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Being a novice
in poetry
he knows how to color
a young tree,
a sky in the summer,
an ocean,
or even a dancing
emotion.

But pleading
with the daimon
to come sing
to the sparkling
thunder
that would tear asunder
the rusty dome
asunder,
is a different story
altogether.

(c) LazharBouazzi
James LR Jul 12
Spilt upon the breathing tide
The shadows of our former pride
Stained with gilded, rusty gore

Songs upon the breeze still scream
From barren bog and skylit sea
Once were sung but nevermore

Clouds cry crimson in the lake
The moons and stars the sky forsakes
As darkness falls on ****** shores
Apathy Jul 2014
The storm has gone
It's eerily quiet
As darkness creeps in
I try not to fight it.

My body is broken
****** and mangled
I hug my knees closer
My heartstrings all tangled.

My skin is stripped away
Taking my protection
My thoughts are dull rusty blades
Cutting deep, horrid infections.
Please, don't leave me alone...
Sometimes sacrifices are
Necessary in order to climb
The monumental ladder of life
Enemies to attack you out of spite
Fight night just around the corner
Are you ready for the opponent?
Shaken but not stirred my views
On daily living all taken in at once
The ones that say they'll be there
Can stab you in your trust with
Their rusty pulse can't slow down now..
Stephen E Yocum Oct 2013
The Island Moorea,
backpacking Tahiti,
In the heat, the sun,
The rhythm of my footfalls
crunching loose gravel road,
The swish of pack swaying
in conert to my measured pace.

Breeze pushing branches of Palm,
Ocean waves breaching shoreline long.
Island vehicles passing, occupant's laughing,
a man laboring under large pack, alone walking,
Who could have been freely riding,
Unthinkable to Island Folk,
in hot tropical places.

Some humble homes past along the way.
Greetings exchanged with smiling faces there.
Not long afterward a new sound approaching,
crunching gravel, rolling up behind me.

A lovely young girl, perhaps twenty-one,
long brown ***** legs bike a peddling.
Hair jet black, long to her waist, wearing
a sarong, split up the side,
Shoulders bare and brown.
Dark eyes of wonder, sparkling of youth.
Her radiant smile adorning a splendid face.

We went for a time at my even pace,
looking and smiling each in our place.
"Hello there," I said, she giggled, beamed
even bigger. Perfect teeth displayed.

"Why you walk?" She asked in heavily
accented puzzlement.

"To get to where I'm going". I replied
This response producing a pleasant laugh
from the girl. In which I too joined in.

"You go One Chicken?" She asked
I stopped then and turned to her.
"Where is One Chicken?" I questioned
with a grin.

She raised her graceful arm,
one finger pointing up the road.
"One Chicken there," she informed.

It was a store/bar, sort of place,
In the very midst of nowhere.
Indeed, more than one chicken roamed,
Many chickens did and a pig or two,
mingling free and doing their thing.

We entered out of the bright daylight,
into the deepest of darks,
Like in a movie theater, when arriving late.
Eyes adjusting slowly to what lay ahead.

A few Island Beers later,
I had acquired several new friends,
The girl my invitation to the party of
already happy people a little drunk on beer.
The Music was mostly of French persuasion,
With a bit of Bob Dylan thrown in.
The Beatles also had a tune or two.
The Liverpool beat resounding down Tahiti way.

Before the light did fail, I shouldered my pack
and walked some distance from Chickens and Pigs.
Found the beach, hung my Hammock for the night.
Built a small fire and opened a can of Spam delight.

She appeared again about ten,
looking beautiful in the new moonlight.
Newly washed hair, still damp and
smelling fresh of Lilacs,
Or some such aromatic scent.
We did not speak, no words were needed,

Made love on the sand, 'till the retreat of the
tide and sand ***** did come out, in their
eerie numbers, to eat what was at hand.
I suppose even us if we let them.

We retired then both to my hammock,
A pretty neat trick if you can swing it.
And we did.

She was so childlike and yet,
very much a woman grown.
There was no pretense shown,
no false inhibitions rendered.
These were not limitations of her culture.
people that respond to their emotional impulses.
An open and free spirited people living
passionately within each minute.

It all felt more akin to a dream than real,
All around me there was beauty,
Loving and being loved without hurry,
Free of guilt or even a single expectation.
Living in that wondrous moment,
of uncomplicated human splendor.
Like some Garden of Eden surrender.
A real life Gauguin painting.

In the morning, we swam in the sea,
frolicked like kids having a day at the beach.
Made love in the sand, I dozed in the sun.
Upon awaking she was gone.

