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Napping at midday
I hear the song of rice planters
and feel ashamed of myself.
PJ Poesy Dec 2015
Stomped earth with broad feet
Fastening fresh saplings into
Whole forests
Eight feet by eight feet, the grid
Through winter month's
To early spring
Line of tree planters, twenty
Sometimes less, sometimes more
On Shasta, on Lassen, on Trinity Alps
Douglas Firs and Ponderosa Pines
In Mendocino, in Eureka
Planting baby giants, Redwoods
Sequoias in Sequoia National and Klamath
Young men with ***-dads
Knew some old ones too
Women as well, though few
If you could bear the snow, the rain
If you could bear back-breaking pain
The glory is yours
As was once mine
Reforestation
Go plant your line
To be eternally in
Mother Nature's good graces
And kinship known by campfire
In my early twenties, I worked in reforestation. Though weathering most inclement days, as saplings must be planted in the wet season, it was a most fulfilling time in my life. I planted whole forests all over Northern California. The men and women I worked with were so deeply dedicated, and all pulled together to make camping out in that brutal weather tolerable. Some of my best memories are there in those young forests. I often wonder how those thousands of trees I planted, fair today.
the only things I remember about
New York City
in the summer
are the fire escapes
and how the people go
out on the fire escapes
in the evening
when the sun is setting
on the other side
of the buildings
and some stretch out
and sleep there
while others sit quietly
where it's cool.

and on many
of the window sills
sit pots of geraniums or
planters filled with red
geraniums
and the half-dressed people
rest there
on the fire escapes
and there are
red geraniums
everywhere.

this is really
something to see rather
than to talk about.

it's like a great colorful
and surprising painting
not hanging anywhere
else.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
they day finishes with: at last! a schoth reserve
for highlands nomads!
     long gone is the fatamorgana of soberness
coupled with a very softcore soviet sleep
experiment: i chance you to also say:
the soviet sleep experiment is a way to censor
dreams, **** it: another paul mccartney
can write another yesterday into the repertoire,
you can hear of marathon-men who did over
100 hours without sleep, and when it came to
sleeping: hour-long interludes...
as all the p.o.w's realised was the case:
stop this dream-industry of disney! stop it!
nearing 36 hours is nothing,
when i'm going to do a hiatus in Poland visiting
my grandparents i'm planning to top that,
perhaps 48... just to get the glory days of Jews
in ancient Egypt and Joseph the adviser to
the pharaoh: 7 lean years, followed by 7 years
of starvation: what we otherwise carpe diem
over-indulgence - Moses wrote the book
of disgrace... when things turned sour,
obviously he was *******, just a little bit,
from a Jew becoming an adviser to the pharaoh
by interpreting his dreams which were always
in abundance given his lavish lifestyle...
dreams come to people who aspire to lavish
lifestyle, dreams come to people who take no
pleasure from the simplest prospects of a peaceful
hermitic life... they need both the lavish life
and the lavish hope of an afterlife with abundant
dreams... they can't master the opposite:
from simple pleasures that life has to offer:
one forsakes the capacity to the need to dream...
yet those who attain a comfortable Buddhist /
bourgeoisie / middle life: through the ethic of hard
labour find dreams nonsense... only
aristocrats find meaning in dreams, because
they have enough life insurance to guarantee them
the very unentertaining life, hence the Freudian
cinema, and here is their seeking of meaning,
because outside of their sleep nod,
their meaning is already akin to a predatory creature
kept in a zoological confinement, rather than
beckoned to attest the prime element beyond
the classical elements of fire and: where was the
Japanese army bombing the hell out of that
****** tsunami to make the orca-surf shrapnel?
where? nowhere! the reporters were there prior,
i'd swear you could have done the reverse Aleppo
with that tsunami wave by bombing it and
saving lives... but no... atoms bombs were never
intended for warfare as such, they're non-profitable...
all the arms-dealers across the world make more
money from millions of bullets and thousands upon
thousands of guns being sold: atom bombs make
no economic sense... atom bombs make
no economic sense in terms of dealing arms...
the soviet sleep experiment was one of the topics
at the end of today... the other was feline pavarotti
in a cattery: i swear to god that ginger is acting
too much like a bloodhound... moans all the ******
time, i've heard every kind of Tosca, but a cat's Tosca?
never in my life has a cat so many variable versions
of meow... animals really do possess their owners,
but in a way that shows the owners to themselves...
a poem a day: keeps the psychiatrist away.
and back to the soviets, who discovered Yiddish
dream-factory ******* that only applies to
aristocrats akin to Wilhelm Oedipus II,
    i never understood why people desired so much
from dreams, pure unconscious doesn't allow it,
it's shallow dreaming that becomes easily swayed
by a decreasing poignancy of the senses that
creates dreams, and as we've already been told:
they're bound to millisecond intervals -
snoring can be seen as a prompt for dreaming,
but then pure unconscious that's beyond the sensual
realm of pulverising you with everything external
          doesn't allow dreams, because it allows rest...
the subconscious makes more sense in terms of dreams
than what it currently prescribed,
             on the fully-waking hour of what people call
reverse-psychology (popularly), or who people can
influence you and treat you as a pawn...
   in the waking hour the theory of the subconscious
is that it's somehow there, and it's brimming with
theories ranging from the unitary stealth workings
of a superego, to advertisers competing for your
attention, as in: how can this person be manipulated?
that's the strain of thought working from consciousness
where you are said to have: no free will,
no critical approach toward the world with thought,
that you are naive and gullible...
  such people do exist, because they're not working
on the subconscious from the unconscious position,
hence they are most probably highly-developed dream-machines,
they probably even dream in colour and remember
dreams vividly... but take all the things i said
about the subconscious from a conscious pinpoint
and invert the starting point from an unconscious
pinpoint, and all that manipulating dynamic that
the subconscious is supposedly is fed fades
   to simply expose the subconscious as the medium
of dreams, whereby dreams appear from a sensory
hush of all external factors... a few days back i dreamed
i woke in a bed covered in cobwebs and spiders crawling
in them... the last thing i remember looking at?
my pet incy-wincy hanging on a silken web in
the corner of my room... for this to be true,
and for all that pompous subconscious theoretical *******
to go away, to actually work on the subconscious
having a dream reality rather than a reality of
being easily swayed by superego or advertisement
and willingly giving up your will to external factors
that go beyond mere senses... you have to acknowledge
at least 36 hours of the soviet sleep experiment, clock:
no nodding.m i've set the threshold,
the junkies did over 100 hours without sleep,
but they were army material, i'm... dunno.
              a break with an article on melanie martinez,
and then back into today's end...
    it's pouring cats & dogs outside, and will so
throughout tomorrow, one of the street lamps has
turned itself into solitary disco strobe...
   e.e.m. (epileptic eye movement)
           vs. r.e.m. (rapid eye movement) -
the difference? the latter invokes the theatrical curtain
of the eyelids... the former invokes your eyes
having rolled to the back of your head so you only
see the sclera...
but a real life problem too!
in these pseudo-capitalistic societies, companies
have started to do the Pontius Pilate tactic,
they are companies without employees,
what they want are subcontractors, people who
are self-employed, because actually employing
employees is bad business for them: you have to
have a pension fund... and what capitalist wasn't
old people getting money for doing nothing?
most construction companies are following this trend...
but the problem with that is that these companies
are employing useless managers, construction
site managers that should be on a site for at least 2
days a week... even 3... so they can get the knitty-gritty
of organisation done and the project runs smoothly...
but as i've already known for months,
say a roofing company from Gloucester is given
a London-based contract... it has employed a
project manager... who 1st of all doesn't have the right
credentials to be a manager... and this pleb travels
to London from the village of Gloucester
and is on a construction site for about half an hour,
doesn't make any notes,
and spends the rest of the time being a ******* tourist
in and around London, a day like this happens,
an authentic waterproofing problem...
   so you have these flats near the city airport,
and they're connected with walkways and have planters
too... you lay the concrete, then do the waterproofing:
primer, hotmelt, fleece, hotmelt, felt.
                  now the problem, why impose self-employment
and also employ parasitical managers who know
jack **** or are interested in selfies on tower bridge?
only because they can get a cheap train ticket back
to the village of Gloucester before the rush-hour commute?
the problem is simple, or hard, depends whether
there's an actual plan and someone is bothered..
four elements...
       1. drainage matt,
             2. pebbles,              3. filter layer
and 4. ~artificial turf... plastic-like, not asphalt,
     i grant it a status of artificial asphalt,
  or turf coloured copper...
the debate ranged about where the filter layer should go,
but there was no manager with the appropriate
method statement to give... the ******* crane arrives
at 8am, and he texts the day before that he might have
an answer by noon... or that some other manager should
be consulted to the method statement...
i suggested that first: the drainage matt, then the pebbles,
then the filter layer and then the artificial asphalt...
   the other suggestion was: drainage matt,
filter layer, pebbles and then the artificial asphalt
        given that pebbles will never be spread like
a plateau of concrete, meaning there will be pockets
beneath the artificial asphalt to soften the walk
and give more spring to the step...
                  and then i read a newspaper in england
and start to think: are these the only people on an actual
payroll? with safety in retirement schemes?
          i used to think of journalists as daring...
Watergate journalism that did something...
               then you turn on the 24 news channels
and state media is no different to free-enterprise media...
     as people my age say: television is really
a piece of 20th century antiquity... who gives a ****
that millions watched a man walk on a moon
on it... at least a billion people watched the cinnamon
spoon challenge from some ******* on the internet!
     or that guy who gave his cat l.s.d.,
or that guy who jumped off tower bridge and caught
pneumonia and had to be rescued...
still, the rain is ******* down, i've got my headphones
on, and that rebel street-lamp has turned into
a discoteque strobe's of needy rhythmic epileptics -
as every: i count most psychiatric terms in popular
use as undercover poetics, people who don't read
poetry, nonetheless apply psychiatric terms
   an unilateral transcript of denoting them as metaphor(s)
in everyday sprechen; and yes,
our informal vocabulary usually suffers for the fact
that we have chosen a fixed (courteous, hierarchical)
formal vocabulary, that erodes any chanced deviation
akin to a cat-stretching: e.g. (a) so and so died,
(b) oh, i'm sorry,        (c) and you're the one who
brought back the resentful Lazarus?
(d) as if you could have, prevented the inevitable;
a conversation between four strangers.
Ashley R Prince Jul 2012
I found a spoon in my garden.
Could you even call this a garden?
The planters are all full of
pine needles and stagnancy.
Even the bench I'm sitting on
is rotting and covered in ants.

