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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"
Austin Bauer Apr 2017
I long for myself
and for those I love
and for those I lead
to be like the
wild sequoias.

Let our reach
be high and vertical.
Let our roots
be firm and intertwined.
Let us be
strategically planted
in deep reservoirs.
Let our bark
be thick and resilient.
Let our seeds
be released
and germinated
when the fire comes.

Yes, let us be
an enduring grove,
outliving difficult
seasons and enjoying
the plentiful.
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.
Adrien Jul 2014
Quiero pintar tu cuerpo con mis dedos, de mil lineas y puntos
Para capturar los mil verdes que toma tu mirada
Segun el tiempo, segun la hora.
Para guardar conmigo el sabor de tus suspiros,
Y el de tu oreja,
El de tus labios,
Y el de tu lengua.

Quiero cojer estos tesoros inaprensibles,
Estas gemas inalcansables;
Como de mis dedos la arena,
El polvo de oro que se escapa;
Nubes suaves y edulcoradas,
Por cual viento invisble llevadas.

Quiero pintar tu cuerpo con mis dedos, de mil lineas y puntos.
Para mostrar al mundo y a la faz del Sol
Lo que puede brillar una pequeña flor,
Como puede cambiar un miserable en hombre mejor.

Quiero ser tu siervo, alimentar tu fuego
Proteger de mis brazos tu belleza
Y hacerte sonreir para que sea dia
Quiero estar a tu lado poque estoy enfermo
Y eres la prescripcion que me hizo el cielo
Quiero robar el nectar a tus labios
Y tocar tu piel para estar con Dios
Quiero ser tu sombra para seguirte por donde estes
Quiero ser tu alfombra para que me toques con tus pies
Quiero ser la orilla a la que vaya tu barco
Quiero pintar tu cuerpo.

