat fuming at the coffee table
But since your first breath of air in the hospital
Our bond has been unbreakable

When I was five
I pulled on a crisp white polo
Never without the school logo
Over my tangled blond hair
Zipped up a blue plaid jumper
With a matching sweater
The first day of school
What a day to remember

When I was six
I could not do soccer tricks
Dad bought me my first ball
Us girls got to decide what team name we would be called
Running around on the field
Rambunctious energy revealed
Oranges at half-time and Gatorade for the thirsty
Every year, I got a new colored jersey
Dad always refereed, Mom always cheered
It wasn’t long until I changed sports career
Gymnastics, volleyball, swimming, cross country
I tried each one in turn
Non-stop mediocre

When I was seven
Singing was my primary personality expression
I joined my churches children’s choir
Belting with boys and girls as if my tongue were on fire
We stood center stage
A pastor prayed
“Dear Jesus,
We thank you for the way you have blessed us through our kids
Give us the strength to do whatever your hearts bids
Amen”

When I was nine
I became aware of my spine
Mom signed me up for piano lessons
Learning music was a task for virtuous adolescents
On Tuesday’s I practiced with a smile
On Wednesday’s I thought it all vile
The teacher from Russia was intimidating, I admit
One day I stood on the stool and said “I quit”

When I was twelve
I didn’t know myself
Every day my body was changing
Every atom under my skin rearranging
Boys pointed and called me names
Girls laughed behind my back and played nasty games
I never understood why they call this school private
Everything I do is public knowledge in this climate
They call themselves Christians
But without CHRIST all I see are IANS
Immature Anxious Nefarious School-Kids

When I was seventeen
Wedged between two couples I sat between
I rode in a limo with friends to junior prom
Like a classic 80s rom-com
Dressed up to the nines
We took pictures in the sunshine
Never been asked on a real date
Probably why I’m independent and stay up too late

When I was eighteen
In my skin tight denim jeans
I started college in Montecito
Everyone had patagonia and that post-surf glow
A few years later the Royals moved in
Somewhere nextdoor lives Degeneres comma Ellen
But it’s okay because so does my best friend

When I was twenty
Almost no one at school was throwing confetti
I witnessed my first racially motivated student demonstration
After praising Jesus for our spiritual liberation
At school, on the news, in my town
Media making noise for brothers and sister Black and Brown
My sister and I made signs
Walked to the square ears open, eyes wide
Stood still
Listened
Pain, tears, anger that run in their veins
But hasn’t touched the surface of my pale frame
My blue eyes get red and swollen from time to time
But have not felt the weight of false accusation of crime
Of the multi-generational pain and censure
Their beautiful caramel brown irises have had to endure
I cannot begin to imagine
So I pray “Jesus, grant me compassion
Understanding and wisdom
Give me extra kindness, Holy Spirit help me spread the Kingdom”

Now I am almost twenty-two
These days the sky doesn’t seem quite as blue
Eyes numb to the dim overhead haze
Of the flickering light shadowing my days
It’s been long windy road to get here
Live loves to kick me in the rear
But I hold onto hope and don’t give up cheer
I shouldn’t cast my light from the mold of a pandemic year
North I go
to deeper cold and longer night,
once I was certain but I lost hope.

East is better?
The dawn in my eyes does blind me,
who now knows the way?

South to Patagonia
sheep and trees riled by the wind,
then to rocks crouched in the cold sea.

West where the sun rules the late hours
and we on tiptoe stretch high
to postpone the losing of the light.
Old poem now revisited
Timothy H Jan 2017
at best, tonight ends in rest-filled sleep with possibilities
of an old lover probably taken for granted

at worst, well, it can always get worse
no use dwelling on such things
those scenarios receive more than their fair share

quick one at the ale-house
heart open this january evening
dimly lit by coal-fueled electrical responses
illuminating habitual relapses of overconfident tones
and dishonest scared shitless eyes
clothed in the modern pigmented
grey and black dyed organic Patagonia cotton

everyone wearing grey and black?
even the messenger bags?
caps beanies glasses hair-clips

holding nothing against
fearless beauty loses the modern-cliched surroundings to be validated by none other than the undercurrent of the entire universe
Xix
Han contado el oro que tiene
el territorio del maíz?

Sabes que es verde la neblina
a mediodía, en Patagonia?

Quién canta en el fondo del agua
en la laguna abandonada?

De qué ríe la sandía
cuando la están asesinando?
Rob Rutledge Jan 3
We woke one morn
To the song of storms
And the iron grip of fever.
Torn between the call of war
Fleeting dreams of Patagonia.
The afterglow of horror shows
Shadows left upon the mountain.
Nightmares rise from water falls
Sanguine spectres in the fountain.
Preachers drink long, far, and deep
While prophets speak of profits reaped
And treasures yet to be found.
Among andean condor calls
Those who seek live weak to greed
Forever bound enthralled.
Anais Vionet Nov 2022
Lisa and I’d gone to the bakery for pies. As we arrived home, her younger sister, Leeza, was in the kitchen finishing off a strawberry PBJ sandwich. I knew this because the makings were strewn across the white, granite, waterfall kitchen island like debris from a bombing. “You’re the queen of slobs,” Lisa said, disgustedly, putting the luke-warm milk carton back in the fridge.