Anyway this spoon was barely visible
among the dead leaves and dog ****.
Not rusty, save for the edges that had been
knicked by a lawn mower at some time
and then bent perfectly
down the
middle.

A memory of playing superheroes
disrupts my study.
Someone was trying to prove their
strength by bending it
"with their mind".

Eventually we tired of our
mind's lack of capabilities
and used brute force to
bend the dreaded spoon
but the celebration was nonetheless
sweet after being able to bend
our mother's cutlery.

Back then the garden was tended.
My mother put us to work
and my
"secret garden" was born partly
out of my imagination and
a lack of reality.

My mother called one plant
"lamb's ear" and I didn't
argue because it was the softest
thing I had ever felt or ever will feel.
Did she make that name up?
Surely, she wouldn't lie to me.

And now that lamb's ear, like
everything else is covered in
a thick, itchy layer of pine straw
and stagnancy. To let the plants
even begin to heal from their
prolonged exposure to cold,
mistifying darkness I would have
to scratch through the
allergy-inducing tentacles.
Push them out of the way.
Dig up the dead, dry earth,
plant new seeds and tend to them
arduously--all while wondering

why couldn't my family just
take care of what they had?

but then I notice this spoon.
I've gotten carried away again
and now I forgot to write about
what I meant to write about in
the first place.

It's not healthy to let things rust.
Overwhelmed Mar 2011
the murderer is a man who
makes a living doing what
everyone jokes about but
who deep down in their so
simple minds refuse to do
the deed for fear of some
shadow conjured up as a
means to control them in
their weakest moments

the murderer lives in our
brain but lives in the hands
of very few

so few of you are killers
so few of you are people
who’ve escaped the fear

the killers are the people
who refuse to die without
a fight/the killers are the
people who refuse to keep
living without having things
their way

the murderers are killers
but the killers are creators
creators of terror, fear, and
anger, but also anguish, and
tears in volume of the ocean

the murderers
the musketeers
the marauders
the generals
the corporals
the soldiers
the butchers
the land developers
the tree planters
the kid sitting there
eating an apple

they’re all killers
all the killers are
all of them and
all of them are
all of us
Big Virge Jan 2021
Now I’m JUST Planting Seeds...

Through Verse And Poetry...
That I Now Use To Speak...

On Yes... REALITY... !!!

So Of Course My Verse Deals...
With DIFFERENT Beliefs...

Like JUSTICE, PEACE And EQUALITY... !!!!!

Because Humans Do Seem...
To Embrace... STRANGE IDEALS... ?!?

As To What People Need...
To Breed REAL UNITY... ?!?

Cos’ The Powers That Be... !!!
Who RULE Societies...

Have Been Planting BAD SEEDS...
That Have Bred... LEGACIES... !!!!!

Like Those That We've Seen...
In... TWENTY TWENTY... !!!

This CORONA DISEASE... !!!
SHATTERED Economies... !!!
Protesters On Streets...
Due To Racist Police... !!!

Leaders And... MP’s...
Presidents And The Chiefs...
of... BIG INDUSTRY... !!!

Have Been Planting Seeds...
That Indeed CLEARLY Feed...

Off CORRUPTION And GREED... !!!

Now It Can’t Just Be Me... ?!?
Who Sees What We ALL SEE...
In Today’s News Stories... !?!

Like... REDUNDANCIES...
Seeds of VIOLENT Scenes...
That Now DISTURB The Peace... !!!

And How TECHNOLOGIES...
Have Created A Breed...
Who SEED Internet Feeds...
To Now Download Movies... !!!

That Some People... CLAIM...
They’re Now Getting For FREE... ?!?

Well.....
Those Are Seeds That DECEIVE... !!!
And Seed FOOLISH Beliefs... !!!

Because It May Well Be CHEAP...
But NOTHING Is Free That Society Feeds... !!!
While ME What I Seed Are Poetic Themes...

That Create CALM And PEACE...
... DEEP Inside Who I Be... !!!

Therapeutic GOOD Seeds...
Are What I Now Receive... !!!

That Help Me To EASE...
The Anger That Breathes...
Right Next To My Chi... !!!

Due To STRONG Energies...
That Have Built ARTISTRY...
That Allows Me To SEE..................

How My Mentality Has SEEDED Beliefs...
That Are FAR And AWAY...
From The Seeds We Now See...

That DON’T Seem So Strong...
Now We See So MUCH WRONG... !!!

Because of BAD DEEDS...
By Planters Who Scheme...
... And Create POLICIES...

To STOP Human Beings...
From Being... ONE Team... !!!

Well I’m NOT ONE To Dream...
But STILL Keep On Seeding... !!!

Verse And... Poetry... !!!
That Maybe Just Maybe...
Could Help Humans See...
The Things That We NEED...
To Create... UNITY... !!!

By... Artistically Speaking...
On How Humans Now Be...

And Constantly TWEAKING...
My... Poetic Themes...
That Have Built LIBRARIES... !!!

Due To My.....