I waited an hour or two, packed up my camp,
shouldered my load and returned to the road.
A few minutes later, again I heard the now
familiar crunch of rubber tires,
rolling road surface and there she was,
a straw basket in her Bike's basket,  
A huge smile on her unforgettable,
beautiful face.

We sat in a grove of trees,
among birds singing, in sight of the sea,
Upon a Palm log and ate fresh bread and
fruit. Drank strong black coffee (French Roast
I presume,) nibbling some marvelous cheese.
We tried to talk, but she understood little of
what I tried to say, my French was nearly
nonexistent, only adding to confusions sake .

She leaned her head on my shoulder,
the way lovers do and tenderly held
my hand within her two,
As if not wanting to let go,
Those gestures said all there was to say,
And we savored each silent moment.

We parted there, she on blue, rusty bike
and me on "shanks mare",
Off in two different directions,
Each out into the depths of our own lives,
Gone just like that. . . And yet,
Indelible, never to be forgotten or replaced.
Once in a great while those days and that
young maiden of Moorea do yet visit me,
in dreams as real as can be. She never grows
old, nor does the beauty we shared for that
one brief moment in time immortal.

Someplace among the Islands of Tahiti
there is a woman in her late fifties, most
likely a Mother, even by now a Grandmother.
I hope she recalls as fondly the American blond
man with the big Orange Backpack, that in 1972
she met upon the road, near "One Chicken" and
loved freely and completely for two days and a
night, as that man does so fondly remember her.
I'm no poet, you all are poets. I'm just an old guy
with memories and little stories to tell.
It's rather long for a poem, but some memories
are longer than others.
Thanks for letting me share.
ryn Feb 2015
He rubbed his weary eyes...
What trickery could this be?
Was it a signboard draped in disguise
Or the reflection of light off a tree?

Seconds ticked as he drew closer.
The lady materialised to rule out prior suspicions.
His fingers wrestled over the rusty brake lever,
Wheels squealed their futile objections.

The lady wore a face he could barely see...
She had long tresses that bore an alluring fragrance.
Her beauty tipped the scales allowing him bravery,
Unafraid he asked, "Miss, may I be of assistance?"

Her voice seemed to ride the subtle night breeze,
Coating his ears like sugar laden candy.
Soft and demure... Yet laced with a hint of tease,
She had said, "I'm stranded in the dark as you can see..."

"What luck!", he thought, seizing the opportunity
He removed his sack to make space for her.
His heart raced being in the damsel's good company,
The lady slid herself onto the rack before they both rode together.

As he pedalled hard, he felt a tap on his shoulder.
Her voice came again, a tender little whisper,
*"I live rather close... Not far off from here...
A little over the hill... Just over yonder..."
To be continued...

Based on a story I heard.
Shades On Inside Oct 2013
Stepping on a rusty nail
Showing the baby sitter the back yard
Went straight through my Ninja Turtle Flip-Flops
I looked up at the sky last night
I think I saw a woman
Walking out back to the tree with the vines
Dogs barkin' and mesquitos bite
Don't tell mom if I fall
I looked up at the sky last night
I Think I saw a woman
Walking down the street to the church
Meeting up with Zach for a smoke
Got it stashed in a lock box behind
I looked up at the sky last night
I think I saw a women
Life is funny ,well peculiar I guess
You think I got it all figured out
Then why am I such a ******* wreck
I looked up at the sky last night
I think I saw a woman
An abandoned mine shaft
On the top of  a blown up mountain
Throwing myself into traps
I looked up at the sky last night
I think I saw a woman
Umi Feb 9
Iron which has been exposed to the rain, is likely to become rusty.
Weakening, brcoming fragile along the way, changing colours.
Because it couldn't resist the cruel, cold, pungent, sharp rain,
which has been brought by onimous, dark, clouds.
Those have come to claim the heavens, in malice, for themselves as they spread their offspring, letting it fall to the earth, fertilising it.
Once standing proud, the iron faced the weather carelessly, brave,
in such sense that it might have looked intimidating, impressive and
of course noble to some degree.
But for now it has aged, has become frail, feeble and slender.
Distorting its structure until suddenly it is not capable of holding
itself together, falling back down to the earth from which it came.
With enough care and treatment, such a fate would be avoidable,
But it is overlooked, chosen to be replaced instead of getting enough attention and so the metal decays in its oxidation, through time.
Until all of it has become a soft, crumbling powder.
Ruined by the simple raindrops, coming from a stormy day.

~ Umi
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