“I’ve been HERE before,” I thought to myself and to prevent these sisters from escalating, I asked 13-year-old Leeza, “Anyone at school you’ve got your eye on?”

Leeza turned to me excitedly and blurted out, “Josh Hornby!” With a squeal of delight. Then she took off talking at a hundred miles an hour, listing every little thing about him. His hypnotic green eyes, his brass-colored messy-style hair that he tucks back when it gets in his face. The way he reclines in class when he’s listening intently. She tells us about the time her BFF shoved her into him, one morning in the hall because she knew Leeza was crushing on him and how solid he was, “like a wall.” That collision was clearly her fault but he’d caught her, like spiderman, as she bounced off, keeping her upright and then - HE’d apologized. I couldn’t help grinning, as she rapturously ranted - she was so cute.

Leeza then, in an awkward moment of self-awareness, realized that she’d bared her secret soul and moved to change the subject. “Any interesting guys at Yale?” she asks Lisa.

“Just a herd of Chaz, or wannabes.” Lisa said, dismissively.
“What’s a Chaz?” Leeza asked.
“We augur that one type of guy you find at Yale is a Chaz.” Lisa confided. “Let’s see,” Lisa begins, starting to categorize, “If you’re a guy in a frat or you wear Patagonia, you’re a Chaz.”
“Or wear Canada Goose and boat shoes,” I throw in, chuckling.
Lisa howls with laughter, she’s into it now, “If you’ve ever brought a date to Morey’s because your family has a membership,” Lisa contributes knowingly, “or done coke in the men’s bathroom at Morey’s and consider yourself quite the prestige bang,” she completes, obviously forgetting our young audience.
“We hear tales,” I said, to assure wide-eyed Leeza, while giving Lisa the side-eye and casual *** head tilt.
“Baseball and lacrosse are Chaz sports too.” Lisa added, more temperately, trailing off and chastised.

I think I understand now, how boomers could object to the college debt bailouts. Now that I have my Taylor tickets I don’t want to hear about ticketmaster issues. I HAVE mine, ***** everyone else. Lisa, Leong, Sunny and I will be at Lincoln Financial Field in Philadelphia, PA on Sunday, May 14th, 2023 to see T.Swift in person. I’d be lowkey dreading the trip if my crew wasn’t going with me.
“Taylor’s a filthy, little, capitalist *****.” Leong said, growlingly, when she heard what I paid for the tickets but I know she’s thrilled. She’s a “swiftie” all the way.
“Shake it off,” I suggested.
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Augur: “suggest or show something”
ghost queen May 2021
Madame LeCarvennec had asked the chauffeur to be at Manoir Tregont Mab by 7 PM, the start of civil twilight during the vernal equinox, which would give them plenty of time to get to Pointe du Raz by nightfall at 8:52 PM.

It would be bitterly cold and windy at Enez Sun, so Gaëlle put on her black Lululemon cold weather leggings, long sleeved top, fleece vest, black hooded Patagonia puff down jacket, and black military style UGG leather boots.

Madame LeCarvennec had her druidess clothes and things taken to the island this morning, so she could travel and fly unencumbered.

Gaëlle walked down the stairs, where Madame LeCarvennec was waiting for her. They kissed twice cheek to check in silence. Then Madame LeCarvennec gave her a quarter baguette, ham, and butter sandwich.

Gaëlle walked out into the drizzling cold and stepped into a black Evoque Range Rover. The chauffeur, a middle aged man, armed and former  1st Marine Infantry Paratrooper, gave her a quick glance in the rear view mirror and started to drive.

They drove  in silence up D783 to Quimper, then D784 east to Pointe du Raz. She looked at the windows at the ghostly landscape, houses passing by in a blur. The seriousness of the situation weighed on her, as she slipped deeper into her thoughts, watching the endless landscape of cornfields.

They pulled into the deserted Pointe du Raz gravel parking lot. The sound of muffled crunching rocks bring her back to the moment. The driver stopped. She got out, and gasped at the cold vicious wind. She closed the door, and the chauffeur drove off. She was alone, in the dark Finistère shoreline.  

She walked down the paved trail towards the Sémaphore de la Pointe du Raz, a modern lighthouse, equipped with the latest in high-tech lighting, electronics, and microwave communication equipment. Then pass the Notre Dame des Naufragés, Our Lady of the Shipwrecked statue, till she got to the edge of the jagged rocks jutting into the Atlantic.