..... “ Planting Seeds “.....
I've planted plenty already, but it would seem that I still have some more planting to do !
Caroline Grace Apr 2013
That the countryside is punctuated with quaint idyllic wonder, is overstated.
For those who survive on the other side of here, we as strangers have our
illusory perceptions of blissful self-sufficiency.
But seeing is not everything.
Our aspirations would be dashed if we were to live amongst its people.

+++

A young couple is putting seed potatoes into the friable soil, hoping for a taste of the earth.
Storms have been forecast for later today, so they've been up since first light -
racing against Nature.

Their widowed Mother strains to watch them from the farmhouse window.
Oblivious to black clouds gathering in the distance.
She can just make them out, backs bent, next to their loaded basket.

Her husband, long gone, left her with empty hands to fill, so she's grateful at her age to be of some use to her family, minding their baby, just a few months old, cherishing it as if it were her own.

At midday, she settles the baby in its pram and begins to sing softly,a lullaby
she remembers singing to her daughter years ago, aware of how rusted her voice
has become, though her audience of one doesn't seem to mind.

As baby's eyes begin to close, she tiptoes to the kitchen to prepare bread and soup for the hungry planters, then taking a a final peek at the sleeping child, pulls on her boots and sneaks out.


In the yard there are pigs.
Solid, rounded brutes, ready for slaughter.
A little afraid, she moves between them, still humming the lullaby – just to feel safe.
Once in the field, she closes the gate behind her, as though it was the final chapter in a book.

In the narrow field, her vision allows her a clearer view of her daughter and husband,
so she walks a little quicker, eager for adult conversation.

As she reaches them, they are sitting side by side on a convenient stone, both straight-backed, looking rather like a Henry Moore sculpture she thinks. They've been bent over for too long.

Sipping on the hot soup, it's as if they've forgotten how to talk – they're so exhausted.
But she understands, she knows how hard it can be.
Once you're committed to the countryside, there's no escape.
Life's like that.

A sudden gust moves the heavy clouds closer. She can smell rain coming.
Maybe there'll be enough to raise the first green shoots.
A distant rumble of thunder decides for her that she should go back to the house
so they can finish the planting.


As she reaches the gate, the wind gathers speed, bringing with it a heavy downpour.
She's glad she's wearing her boots.

At the house she finds the door already open where the damp wind has muddied the quarries.

Further into the storm-dimmed hallway, she senses an atmosphere of ruin -
a kind of emptiness breathing in a dead space.
And from the violated air, a chill freezes her heart with a fearful silence.

The pigs, the terrible pigs......

Her eyes fix on the pram, tipped on its side,
its white covers ribboned with flesh and blood,
and one wheel spinning, its rhythm gently slowing for the final lullaby.

It seems that the sound of the storm is leaving the field, soon to burst through the open door
of the first chapter in a different story.

+++

When the madness of country life turns against you, the unseen future comes quickly.
And the past forever gone, lingers to torment the soul with stories
that have no endings.


copyright © Caroline Grace 2013
Vivian Nov 2012
Pots and
Planters and
Rubber boots
Flowers
Cans
and biscuits

Drawing still life
in this rushed life
area
chalk full up
of misfits

Out of place
but in view
a girl sits with an easel

an easel that holds her focus

It would seem hard to do
but her composure is true
Concentrated
Full
of virtues
Annie May 2013
exhaust pipe dreams, gas encrusted
diamond rings
"maybe you're just taking it too personally"
words sharper than the knives
the edges perforated and willing

how can i not take something personally
when you are talking to only me
I understand that you don't know
who you are
but that is no excuse
to treat me
like a speeding ticket
you forgot to pay

i locked you away in my filing cabinet
after today
because not only did you
cauterize your fingerprints
but you erased your
name from my skin
it's like
you weren't here at all

finally we are no one
i am sitting in a room
plastered with
humans
yet
i
feel
so
alone
singular atom
one strand of DNA
not enough to
make anything
do anything
be anything
you made me feel everything
do something
and i did one thing
and it achieved nothing
second hand
counting backwards
cranking it's hours
until there is
only minutes
but even then
it's still 60 seconds
and each tick is a bomb
that has yet to detonate
if you leave
i will detonate
but you can't stay
or I will tie my body
to yours
and throw us both
into the water

letting the sharks
dissemble us like
an assembly line caught
in the VHS tape rewinder
film strung by branches
that I used to call home
shopping carts are the
planters to these trees
and sometimes in the
dirt I find reasons to leave
but you stomp them
out and they
starve
empty
and you look at me
but there is no remorse in your eyes
Alexander Nelson Sep 2013
are you dead yet?
my pillow has the plastic to prove it
take a thought, overplay it, remove it
the whole time
staring at the sun, with eyes wide
burned retinas blinded with truth
shaking in the darkness with vermouth
staring at flesh, of flesh
staring at the truth in flesh, of it
one day I smell the sky, the next I can't fly

bipolar without klondike bars
humor doesn't work either, smell ether
smell ether and breathe
working with strings and straps
not g strings and strap ons
working with and against myself
constructing the pyramid with the town
burning a hole in my back
lies are cement to be removed

Are you dead yet?
Why even ask, viruses aren't living
taking a **** and growing up, caring and giving
dividing my time up to distract
providing it won't sneak attack
I must have ate a lot of nuts
Planters **** you, now I pay he ultimate price
******* and screaming while my vice peaks
slips into, porcelain
no more sin, please, no more sin
Sethnicity Feb 2016
Black on black on black on black
Wood tar pitched and shackled back
Back to back to back to back
Paid in full no matter man fact
priceless pain packed pickings to rack
crack the back of blacks to stack
paper to pay to paper for play and man
Who's black backs crack and snap
Crack sha clack to crack to Sha clack

Blood and labor and words no savior
On roads and rails and rocks on street blocks
Laws to wrap the black lack in locks
dread locks and cops and knocks and knots
Locks and laws and loops from logs
backlogged black laws closed jaws and halls
freedom is someone who knows the walls
You live you learn you see no turn
so learn to know no way to earn
lose your job your home your wife
A way of life is guns and strife
knot in back no friend but lack
black on black on black on black

Run from hoods in hoods and hide
when the moon is full in a land of lies
Sun by day means mad men by night
Free from chains but not from spite
for them deny and then deny
deny deny deny deny
Washed away with whittle white sight
We musta been wrong when white is right

Cops on blocks in shops and hops
Watch for the Man on beat on stops
Crack on corners and broke back moms
peddle from job to job then sob
Mom and Dad Divorced by workforce
Paid pennies *** many "Too dim of Course!"
Get back, You black, No Slack, Take That
can't pay em the same they'll ruin our aim
For Good and Power and money to reign
From hungry to dummy to nummy and slain
held down by Presidents Planters and Pain
The Pain so well ingrained in brain
  
So train a child the way to grow
Get Money, Get Power, Get Good to Go
Get Smart was said, but a hard road to ***
Some Rattle some Crackle
some Dream some Battle
Moving the movement by Marching the Capital
But capital got capped and Anger got tapped
burning the bridges extended tween US
When Fed help medicate minds but menial
The gun clap on black when black on back
burn the bridge we all worked to track
but silent echoes sha clack sha clack
Attack is back so black react

We gamble on gravity with coin of Change
knowing the game ain't geared for gain
ignore the lack of footing in rain
For certain it's curtains yet playing the same
blinders on, triggers on, surprise when maimed
Forgotten the root so strange fruit ain't strange
Aged in grief raged in street
surprise when lame, inflamed, in heat
We old in defeat deranged and weak
should have been focused on governing seats
Youth forgot when work was sought
In a world wide web the mind was bought
Trapped in chains unseen yet wrought
To dream is deemed an impure thought
Wonder why kids abandoned the plot
A dream deferred is a dream forgot
When truth repeats the gears don't stop
When voting is bought the truth gets locked
in cycles, in history, in catch phrase, then plop!
Black and White in Chains Distraught
Distraught no thought with teeth dry rot
the lot has rot and lost its hot
Slavery Antiquity and Dreaming De' mode'
Truth is Questioned and Fiction la Mode'
Truth is Fact too black for show
So Back too Black to Act just mold
Anger and fear our coal to hold
remember regret, let go, too bold
So revolt loose canary for gold
too late to leap the mind will fold
the future looks cold so cold so cold
but the dice we roll and roll and roll...