Quiero oler, quiero tocar, quiero sumergirme alli dentro de la corriente pacifica casi magica, de té y de menta, de miel y de lima, con los ojos bien abiertos para sentirme vivir y la boca y cada poro del cuero espeso que cubre mi cuerpo debil.
Quiero vivir toda mi vida en este instante, en el que mis pelos se levantan, en el que mis entrañas sobresaltan y mis pupilas se dilatan, cuando me miras y lees en mi alma, y juegas con ella, cuando paseas y bostezas en el jardin secreto de mi sueño cuando posas tus pies sobre mi boca sobre mi letra cuando caminas sobre mi, sobre mi poesia como sobre un camino que no lleva a ninguna parte, para no irse del pais solo recorerlo no salir del museo porque tu eres mi galeria de arte.
Quiero tocar, quiero oler, quiero sumerjirme, dejar de orar, de pintar puntos y lineas, quiero alcanzarte.
Estoy movido por esta fuerza salvaje que late en tus pupilas,
Esta misma que mueve el insecto  hasta la flor prominente, es lo que hace sudar y empapa los páramos cada noche como para bautizarlos y lo que mueve los sequoias a tratar de tocar los cielos por miles de años ; la excitacion y efervenscia en las ramas de los bosques cuando llega el alba, las alabanzas y los cantos de hadas vestidas de plumas cuando viene la luz, el susurro del insecto y de monstruos minisculos que musitan llega la luz, llega el color
Tu eres mi luz , tu eres mi calor cuando me atrapas en el abismo verde de tus ocelos dulces que quiero oler, quiero tocar.
Quiero sumerjirme en las galaxias celadon de tus fanales que percibo a veces en el cielo, quiero con la boca y las venas abiertas impregnarme de la clorofila que moja tus ojos es lo que mi cuerpo pide, mi cuerpo suplica, el eucalypto a mi garganta a mis pulmones el aire puro, el aire limpio, quiero oler tu haliento, estar penetrado de calor, y de fuego por un instante que me mires como el pajaro secreto que toca su nido por un instante y por un instante solo, cuando se ilumina la noche por un fragmento de segundo y que desaparece, quiero volar contigo quiero parar el tiempo porque cuando me miras vivo. Quiero tocar quiero oler quiero estar contigo, porque eres mi luz, mi ilucion y mi dia, la mas bella creacion que hizo jehova.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2020
either... desperately seek constipation
         via
pretend (ing) to spill more ink
than - by any stretch of the imagination /
by a needle ***** too - blood
given: it's not exactly paper that's
wasted...
                times are dire...
we need toilet paper
                               and not newspapers:
or at least let's pretend
we would like some coal -
   otherwise this neon insomnia will
bury me in a brrr of brittle cold...
                      but that's just that...
nothing new to write so a morning
with a ms. amherst of sorts -
             as you do... when nothing's new...
so as i see it...
i either sit here and waste a perfectly
good wintry morning...
pretending to ooze out an aflation...
   clearly i'm not: brain-fudge-fidgety
yes... custard for thought and
oozing nuggety gravy too, yes...
          all that's missing is a rubric /
slanting linear of some verbiage
baggage (un)like a rhetorician invoking
tautology...
   the air should be refreshing
since it rained all night...
       yes... come to think of it...
these legs will give me more ease
by being put to use than these fingers -
i should have them broken
and this "piano" dropped on
  a fat head of a cow - or something of
the sort...
besides... from the white tower
of havering-atte-bower...
        to that luminous tower past chigwell
i'm guessing in the direction of woodford
or i suppose wanstead...
but no... it couldn't be the galleon &
heronwood
hospital...
   but it just might...
               a little / more an odd pilgrimage
to... circa 1999's summer
with the flooding of memory of "someone"...
at least a walk that will span
the horizon of what i can see...
  mind you...
       there's something else...
i don't know why i'm invoking a direct
addressee with these words...
   mind i... at first the name seemed appropriate...
that these were: aspen trees...
they weren't aspen... they're not...
and sure as **** i know what an acorn is...
and an acorn nor an oak they ain't either...
unless you were to walk
down... parkway just by Raphael Park...
on the corner...
   this contender to...
   sierra redwoods...
                        yep... north h'american big
trees...
          sequoias...
   in havering-county park...
         oh i'm guessing circa two dozen...
           i even hoped to stick a jelly-gum
to a piece of paper and onto each of these
trees to give them quasi nicks'...
sequoias... in essex, england...
               i'm not mistaken
                               but still dumbfounded
one of those 'huh?!' moments that's
beside awe: awe is not necessary...
              that much is certain...
   this had to be written anything had
to be written and better still no ink no paper
just enough electricity to
compete with a coffee-mill's worth
of 3 cups / and the kettle that boiled
three cups of water...
   come to think of it... probably less.
Yue Wang Yitkbel Aug 2018
I am terribly near sighted
Consciously and subconsciously
I see not what I have saw
And
I hear not what I have heard
Sometimes,
In fact most of the time,
I don’t even feel
What I should have felt

But the mirror of life
It keeps a record of every little thing
And I relive in my dreams
All that I have missed

And much much more:

All I ever need
Is just a little hint of life:

Your lovely little smile
I failed to respond to during the day
Would haunt me
With what would seem like
A whole lifetime of sweet champagne
And
Kisses of cherries and grapes
With a scent of longing that
Fills me to the core with
Twinges that burst throughout
My entire being
Shining brightly from
Every single particle of my
Soul

The little chirps and calls of crickets
That alternate between the oblivious
Moon upon a bed of restless stars
And the wizened sun
Would always take me to a land
Unlived, untouched, unruined
A vast nonexistence
A vast ruin full of life
Where I have never been so alone
Yet so fulfilled, so joyful, and so
Free

And

The dreamless gale that
Would raise me up to mountains
From which I can finally gaze down
With sure and confident eyes
Upon the whole of life
And
See, sense, and feel
Every scenery and every being
With the purest of colours
Rowing down the crimson rivers
In a canary boat caressed by
A forest of ocean blue sequoias
Blanketed with a soup of
Violet stars
Into the heart of the universe