Directly in front of her was La Vieille, a lighthouse built on a rock, to the north Phare de Tévennec, a lighthouse built on a big rock and said to be haunted, and to the northwest, the infamous lighthouse Ar Men, called the hell of hells by keepers.

Lighthouses were classified by keepers into three categories, according to the harsh working conditions: "Hell" for houses at sea, "Purgatory" for island houses,  and "Paradise" for houses on land.

5 miles out, she could barely make out Enez Sun. The island was dark. The residents had left. The island was deserted except for the nine priestesses. Gaelle jumped into the air, placing her hands to her side as she picked up speed and altitude. The wind was blowing hard, forming white caps on the waves below.

She saw the bonfire, outstretched her hands, lowered her legs, and started her descent, landing several meters away from the circle of priestesses. A priestess pointed to a sack with Gaelle’s clothes: a white heavy cotton dress, a thick green woolen cloak, and turnshoe soft leather shoes.    

The priestesses were standing, holding hands, around two standing stones called Les Causeur in a field south of Eglise Saint-Guénolé in the center of town. Gaelle watched as they chanted and swayed rhythmically as a group. She knew from her days as a priestess, she could not be part of the circle, as the individual priestesses gave their power to the circle and leader, the eldest of the priestess, to amplify and see into the future.  

The priestesses swayed, tilting their heads back, chanting, but the eldest, Kermorian, bowed her head, concentrating and focusing her Sight. Images would come into focus, and she could make out their meaning, front the context of the subject or their surroundings. It was up to her to piece together the visions and make sense of what she’d seen.

Kermorian dropped to her knees. Her head bowed low. The circle stilled and quieted. Kermorian spoke, “ I see her. She has returned to Paris. She seeks her mother, to bring her back. She had killed many girls and many more will die to resuscitate the mother. She is manipulating men, and one in particular, to unearth her mother. That is all that I can see this night.”    

Kermorian, fell back on her ***, exhausted from the vision. Her second attending to her. The priestesses broke their circle and gathered around the fire, breaking breads, cakes, and drinking wine.  Kermorian weakly got up and walked to the fire, sat down on a cut tree stump and stared into the bonfire.

Kermorian spoke, and the priestess quieted. “She is back. Our sisters in Čachtice had been watching her. It is clear why she is back. To resurrect her mother, whom the French archeologists from la Musée Carnavalet are excavating her coffin.”

Kermorian waved Gaelle to her. “You are the closest to the archeologist and the mother. He will lead you to the daughter. Only then will we know how to deal with her and how to stop her from resurrecting her mother. The mother is the one who decimated our people. She must not be allowed to return. When the archeologist removes the iron stake through her heart, and the daughter feeds her blood, the mother will resurrect and seek vengeance on our people.”

Gaelle knew of the horrors the vampires had wreaked on her people. The systematic slaughter most of the druids, priestesses, vaters, and bards, killing the leaders, dispersing the followers. She then killed the men, so no fields could be tilled, gamed hunted, or women and children protected. They died by the thousands, the luck ones were taken into slavery by the Romans.  

The Celts abandoned their cities, dispersed, and hid deep into the forest of Europe. Our people hid in forests around Rennes, Broceliande, Quimper, Carnac, and Armorique.  

The Celtic culture was slowly forgotten and replaced by Gallic, then Roman, and finally French.

A small group of priestesses and druids were able to **** and stop most of the vampires. The others fled Europe, going deep into the desolate and savage Ural mountains, where they stayed until now.

The Christians and their new ways dismissed vampires, fairies, and magik even though their Holy books spoke of Lilith and her sisters in the garden of Eden, succubi, and magik.

Gaelle had seen excavation, the coffin, and Gerard. She’d gotten close to him, ****** him, and made sure he'd not forget her.
Del mar hacia las calles corre la vaga niebla
como el vapor de un buey enterrado en el frío,
y largas lenguas de agua se acumulan cubriendo
el mes que a nuestras vidas prometió ser celeste.

Adelantado otoño, panal silbante de hojas,
cuando sobre los pueblos palpita tu estandarte
cantan mujeres locas despidiendo a los ríos,
los caballos relinchan hacia la Patagonia.

Hay una enredadera vespertina en tu rostro
que crece silenciosa por el amor llevada
hasta las herraduras crepitantes del cielo.

Me inclino sobre el fuego de tu cuerpo nocturno
y no sólo tus senos amo sino el otoño
que esparce por la niebla su sangre ultramarina.
olivia anne Mar 2019
i’m falling for the little things about you
like the freckle on your right ear
or the way you fiddle with the emergency brake when there’s nothing to talk about.
i like the way you turn completely sideways in your seat to tell a story,
daring me to maintain eye contact from the passenger side.
i like the hat with your dad’s company’s name on it
and your patagonia pullover that you always wear.
i like that you bring a cup of coffee to school everyday
but make fun of me for drinking tea out of fancy teacups;
it seems as if i could like every little thing about you...
i’m in too deep

— The End —