But Why?
When Blacks in Stacks in Fear; The Facts.
A Belief History of Black America.

It's a mentality steeped in grieving, I can't wait for all communities of humans to get to the Forgiving stage of grief.. the one not mentioned because it's so closely related to Healing.  I'll be the first to admit that I'm striving for the Forgetting stage... but I am not there yet, but I'm trying Ringo, I'm trying real hard to find the God in Me.
Waverly Mar 2012
You touched me on the shoulder
as you ran quickly by on your phone.

I was in such a hurry
to climb those jenga stairs
that I didn't realize it was you,
until I saw that tiny body
and that frenzy of tousled blond hair
swishing in the wind.

I turned around and ran
to you,
as you walked away.

I ran to you
and grabbed your arm.

"Don't touch me," you said.

Diamonds falling from your eyes,
I picked at them with my pinky fingernail,
searching for the loam beneath.

"Where've you been?" I yelled.

"You don't know what's happened to me!" You yelled,
and you lifted your shirt and felt at a pink scar;
a trench in your belly,
a wound that I had infected.

People stared,
but I just wanted to yell,
there was so much yelling inside of me.

I yelled like a lover yells,
yelled with my heart.

The yell sounded like this:
"Can I hold you one last time?
I just want to hold you," I said,
like a loon,
but it was the only thing
I ever wanted.

To hold all of you
in one moment.

And so you came to me,
and let me hold you a while.

but the skin between us
was better for separating,
and I told you
to call me if you needed me,
even though I knew you never would.

And you walked away,
that tiny body of circling movement
and head full of giant clams
with their swirling pink pearls
moving farther and farther.

Until you were in the distance
and invincible.

Cyclists whizzed by,
phones beeped onward,
taxis rode highways of clouds
beneath the bridge,
and I thrummed quietly,
picking at the diamonds in my hands,
searching for the loam
that I could put into the planters,
food for the flowers
I had always wanted you to see.
Midnight Confession to Stingray  III  

And suddenly awake. i think i heard the phone ring, but long ago that no stingray called me; it would be absurd. who call a forgotten man, yearny of themselves?. And suddenly awake and crying i wonder what i have done to live this. why i can not die? what's stopping me? god kills for pleasure, i would do it out of necessity. i end with my life and the importance of being earnest.
    
Outside roars the sea. the waves claim my life, my life claim it and head on a silver platter the almighty, responsible to no justice. ha! justice. Consign it everything to god is to add an extra shadow existence. whenever i get depressed i confirmed the existence of nowhere. already said my old friend Andrei, "the soul craves harmony, while the world, reality, life, are full of dissonance".
    god! i do not want any harm to feed my humor. and i tell you because i know that fate is but the unilateral decision of a supreme being, without the intervention of the creature that falls. you and your **** decisions!
  
I must then settle the illusory permanence of my bad steps taken. after all, the man has not been done to exemplify rebelliousness.
Insert - cans carrier some catching film and rolls a finger cuts / , looking at his finger and begins to move circularly, leaving his palace versailles topic decorated, full of blood stigma. then  an arm and his shadow the succor envelops faucet cracked.

insert final -
you always give back things to their original order, no matter what man does or does not do. when the world ends, will only continue the deserted streets where consummating the drama of solitude, loneliness of man. solitude, that awe you feel your son, more powerful even than the fear of death. loneliness, ontophanicus element of childhood fears and unrecognized face of the adult human animal.


Insert - Snifp    opens window, moist your hands with rain, seals his hands, making a drinking vessel of your hands. someone you back then close was noting his eyelids his old love visiting him - Snifp shudders take turns and trafficking in their eyes hands that image. followed gets humming a ditty ... continuing with your thought the song of your song - only the first two lines sing, the rest is with musical pacing phraseology showing on time images:

  "  maybe everything is reduced to ideas. the great wars and the huge advances in the history of mankind are due to them... what is most important for the soul to believe in change? the flowering of ideas! proclaim them the wind and see how they are trampled, but when they die, they will be remembered by them.
    yes, i know, when my turn comes, or not taking into account what you have said, i must kneel before you. "

Insert - Snifp - in your room like versailles, kneeling before the accompanying idol behind his cabin. it was a huge torrent cans with film rolls. some were leaving your movies its packaging. on the upper part of torrent was an eye that turn that also glinted colors and eye on pared scenes showed pictures romance film and expressionist cinema.

  " something happened with spring and winter, only took one night to erase my life. everything i've done, everything i am has been solely because of my insecurity even look at my letter, is confused, irregular, insecure, unfinished, unfinished, ugly to my way of translating the letters on paper it is unsafe. That's why i am where i am. it may not be the best, but it's comfortable. i should not deal with anyone but my ghosts. "

Composition: the whole song - this song in passive voice - before each pause they call Snipf, her father, her mother, she the same calling it self doing choir with letter of the song telling you enter is late and that not early to work everyday continuing - voice feels off, but the darkness appears immensity of arms in clothes ragged and *****, treating him to speak. every aspect of song be supported by allusive as a documentary imagine.

[insert images]: Mr Snifp. this in a paramo isolated, everything smells rancid stink and essence with her mouth glottis churned a finger as mayor, the three items that were deposited in calderon reddened by flare. Their beards 90 cm, crisscrossed end of pointed shape. mr. Snipf it took out glottis your hands together his cross to remove the book and the lenses pipe. While he continued impetuously making this movement of his arms, lashed out on the top step your home room your nearest death, and if it was confused casket 60 cm or a 2 mts. such was the fan accession that uttering which carried from the limbo of house untouchable pantheon, but it was not, all the servants threw it out of doors sliding down the cobblestones, while Snifp kicking as if to take revenge until the last priest perpetuity oblation gave to your existence non tyranny.Still getting off cobblestones, planters keep falling, cornices. carnations falling on follow your body wood caged.

Removing Snifp appears in Calderon lenses, pipe and the book, but this time he has in his hand left the book, and pipe right. but when child, walk the avenue where would buy tidbits, seeing through the showcase  the owner of the commercial always had in his right hand a book and left a pipe.

Snifp lying on his altar Calderon churned with thousands of books, lenses and pipes, falling to tiring and suddenly the ground with his right hand possessing a book of phrenology and left a pipe smoky reddish. it was so faint Snipf and only with boiling essences smelly around.

[insert end].

Zooantropomorphic Basic Kinetic Theory:

In the room, three and a hommo sapiens stingrays. Located facing each other. how to illustrate and in between them appearance with animals, and acting daily activities.

Every stingray, is an object and subject to time, the eyes of Snifp, but more remarkable is that each of them can auto refer, as having instincts and feelings, which alternately men intimidate and used in a extended range of possessions and physical, and electromagnetic powers psychic. "

Snipf in the room seemed feeling redeemed, because they came to help him, came to the town of his abode. A hold a escape. but to think and think and read what rugs you wrote on the wall concerning this theory, he reminded inescapably on fatigue years of thinking, to nearly multiply your ideas on every beat of your heart as an avalanche in your own heart

And they continued typing:

... Thousands of years sail the seas for fixing without ours where our dreams console conditions. we have seen many events, births islands, shipwrecks _ at that time Snifp, he takes the head and can not believe what you tell manta rays, being very shock and sorrow.