Where everything that have lived
Or could have lived
Never went away

Where nothing is ever gone
But just lost
So momentarily
Like a wandering child
Let out into the world
Seemingly defenselessly
Yet, perfectly safe
Under the hidden watch of
The mother

Where everything I love
Love me just as much
And so much more

Where I am never just me
But a child
A poet
A painter
A musician
An ancient pilgrim

Where I can fall into stars
And float up to the edge
Of the sky
Swim in the air without my feet
Ever touching the ground

Where I am finally
Held by you
The one person
I love most unyieldingly
In a death grip of never letting go.
I Love you through My Dreams
Jan 27, 2018, 6:15 PM
By: Yue Yitkbel ****

Used to be a personal favorite so I wanted to publish it, but since I haven't heard back from anyone, and I don't like it as much as anymore  I'll just post them.

(I wish I can pin posts here:
I think these are better poems of mine:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2646158/the-threads-between-every-you-and-me/
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2618377/the-metamorphosis-of-a-bee/
radiating
street lamps
ionized the
indigo blue
haze charging
the night air

sparking the
city’s eclectic
currents coursing
through the
abandoned raceways
and empty streets

energizing the
phantoms of
the city’s
restive spirits

the ghosts of past
Great Falls Fests came
jitterbugging back
to life

transparent
veils lifting
and falling
with it, a voltaic
indigo blue
billowed out of the
abandoned stadium
pouring smoking
oboe moans
into the cavity
of the great gorge

“I was one of the last
to perform at
Hinchliffe Stadium”
Duke proclaimed
with his usual  
distinguished air

“it was also one of my
last concerts”, he added
with a tinge of
sorrow in his voice

“the band was rockin
the Art Deco tiles,
splintering and shattering
into bits of earth toned graffiti
the last vestiges of
a bygone Jazz Age
dissolving into the
disco fizz of the
Seventies”

the indigo mood
clamoured off
the rocks absorbing
the sonorous waves
like a stand of
hallowed
sequoias

“I’m trying to
remember what
my last tune
was that night.

was it Caravan?
or a Prelude to
a Kiss?  No no
too mellow
we always ended
on an upper
a real crowd pleaser,
I recall the boys swung
a medley before the grand finale
that medley included
Mood Indigo, Caravan,
Sophisticated Ladies,
Prelude to a Kiss.
We opened with Kinda Dukish
Rockin and Rhythm
we closed with
Satin Doll
Yes I’m quite sure
I waltzed them
off the floor
that night with
Satin Doll”

Duke ran his
fingers through
his processed hair.
He grabbed my shoulders
raised his baggy eyelids
And looked me straight
In the eye

“Yes, we followed
Tito Puente, he killed it
we upped our game
He was just starting out
But at this time Silk City
was going Caribe
Juan Tizol was
out of his mind that night,
I thought him and Babs
we're gunna jump ship
and join the Salsa Circus
Yeah El Rex and Celia Cruz
were that good

El Rex had the place
jumpin and jivin
it was a glimpse of the old days
livin in the here and now
just like the old days
I couldn't compete with that
so I waltzed them off
the floor with Satin Doll
a little cheek to cheek swoon
maybe some guys got lucky that night
and maybe some girls fell in love
Yeah Paterson was changing,
the ***** Leagues long gone
the last ****** Auto Races
crossed the final finish line weeks before
when the raceways in the stadium
replaced the raceways to the factories
we knew it was coming to an end
and with it all the good paying
jobs, whatta shame
just like me and the boys
watching El Rex
the Duke was dethroned by a King
just like Silk City
we had our day in the sun too
a Satin Doll Sun
Those were some good times,
sometimes”

Duke scratched
his head,
and he looked down into
the swirling noise
of the Great Falls
“on a night like this
the mood indigo
takes you into the
darkest hues of blues”

fragment from
Silk City PIT 6:
The Great Falls

Duke Ellington, Coleman Hawkins
Mood Indigo




Oakland
3/30/13
jbm

(FRAGMENT WORK IN PROGRESS)