He told ...: as you, enjoyed the freedom to grow and believe in my labors happiness. up next to toasted you hiding the sun my skin. trying to follow them confine of the seas as well wishing one day be as you but i saw growing up and that my gaps growth .
interrupts writing one of them on the wall:

... Birds and we seem confused in the sky and the sea. its movement is a great similar  infinitely ours. by instance. for reproduce places and we are in very favorable temperatures. Our food to go for a  tractile  movements resort in places, where our hunger and thirst unite to hunt our prey. There are certain movements, seemed birds river near the sea; with love that in a small ball enjoying our offspring thousands of kilometers from hunting place chosen.

My father strand a day in the pacific sea rivera, seeing some odd birds in groups, moving choreography of side to side, changing their appearance or disordering composition, rare birds when they reached another species, but enough with birds are you were visiting for them with their move to, they give the spectator the camouflage invisibility, violated them to be your space.

Snifp: but the move with air allays tour and return either in any direction. and when i feel abandoned by my wishes of faith or of love, which will be the right move?. One of them says: the movement may not porte nothing, or also something ruined, importantly possessing energy for all be alive call the highest levels rising to pay for that move your body energy; something like love for fuel survive, perhaps not frustrating not to have to turn disoriented when we storms at sea with boats and we want trap, without relying on a moment to pray, to save our destinations. Snifp, think that as you suffer, it happens to us. the blankets impassive, floating on the piece and brought them to Snifp the miles genealogies and exhausted by origins of existence.The cornerstone of movement, time division yours and mine, separated by both affected synchronicity things for immense currents.

Snifp replY: if, if you !!. but both to animals we  vanished others because you have eyes for men only see your interests.
Snifp as if you are thinking _ ourselves the told, what confusion ... not !!.

Then  in men, animals are invisible visible and motion forms. But yes, each generation of movements different article, since each margin regarding your drive specific functions  changing the man, what you plenty of activity what to generate be blinded  no recalling the advancement finally  to not to repeat their mistakes. Snipf words in good men living in a house of fears caused by collective and not totally bad habits subjugations evolved animals. An animal, a being who owned and self contained and do nothing  not self  supply materiality.

We do not pray to  God, just keep your policy creation and preservation, just keep your commands as a whole to vibrate, knowing and ignoring sometimes. This is our Creator. Stingrays sailing in my Mind  and in  the spreading architectural dreaming.
FINAL  MIDNIGHT CONFESSION TO STINGRAY-  Under edition
Literary allusions: the curse of
Those who overdo—or, as some say--
Overdid the reading thing.
I speak of close associates,
Imaginary friends you’ve not met,
Let alone read (pronounced "RED") about.
Like this guy down at Moe’s Tavern,
An 8th Avenue writer’s bar I frequent.
Let's call him Paulie Muldoon,
A fat Irish slob who claims to be
Poetry Editor, "The New Yorker."
Paulie likes to give me tips on
HOW TO GET PUBLISHED!
Like me, he’s never
Been in print anywhere,
Other than his ***-encrusted laptop, &
A letter he once wrote to the editors of
"The National Kreplach Review,"
A radical Zionist quarterly
Funded by The Mel Brooks Foundation,
Harvey Weinstein & Condé Nast.
Nevertheless, Paulie seems to know
A lot about the publishing business,
Particularly after six stiff Jack & Cokes.
He says the thing is this:  
The best of the Ivy-League’s
English majors wind up in Manhattan,
Slaving away in cubicles,
Working for peanuts—literally,
The publishing industry has some sort of
Barter agreement with Planters.
(www.planterspeanuts.com)                                       ­            
They sit around on their ***** all day,
Getting their kishkes in a twist,
Eating peanuts, perusing manuscripts,
Like chimp Zoo valedictorians.
The manuscripts submitted by the hopeful
And--for the most part--delusional.
According to Paulie, these Yalie, Princeton,
Harvard, Columbiana WORDMEISTERS
Are more likely. . .
(Urban Dictionary: word-meister (www.urbandictionary.com/define.php? 1. Something yelled in place of a cuss word. 2. a rare species of humpback whales. 3. small children whose mother's name is Debbie.)
. . . More apt to be impressed with your scree
If you lay siege their psychic CPUs,
Pushing a few obscure,
Mnemonic function keys, remembrances
Of past Proustian peregrinations.
That's right, you get a much
Better shot at sidestepping that
First smug obstacle of arrogance,
If you slather them; go right
Ahead & flatter them with
Lotions, potions & emoluments,
Arcane passwords,
Vain secret satisfactions,
Tidbits of titillation,
Things that only some mook
That actually had read "The Crucible."
Or "The Scarlet Letter,"
Could possibly know,
Let alone, remember.
For a publisher’s water-boy,
A synaptic switch is keyed,
Tripping off an avalanche of
Marginally relevant,
Yet ultra-literate,
Cognitive highlights.
And, while we're on the subject,
Has anyone actually read Melville's "OMOO?"
Pen Lux Mar 2016
she was the smell of gasoline and bubblegum
a sweet rancidness that filled my lungs
made me choke, on her
the aroma of Then
lingering even Now
more time passes
memories slow-burning
to ashes, in planters
new life emerges
more time passes
the Future awaits
patiently in peace
as Now blooms,
lives, dies, passes
rhythmic life
let me forget
as time passes
smell new roses
let me live in the rhythm of Now
rather than swaying against it.

Now.

I am.

popping bubbles
burning gasoline
moving forward
as time passes.
words words words
weird inspiration
weird words weird words
let's explore! the weird worlds words
Suzanne S Feb 2017
I found a heart on my doorstep
And rushed to bring it inside
To put it in a new ***,
With good soil from the nice patch of grass,
And fresh water from the tap,

Wondering

who could ever have thought
That I was responsible enough
To care for something like this
When they could see all the planters by my door
Have withered away to dust?
Sam Temple Jul 2017
~
Standing at the concrete bridge
just at the entrance to the L-Line
I scan the clear-cut of two years ago.
New maples stretch to the sky and
ferns fan out like a forest compass
each direction, devastation.
I close my eyes to the horror and feel my brow
scrunch. A lifetime of memory spills like the creek below
passing me by, cloudy and swirling.
It is really progress to ends so many lives?
Each stump I pass seems to call out
in a weak wavering voice, asking my why.
I rub my fingers along the chainsaw tracks
shaking my head as I cannot answer.
When my father used to return from work
smelling of sawdust and
gear oil, I relished those scents.
Today, in the face of a forest in ruin,
my nostrils flare against the stench.
And yet, even in my anger and dismay
new growth brushes my pant legs
and I see where the planters have come through with
***** and ***
giving baby firs a new home.  /
Sally A Bayan Aug 2018
We are all planters and sowers
in this huge field...where seeds
of graces and blessings, as well
as trials and tribulations (i call
them weeds), are strewn in all
places...made to blend...to help
shape and strengthen our faith,
character, our emotional stamina...
all these seeds and weeds, paint
our earthly existence with bright
and darkened hues: blue, gray, black,
green...red, purple, yellow ochre, bronze,
and countless other colors of the universe.
it seems, we human beings are born with
coloring books, bearing our names..it's up
to us to paint them on canvas, or in words
...it's up to us, to bring light to our own
darkness, or,  to make them blacker than
a starless midnight......maybe an ebony
horizon to those blinded by stubborn beliefs...

truths that weren't perceptible then,
are much more visible and vivid now
i recall...when troubles piled up then,
i forgot to pause...to analyze,

i saw small alleys, when there were
wider streets...it didn't occur to me,
i must have the fortitude...to search...

i saw crowds, when there was much
space on this earth...failed to realize
that there were lessons to learn from
crowds, that i could create better space,
that these weeds also bring graces...

while looking at the atmosphere, my
eyes, my mind were totally eclipsed,
almost blinded...seeing only dismal skies,
when there could've been sunlight,
if i wanted to...within myself, or around
me...regardless, if it was stormy outside.

i could've created a gap from grief
i forgot that, light and dark take turns
...come what may.....they alternate...

much lessons and wisdom were gained
from younger days...........it is true...
we cannot change what we've started
yet, we can begin where we are right now
and create a different ending...



Sally

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
    August 16, 2018
"You can't go back and change the beginning,
  but you can start where you are and change
  the ending."        
    -----by C. S. Lewis
Kewayne Wadley Nov 2016
Made of peanuts I feared the hand that searched for me so adamantly.
Watching the strange horror across agonized faces.
The bitter crunch of teeth.
The dissipation of silent screams.
Why not the cashew beside me.
All he does is laugh,
I blame the commercial for all of this, at least he got to keep his shell.
This totally wasn't what I had in mind when I said I'd meet you halfway.
Paralyzed in fear I sat.
Watching this hand pat all around me.
A total invasion of privacy.
Rattling what sanity I had left.
Sometimes it feels like I'm losing my mind.
Trapped in an empty container with nowhere to go.
Of all days why couldn't you rinse your mouth with something else.
Finally finding that annoying cashew,
If I could close my eyes and pretend it was all a bad dream.
Sweating inside of these tin walls.
If only I would have known that the world was going to end today.
I'd probably cover myself in chocolate and pretend I was someone else.
I would have hatched the perfect escape plan.
Here's to hoping I get caught in your throat so you'd have no other choice but spit me out.
Stupid Planters peanut guy
Bill murray Feb 2016
The feds take my sibs land
The feds take the rural land
The feds steal it right under your nose
You get played, you don't even know.
The feds **** the livestock and cattle
The ranchers are planters being slaughtered in battle.
The FBI murders and ****'s my family
The coastlines are barren
Birds fall out of the sky,
Experiment from the administration's control testing.
Property is disappearing
From right under your nose
Better wake up
You'll be the next host.
The FBI is taking my farmhand's good's
The CIA deals green leaf
And ****** mud.
They tell us their helping
They tell us its good.
Would of could of
Do something for good!
Do something now
American public,
We have run out of time
We're broke on the budget.
Take to the flag
By which you once stood.
Take to the grab
Of gun supplies, go to the
Woods.
Take back your homes
Be the knights of your day
Persecution's started
It's not far from your gaze.
Do something now
American kid
Your grandpa was probably once a farmer
And you'll be next on the feds list.
A need to know of what's happening to the farmers lands, ranchers land. AMERICAS land. Not only farmers youngins, the country. Our land is being destroyed by experiment testing as I and the west coast know


Need to know: the Clinton's have made a deal with the Russians and Mr Putin to buy American uranium from our landscape. You may check that little bitty up on the Google!

Innocent rancher out in Oregon was murdered in cold blood and while being shot in his back by a fed FBI agent, the mainstream seemed to have cover that up, yet video details online tell the story

Birds are falling out of sky with other animals washing up dead!
Not the weather folks,

Article from geoenginneringwatch.com

The U.S. government routinely conducts experiments on weather modification, and has been doing so for at least half a century. Previously classified under such names as “Project Cirrus” (1947) and “Project Popeye” (1966), weather modification is no longer a secret practice. In fact, a bill (S517) was sponsored in 2005 by Texas Sen. Kay Bailey Hutchinson, a Republican, “to establish the Weather Modification Operations and Research Board, and for other purposes.” This bill did not become law. Yet, there is reason to believe that various government institutions are carrying out numerous legal and illegal weather experiments without informing the public!

Note; yes this still happens, worldwide not only my great American country. As I've seen two other people speak about this here. The originations are called haarp. Yes a real thing the government openly uses in Alaska and other parts especially California its being used.
Haarp stands for .
High Frequency Active Auroral Research Program.
Originating in gakona alaska founded in 1993:
The High Frequency Active Auroral Research Program (HAARP) was an ionospheric research program jointly funded by the U.S. Air Force, the U.S. Navy, the University of Alaska[clarification needed], and the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency (DARPA),[1] designed and built by BAE Advanced Technologies (BAEAT).
Yes you may check darpa to. Another man-made device to ruin a once great nation. You should ask a question to yourself as an American!
Why does and is this happening? As it all is.
It's called government dominance
Also stating a control mechanism! Every thing an American eats he is told what to eat because someone bigger than them tells then is good. As we shove gmos in our bodies
( gmo) genetically modified organism.. GMOs (or “genetically modified organisms”) are organisms that have been created through the gene-splicing techniques of biotechnology (also called genetic engineering, or GE). We are told what to watch
So we watch it.
Micheal Wolf May 2017
Tonight I was painting my dads garden planters. I built them for him last year. At 85 he is too old to bend down to ground level. So I decided to raise his garden up three feet. Now he has immense pleasure in being able to garden again. While I was painting away listening to music he came out with a cuppa. I was listening to Rachmaninoff. His 2nd piano concerto. I love it. Dad used to play it to us when I was a child. Brings so many good memories back. He stood listening and said that's beautiful who is it. At that point I thought how cruel growing old is. One of his favourite pieces of music and he didn't recognise it. I was about to say come on pops you must know this then I saw the look in his eyes. As though he was in his youth hearing this masterpiece for the very first time. His mind decades in the past. At the end he raved about it. I said what it was and he processed the thoughts and said yes I have it played by the man hinself on an LP. Then tells me John Barry used it in the Movie Somewhere in Time. His brain now full speed ahead.
We have good days and bad days in lifes journey. Dad and I have had to many bad ones of late.
But I learned something from him again tonight. Always remember ..
We are all just somewhere in time.
Use that time wisely.
I will **** trees, miss fleas, hiss bees & kiss cheeses like nervously-
nervous nut jobs with neurotical, nerve-racking, miss-ease diseases
Half way up from the bottom down, left of center, tilted backwards,
is the contorted stance that cripples contortionists lunging forwards
Charles Puffy's jumbled diphtherial litter & rot got him caught cold
& brought to higher authorites who knew that Puffy needn't be shot
I must **** freeze, miss fleas, kiss pleas & sis knees like nervously-
nervous **** aces with a neurotic, verve-backing, mist-fees disease
in prison abuse programs for los Indios maricones of British Belize
where we choke Chinese grocers often for greenish imports of peas
from divine Cathay where Falun Gong worship's a Maoistical tease
for the likes of Planters honey peanut butter franchisee John Cleese
who unites skin-sloughing French sheep with shepherds who fleece
along knee, shoulder & pelvic joints & where pink **** ***** crease
which is alright with ****-flap pervert, the flitty queer Edwin Meese
who seeks gay normality & normal gayety with 32 gym locker keys
that unlock a twilit exo-scientometrical face that God frozenly frees
under the gun like a he/she; as known by goys blown in shot breeze
through statues soiled by pigeons above ½ moon toenails of tweeze
long after the decapitation of 91-year-old screen writer Robert Lees
whose bid to keep head & torso as 1 died like Yukio's Shogun pleas
whose fight to keep his head & frame attached died in ½-assed seas
just like ****** Bruce Jenner showing he's a she by varying degrees
that has his ill family of mule-******* climbing like chimps up trees
that has his donkey-******' family climbin' like apes up jungle trees
where syndicated-business-share-differentials run like a viral sneeze
brought on anaphylactically from the sting of gay Cuban killer bees
I caught what you got: a catchy social malady, a red, twisted nose, a
splintered bone sprain & iliac crest pain from a celiac disease strain
as our fiery Icelandical love derailed your icy Africanical soul train,
new A.P.S. screening for Chinese students made Dutch folks insane
as a homosexy Irish turn would flash a burn with Gay Gaybo Byrne
who worshiped all beans save, of course, the stringy mung, because
1 dead Martin Luther King hung sun bred rotten puker string strung
on *****/spine/pines/Ipsen, as anagrammatically fill words are sung
by Ted Nougat & Steady Nugget, Cud New Ghent, Bed **** Gent,
Freddy Knew Chant, Bad Gnu Jaunt, Red Glue **** or Ted Nugent
Ted often changes his name as a dodge for Earthen-plane espionage
with his squatting-over-a-milk-bucket-trick because his heifer's sick
'cause for you I lie to everybody else: Darryl, Charlie, Keef & ****
& lush Woody, whose affair with ***** made the Small Faces click
while avoidin' having massive holes drilled into his filthy neck Ron
managed to remain not dead to complete his homosexy concert trek
while the 2 flat signs of ratty liver brings on thrills + chills, it's only
after you abuse your flat, ratty liver that a flat, ratty liver rat squeals
squeakier than gay drug store cowboys on patented analgesical pills
washed down in ginger beer, tainted by the gooey guts of harp seals
that were buggered by moon-lying *** wipes, 2 gay Buzzes & Neils Lyrics of a geriatrical age that play epidemiological reflect old Paul McCartney's 1960's albums proving that bold jowl pigs aren't knees
as the 2 symptoms of ratty liver disease clog you with rat droppings
atop promontories, in gullies & beneath Algerian cliff outcroppings
where fleet of feet sheet beat tweet bird **** after we eat Crete meat
brandon nagley Jun 2015
A weary face stares back at us all
Giants grow tall
Where the small minded are casted!!!