Part 6 of extended poem Silk City PIT.  PIT is an acronym for Point In Time.  PIT is an annual census American cities conduct to count the homeless population.  Hope and Labor is the city motto of Paterson NJ, nick named The Silk City.
(FRAGMENT WORK IN PROGRESS)

Part 6 of extended poem Silk City PIT.  PIT is an acronym for Point In Time.  PIT is an annual census American cities conduct to count the homeless population.  Hope and Labor is the city motto of Paterson NJ, nick named The Silk City.
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Megan Hardie Feb 2013
Cal-i-fornia (verb) the state of being golden.
                                                                                                                                                    
Can you see the way the sand sparkles on the shore?
Golden shards of glass, or broken dreams.
Who possesses the Midas touch now?
The crushed gates of Atlantis on our shores.
Aphroditic bronze goddess of the sea,
Hair blown by the breeze.
Sea air & salty &
more than anyone could need, or was used to.
                                                                                                                                         Giant sequoias stand
                                                                                                                     As mighty and proud protectors
                                                                                                                             Behemoths of lifetimes past.
                                                                                                                                 Explosion of seeds inside
                                                                                                                           Fireworks waiting to explode
                                                                                                                      Pinecones, little grenades of life.
Ghost towns reminiscent of the Wild West
Mining camps from the Gold rush days.
Tumbleweeds & reptiles & powder fine dust.
Some say the earth is red from the natives’ blood spilt, and sunk in,
Reality – Oxidation turns iron in the dirt to rust.
So that’s why Mars is red.
                                                                                                                          After a bad storm in San Diego
                                                                                                    Dollars lie broken & shattered on the shore
                                                                                                               A bankruptcy of marine proportions!
                                                                                                                                       Just go see for yourself,
                                                                                                                              The sand dollar apocalypse.
                                                                                                                              We were echinoderms too.
Life gone dormant, and violent beginnings.
As if Calliope’s harp needed to be retuned,
Sun god, Apollo & Helios with his chariot in the sky
When did we become so heliocentric?                                            
                                                                                                                         Solitary white cross on the hill.
                                                                           Never did anything to harm anyone, yet they fear you so
                                                                                          Enough to try to remove you from our presence.
                                                                                              Mount Soledad, or their SOLEs-are-DeAD.    
- You know San Onofre is a power plant right?
- Radiation, is that a problem?
- Only if you want to have kids or stay cancer free.                        
- 25 foot sea wall -- To keep the waves out, or the kraken in?
- 4,000 tons of nuclear waste, who’s gonna get rid of that?
Ghostly tendrils of death
Blown fifty miles down the coast.
They call it SONGS, how quaint.
A symphony of catastrophe.
The greatest arias of death and destruction.
Vivian Oct 2014
rivers of salt; saccharine silicon and
iridescent nightmares;
kids carve their names into trees
because their concept of forever is
three summers forward;
entropy demands a tithe, a
forfeiture of lives; decimate your herds
and still
no, it is not enough.
know it is not enough.

don't keep your sweet little mouth
open too long; sugar attracts flies,
and pretty soon your
teeth will be teeming
with maggots and rot,
streptococcus sanguis
cheerfully wearing down your enamel
like you wore down my inhibitions.
"it'll be fun," you said, dropping
one hundred milligrams
on your tongue, firmly grasping the back
of my neck, and applying your lips to mine.
one hundred milligrams
slide down my throat, and despite myself,
I laugh, because even when I'm scared
I want to be with you.

the Black Angel is God On Earth; she is
lonely beyond belief, and I give her a hug.
people forget that monsters have
feelings too, and
God?
God is the biggest monster of them all.