All concepts to be trapped in
Our man made prisons!!!

Such derision is unanswered!!

The garden men and planters
Make grow all thou conceives today
Love seekers to slaves,
What's the difference in its core?

Some cry out for extras
While Heartbreakers take more!!!!

More of nothing left
A thief to every theft
A liar per every aching tongue!!!!

Unappeasable audiences
Bookies seek out bondmaids
For their own completion!!!!

So cunning
To these lust cumulaters!!!!

Electrode pulses
Bypass what's become of us,
Eristic flumes
Travel fluctuating rooms
Wherein keyholes haveth no fit

Acidic spit
Lines the dried out mouth's
They gaze
They count

But add nothing to their foulard writings!!!!
brandon nagley May 2015
A weary face stareth back at us all,
Giants grow tall where thy small minded are casted!!!

All concept to be trapped in our man made prism's!
Such derision is unanswered,
The gardenmen and planters make grow all thou conceiveth today!!!!

Love seekers to slaves,
What's the difference in its core?
Some cry out for extras,
While Heartbreakers taketh more!!!!

More of nothing left!!!

A thief to their theft,
A liar for every aching tounge!!!

Unappeasable audiences,
Bookies seek out bondmaids for their own descretion!!!!
Non completion soo cunning to these lusted cumulaters!!!!

Damsel,
Where art thou?

Elyptic in thy writings?
I proceed!!!

Laughing to bleed,
Or bleeding to die?

Electrode pulses bypass what's become of us,
Eristic flumes travel fluctuating rooms,
Where thy keyhole has no fit!!!!!

Acidic spit lines the dried out apertures,
They yawp ,
They count,
But add nothing to their foulard writings!!!!!
b e mccomb Jun 2021
it’s friday night and for once
i’m not slinging *****
no tickertape headaches
or low resolution bedtimes

purple cocktail and
a pink sky above
the bricks of a city that’s
turned blue in faded light

and it’s easier now
to be grateful
for what i have
for what i don’t

i don’t have
to relive the past
last year will never
come again

and things may
get darker than
ever someday but
for today i have
this moment
to hold onto

the seconds in which
the fog on my
glasses cleared
and the music in
my ears was coming
from above me
and i didn’t need
to run to my
destination just
walk with time to spare

minutes in which
normal can exist
after a lifetime of
trying to be different

those who know me
will say i’ve changed
and i have
you have to change
when you start feeling
like yourself

it’s not a
glimmering revolution
on a horizon of clarity
it’s when you can
set your own smile
free on your face
let yourself miss
what you’ve lost
but not so much
that you lose today

vulnerability is a
hard gift to give myself
but i don’t want to
live in a box anymore

life is not
a race or sprint
it’s just a walk
on a late spring evening
when flowers in planters
nod in reminder that
potbound plants can
find a way to thrive

growth is a
process
and i’m not
there yet

but for now
there’s air
in my lungs
a plan in my
future and
regrets behind me

and for now
that’s enough
copyright 6/4/21 by b. e. mccomb
I sat down in the basement
Safe and hidden from the storm
I wrapped up in my blanket
I was keeping safe and warm

It sounded like a freight train
As I listened to it blow
The rain was going sideways
But, at least there wasn't snow

The maple in my back yard
Was straining as it blew
Some branches snapped in pieces
I counted twenty two

I watched out the small window
As projectiles whistled by
It was noon but felt like midnight
From the darkness of the sky

I saw a picnic table
Fly from two houses up the street
Although it was quite scary
It was also kind of neat

We get these storms quite often
And when the wind is dead and gone
The best part is the garbage
Has all blown off my front lawn

I'm going up to look out
As the winds are dying down
To check on what's been blown here
From other parts of town

I'm looking from my kitchen
To see the damage the storm did
I've now got six umbrellas
Two swing sets and a kid

A wading pool, two lawn chairs
Some cushions and a slide
A pool cover all torn up
And a small boat on it's side

No leaves and that's a good thing
Because my sheds gone with the rake
So I can score one on the plus side
Though I now own a small lake

Shingles from the rooftops
Of nearby homes abound
I've fourteen in my fence now
And a hundred on the ground

Last storm, when it blew through
It wasn't quite a twister
My friend, he lost his tent trailer
But he gained a cat and sister

We've twenty three blue boxes
From storms we've had before
A dozen real nice planters
And a beat up old car door

I get another backyard grill
About every year or so
I just move the old one out some
And let the wind storm blow

The storms done finally
So, the clean up now can start
Tomorrow it'll be out front
Like a yard sale at Wal Mart

The damaged goods get recycled
The good stuff's rarely claimed
It's all covered by insurance
And the victims never named

This year will be different
We won't keep all things hid
We've got an extra swing set
And I'm not keeping the kid
Mike Hauser Nov 2015
down south we love our goobers
salt em up and set to roast
eat em by the dozens
drink em in our cokes

fix em fancy in deserts
peanut butter pie
big and small all size and sorts
eat em till the day we die

granny loves to cook em
goobers in green beans
adds a bit of crunchiness
to the down home sunday dinner scene

with newspapers set out on the floor
in front of  television sets
cracking shells like walker texas ranger
does good for nothing yankee heads

buy em hot and buy em boiled
along the roadside stand
spilling goober juices
all over the cars naugahyde rotan

finger licking greasy
from out a planters can
down south we love our goobers
like you done heard me said
Orion Schwalm Mar 2015
I just had something to write. I knew you were asleep and I went to get my pen. And I came back to watch you breathe, very creepy and I know it. And I started to get lost in the rhythm of your labor. And I set down the pen. And I sat at the keyboard. And I sat at the Piano, and I set at the keyboard. And I closed my eyes. And I typed up a poem in only 7 notes. It was a chord I had never heard voiced before. And it was beautiful. And I had no idea what to call it. And I tried to play it again. But I couldn't.
                                                     So I let it go.

Earlier today I saw your face through the window. It was a very sad face. And I wanted to go touch it, and force it into smiling. And I walked to you. And I put my hand on your shoulder. And somewhere along the line from my will to yours, I recognized we both wanted that face to smile. But neither of us could force it.
                                                        So we let it go.

Tomorrow I am going to wake up. Hopefully I will see you. I will make another trip to the hospital. And I will come back home. And I will pack my things. And I will leave on a plane to someplace you can't even imagine. And you will watch me go. And I will wave goodbye...again. And you will ask me why...again. And I will still not have an answer. Some twisted root metaphor about tearing' 'em up, and sewin' the seeds, and pastures and the importance of planters will spill from my lips. And you will listen to every word. And you will hold each syllable in your heart. And you will weigh the meaning of each distorted poeticism. And you will stare into my eyes. And I will feel it. The aching pain from when I was born. The longing for you. And I will turn and run as fast as I can. Away.
And you will see that I just cannot understand your love. And you will feel the same aching. And you will have compassion for my suffering.
                                                      ­So you will let me go.

And you will turn.
Return to your home.
Go back to your bed.
Lie down.
And die.


Unsatisfied.


and I'm sorry...
The living room clock pounds like -
the framers hammer
The wood floor becomes an unintelligible -
ghost
The nostrils of a rail engine sojourner begin -
to shriek and moan , Alabama breezes rattle -
the chimes , the one o'clock tolling of the
town bell , the cries of the whippers , the thrush -
and the barn owl
Laden , eighteen wheelers thunder down the -
rural roads
Black and tans implore the Planters moon to -
'move along' , every crawling creature engaged-
in buzzing 'night song
June bugs tapping the windows , keeping -
time in the early morning crescendo ....
Copyright March 19 , 2018 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Norman dePlume Jan 2016
“What we need now,” he said,
“Is new ideas.” They started to fall
like snowflakes on that late sharp
November evening when we first

saw the altered light, over the Alpine
lake surrounded by cities who’s
population, as discerned through
quick perusal of the census charts,

fluctuated with unprecedented
irregularity, reminding you of
Andolian snow-capped mountain peaks.
You  followed bits of this, like normal,

But found a pattern did not emerge.
The orange was sharp, ****, and
beautiful. Thousands were pulling
their Geiger counters out of closets

filled with unused sports equipment,
scarves, cleaning supplies, and brick-a-brac.
We pointed to tell-tail streaks left down
the hallway, but the planters never bloomed.
(c) 2016
Hewasminemoon Jul 2014
The sky is grey this morning.
The night is over, but it is still sleeping (as we should be)
I don't think the moon has purged itself entirely.
Somewhere above us, it is in hiding.
How can I say-
I am lost in you, and there is no finding-
Every road is a dead end in it's own way.
All that I know is that I am not afraid.
The water dripping down from the planters does not drown me.
It feeds me.
Gives me words that I turn to poetry.
A light from a television screen.
Black curtains and my feet aching.
This blister will remind me of a lifeless body.
It burns as I sweat profusely.
The constant buzz from cars passing and the sweet ****** of a wooden wind chime sang us to sleep.
I felt you touch me.
You put your hands in between my legs, and kissed my shoulder blade.
Thank you.
It made my stomach weak.
Queasy.
You never promised me anything.
But if I woke you in the middle of the night, would you caress my face?
Do you want to know what I want?
Besides you (nothing but you)
I want you here to hold me.
I want you to say something.
Put me in your movie.
Make it clever and witty.
I want you to say you-
Is it coming?
Will I ever see the sun?
I must **** trees, miss fleas, kiss cheese & hiss bees like nervously-
nervous nut cases with a neurotic, nerve-racking, miss-ease disease
I will **** trees, miss fleas, hiss bees & kiss cheeses like nervously-
nervous nut jobs with neurotical, nerve-racking, miss-ease diseases
Half way up from the bottom down, left of center, tilted backwards,
is the contorted stance that cripples contortionists lunging forwards
Charles Puffy's jumbled diphtherial litter & rot got him caught cold
& brought to higher authorities who knew old Puffy needn't be shot
I must **** freeze, miss fleas, kiss pleas & sis knees like nervously-
nervous **** aces with a neurotic, verve-backing, mist-fees disease
in prison abuse programs for los Indios maricones of British Belize
where we choke Chinese grocers often for greenish imports of peas
from divine Cathay where Falun Gong worship's a Maoistical tease
for the likes of Planters honey peanut butter franchisee John Cleese
who unites skin-sloughing French sheep with shepherds who fleece
along knee, shoulder & pelvic joints & where pink **** ***** crease
which is alright with ****-flap pervert, the flitty queer Edwin Meese
who seeks gay normality & normal gayety with 32 gym locker keys
that unlock a twilit exo-scientometrical face that God frozenly frees
under the gun like a he/she; as known by goys blown in shot breeze
through statues soiled by pigeons above ½ moon toenails of tweeze
long after the decapitation of 91-year-old screen writer Robert Lees
whose bid to keep head & torso as 1 died like Yukio's Shogun pleas
whose fight to keep his head & frame attached died in ½-assed seas
just like ****** Bruce Jenner showing he's a she by varying degrees
that has his ill family of mule-******* climbing like chimps up trees
that has his donkey-******' family climbin' like apes up jungle trees
where syndicated-business-share-differentials run like a viral sneeze
brought on anaphylactically from the sting of gay Cuban killer bees
I caught what you got: a catchy social malady, a red, twisted nose, a
splintered bone sprain & iliac crest pain from a celiac disease strain
as our fiery Icelandical love derailed your icy Africanical soul train,
new A.P.S. screening for Chinese students made Dutch folks insane
as a homosexy Irish turn would flash a burn with Gay Gaybo Byrne
who worshiped all beans save, of course, the stringy mung, because
1 dead Martin Luther King hung sun bred rotten puker string strung
on *****/spine/pines/Ipsen, as anagrammatically fill words are sung
by Ted Nougat & Steady Nugget, Cud New Ghent, Bed **** Gent,
Freddy Knew Chant, Bad Gnu Jaunt, Red Glue **** or Ted Nugent
Ted often changes his name as a dodge for Earthen-plane espionage
with his squatting-over-a-milk-bucket-trick because his heifer's sick
'cause for you I lie to everybody else: Darryl, Charlie, Keef & ****
& lush Woody, whose affair with ***** made the Small Faces click
while avoidin' having massive holes drilled into his filthy neck Ron
managed to remain not dead to complete his homosexy concert trek
while the 2 flat signs of ratty liver brings on thrills + chills, it's only
after you abuse your flat, ratty liver that a flat, ratty liver rat squeals
squeakier than gay drug store cowboys on patented analgesical pills
washed down in ginger beer, tainted by the gooey guts of harp seals
that were buggered by moon-lying *** wipes, 2 gay Buzzes & Neils Lyrics of a geriatrical age that play epidemiological reflect old Paul McCartney's 1960's albums proving that bold jowl pigs aren't knees
as the 2 symptoms of ratty liver disease clog you with rat droppings
atop promontories, in gullies & beneath Algerian cliff outcroppings
where fleet of feet sheet beat tweet bird **** after we eat Crete meat
Descovia Jun 2021
You seriously fooling yourself believe you only had gold between your legs.

It amazes me how you can fill a room with laughter just by your jokes, regardless of tone or delivery, even if you feel that they're not funny the happiness and the originality behind them makes them unique!

I'm thankful that nobody else is like you other than your baby.  Because, then I myself would have a hard time choosing from which guy or girl I would marry.

A genius even once said "what's the point in being nuts if you can't have fun with it?"

What is the point in living when you don't feel liberty?

And you yourself you have to be more mixed up, than any planters brand trail mix, if you think I am no nuts for you. Ahh-haaa.

You give me more laughs any circus and bring me exhilarating adventures more than any amusement ride!

I'm not worried about where time will bring us or where it will take us even if it keeps us distant.

I will always return home to my Golden heart angel.
New piece. Emotional Thoughts. Love. Inlovewithmorethanyou.

— The End —