God is entropy, and she is
unimpressed by the pyramids
on your dollar bills; she will devour
the stars and the planets and newborn
babies swaddled in blankets,
and she yet hungers:
redwoods and sequoias and aloe vera,
microchips and inkjets and MacBooks.

we are crowded around the bonfire,
s'mores and cheap liquor, your hand on
my thigh; the heavens have
opened up, drenching us
in starlight: I have never felt more
beautiful. you raise my wrist to your
mouth, placing a gentle kiss on my
scaphoid and my lunate; you swipe
your tongue across supple flesh
before clamping down with your teeth;
I am seeing stars and feeling lovely
and I am so, so enamored with you and
so, so happy you are here.
HAD TO DO IT ONE TIME FOR #NATIONAL #POETRY #DAY
Catrina Sparrow Dec 2012
i remember you
you wore your smile the way a traveler wears a pack
it was everything

your eyes were bright with adventure
glaciers tucked into the folds of the rockies
blue
i'm blue too

i thought i lost you
four years ago today
the phone rang like funeral bells
i answered like a murderer expecting to find a detective at the door

the hospital still makes me sick
i can't forget it
all of your friends who always seemed as strong as sequoias
strewn across the floor
faces painted with snot smears and tear stains

i thought i lost you
under sagging soil and a painted headstone
there in the pines above the river valley
laughter traded for the footsteps of the saddest parade
i tried to say goodbye

but i found you
there in your sisters smile
and in the movie theater aisle
and parked in a little rusty black truck in front of my parents house

i find you everywhere
while i giggle
and sing
and tell the people i love how much i do love them
you're there

doing the chicken dance behind the arresting officer

thanks for reminding me to smile
for G-baby. shine on, you crazy diamond.
Jack Trainer Nov 2014
I hear you coming with every crack of the knees
The air of your reproach stifles my breathing
And still, you are ten years past
Your ghostly presence has not abated
For I am small and inconsequential in your memorial
A toadstool among the Sequoias
I see an incomplete light through the canopy
In this dim and musty forest
Where fern and Lady Slipper does not comfort
This will be my shame
Content and complacent with this situation
Afraid to cast off his manifestations
This will be my downfall
Death isn't the end
Memories doth prevail
Robert Guerrero Jul 2013
Arms stretched to breaking point
High as they can possibly reach
Even climbed this old oak
For a better vantage point
Still I'm too small in this ever growing world
Why do I try to reach for something I cannot obtain
Dreams are fantasies filled with useless attempts
Heaven is too far to reach
So why do I continue
On this pointless adventure
Climbing trees and mountains
Then climbing trees at the top of mountains
My reach will never come closer
I'm a pebble in this mountain of boulders
The sapling in this forest of sequoias
I'm reaching for nothing
Wishing it was something
And these shooting stars
Aren't hearing my wish
No matter how loud I get
I'm starring at constellations
Hoping to become one
Stretching my limbs
As high as they can go
Then even higher
Only to be taught a lesson
Heaven will always be too far for me to reach
M M M Feb 2015
Mountains, glaciers, redwoods alike
Hiking, running, going by bike
Shiver, stumble, gracefully aware
Wind, sand, snow in our hair
Stories, laughter, sadness take hold
Seeing, learning, making our mold
Life, happiness, too vital to deny
Quails, sequoias, untouchable skies
Shades of blue, green, colors surround
The Earth, spinning, not making a sound
Quiet, serene, clouds moving slow
Strong, silent, peace we would know
Unexplainable, these scenes make a person anew
Breathing in and out, these universal truths
For that comment I made when you asked me that question
The hunter’s bullet lodges in my side
like the pin bones of salmon wedged
in the back of my throat.

My life balances on the border
between my favorite comfort foods,
and the blade of the taxidermist.

You would make me into a trophy,
gutted and cured to become an ornament,
in your seasonal hunting cabin.

Raw honeycomb, Caribou marrow,
salmon roe stuck to my tongue,
psalms of my home made flesh,

call me back into my survival
instincts for my sleeping children.

She who outruns deer & devours
strong bucks with antlers the size of sequoias
could not outrun the champion sprinter,

American made bullets.

But when you realize your rumpus
disturbed wild things, there is no time to reload.
You brought a potluck into the den
of a slumbering mother with cubs.

My teeth are agonizingly real
And my jaws are in your belly,
rooting for the lost rib of Adam.
Colleen Lyons Sep 2015
In your slumber, I find you
wandering deciduous Dreamland forests
under a harvest moon

waiting for me to arrive.

Your chocolate eyes melt
when we embrace,
bubbling forth your soul--

molten lava,
cooling in briny blue oceans
to create new earth.

Upon it,
my green eyes lay lichen and
bury the seeds

we've fertilized,

so that they may
mature into sequoias
from our

Love,
forever present.


Oh, how they'll reminisce about
the worlds we've created.
J Jan 2011
An obscene, sickly beautiful scene
Met me with a ***** sheen
It dulled the tightness in my chest:
The butterflies when I misstep.
Like the second-guessed ache of paranoia
that left me curled at the foot of the sequoias
waiting still and tense, for your voice to fade.
Never for a moment dropping my charade
as I paraded proudly back inside declaring
my true innocence; I found you unsparing.
You swallowed my word and I found you even
Requesting repetition, so you could believe in
the obvious lies leaking my lips,
and you know what they say: loose lips sink ships.
So when you come to grips,
I’ll still be installing microchips
Inside that open wound of yours.
While you’re hugging porcelain on all fours
I won’t be sympathizing with all the ******
Who leave their lipstick napkins on your lap;
Who fall into your egocentric death trap.
I was never one of those,
To be used and then disposed…
So while you’re trying so hard to make me jealous;
I’ll just tell you your method is overzealous.
You had your chance before;
You’ll have no chances anymore.
You can finally stop trying to request the help of cupid,
I promise you I only ever loved you young and stupid.
written 01/28/2011
Myra Sep 2019
So sick of seeing pictures of all the places
I want to see with my own eyes
I want to see redwood sequoias, gentle giants
Utah mountains and pink African skies
But of all the memories I swear to myself that I will make
To feed the insatiable wanderlust of my soul
I want to share all the sights with you
Adventurous lover,
And I know my heart will be whole
two indigo eyes Oct 2018
You say i'll never be secure
I'll always be the one jealous of her.
I think she's just who you'd prefer.
You only see skin color. I'm pale and thinner.
Maybe if I was thicker, hair was longer,
You wouldn't long for her.
Or have me thinking im mediocre and crying all October.
I was hoping our memories would hold you over.
It's my birthday, no reason to stay sober.
Try to remember me before
I made mistakes, i just wanted to explore.
I got ahead of myself, i wandered too far.
Fell from a cliff tryin to get my **** licked.
Lost my inocence, then got lost in your forest.
Wanted to climb sequoias, now all I gots a toothpick,
and kindling, but I cant keep our flame lit.
so my hearts ripped and my minds split.
Do I choose love, do I choose happiness?
Do I walk away? i wont hear the end of it
My heart knows what my mind dont admit.
I could drive myself crazy, loosing my whits.
So i walk slow follow the signals, see it from your angle, stare out my window, watch the smoke flow.
I never wanna see you go as easily as this wind blows my clouds low, away from my home.
Try to grasp it, but it slips through my hold.
Always felt like you broke the mold.
Everyone before you was placebo, you were my libido.
Turned me into a loving creature, instead of who I am now, feral with fever. ******* for leisure, smoking until I cant see clear.
Wish I could go back to who you knew last year.
Norman Crane Sep 2020
Bodies jostle toward the heatsource,
Foot stomp, elbowed in the rib,
Muttering voices hoarse, exhale mists
That swirl like deadmen's ashes in the wind.
Pale lumina saturates the cinder skies,
Under which the aged remember
The suns of former lives,
Their memories the glowing solitary embers
Of a world we've left behind.
Ahead, a mother veils her babe with rags
From a passer-by's ravenous gaze.
A man automatously drags
A rattle-bag of assorted human remains,
Leaving trails in the dirt,
Leaving trails in the dirt.
We have splintered apart the frame
Of this landscape of hellpain,
Against smokestack sequoias and asphalt seas,
We stumble toward the crematoria.
My God, the coldness hurts!
As upon the canvas of this frozen Earth
We enact the terminus of human innovation,
The burning of every breath,
The engineered suicide of civilization.
Out, out, brief candle,
said Macbeth.
Into the cull chamber I step,
Hoping there at least I will find warmth,
In death.
Mike Essig Jun 2015
Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front*
by Wendell Berry

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.

And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.

When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.
So, friends, every day do something
that won't compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.

Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.

Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.

Listen to carrion -- put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.

Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.

As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn't go.

Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.
repost
jettlotus May 2015
The very first time I had ever had my coffee black
was because I was just being polite.
A man wanted to brew me coffee.
I sat at his table with the candle I gave him
and it was the only light in the room.
He brought me a cup, and told me
he had no cream or sugar.
What was I to do? He brewed it specifically for me.
I didn’t speak. I choked down the black sludge.
He talked of his travels and his photographs of sequoias.
We shared a cigarette
and he rubbed olive oil in my hands.
I grew tired and decided to depart
and I thanked him for his hospitality.
I have not put cream or sugar in my coffee since.
Butch Decatoria Dec 2015
This will end with its beginning. When nothing never was, nor ever will be again. When metamorphosis' of worms to float like blooms of fairy flutter, or pillars of sequoias scraping sky can burn away to char, then from cold thin air or winter lungs of clouds can cry fractal flowers. Nothing comes from nothing, therefore there is always something more, even when our human sight is veiled, preconditioned by what we fear before we learned.

When will we look with not just seeing, peering with more of what is feeling, evolving to feel the pain of leaf and leaving? Cry with our world as it is grieving, heaving with the smog while all else is eaten; when will we realize that this is alive, the blue of all eyes are the same as the ceiling, browns of the soil enriched for seedling, and the blood of the world is not liquid nor spilling. It is the circumference of a heart, a floating castle, and the joy and the lively creates the splendor. The karmic rivers in our considerateness, lifting up to heaven as our worthy witness. See this here, of what we've made?  Rather than say, oh well that's life, **** happens and so it is, say, say, say...

A gift for a gift is given because we cherish whom we are with, when did we forget to celebrate the life that has been given : the basic breath we gulp, and quenching of every thirst, whether deep as poetry, or dry as elephants in desert lakes--we have water falls with queens in their names (yet people are starving and dying, mind you not that far away).
We are able and have enough, stockpiled for winters whether nuclear or Eskimo, yet nothing seems to still be nothing, but then there's peppermint ice cream pies. Starvation in Africa, but dead children do not cry, nor do they--too weak without the food or energy... but then again there's Little Debbie's fudge cookies and marshmallow pies...

And we all praise Ala and Thank the Lord our souls, our being spared of our sufferings, (pipe bombs to and fro) all the while admonishing and bigotry, hatreds and slavery / are given a different face, a dress of expensive tastes. Our only skills are selling wares that is our one time youthful flesh. Because just because we are desperate to have - something more, not having any less than a meal, a roof on four walls, the door.

In god's name we pray... we always see and say and sing and wait... yet nothing is still nothing, impossible I might add, since we are not without we should just all shut our mouths and do something more...

Because if this ends, we are the only ones - all of us - to blame. Not gods, alcohol, or the rain.

What there is to be seen now are dead oceans and forests in flames. Fire and more fire, some in forms of steel, and blades of atrocious acts, and influence of them our holies - accosting us with lies - crapping on our whiles, feeling unworthy because of this chapter / verse, because they're better than that and we are worse. All beneath our noses, defiling our future hopes, in the eyes of our own beloved - turned into wingless birds.

How my love to look upon the whole of the face of the world--becomes desperate pleading for mine vision to be done. When the sights are blindingly painful, numbingly remiss of the hopeful wonder when I was young and a telescope looking up saying this :

"One day I will visit that planet, go flying through the stars... When I'm old enough to be there, where the future are..."

Nothing seems to still be nothing, and never was or could. What is a nothing, when he thought that it was something, to live and just be good?

I'm still here waiting for the beginning, if this is how it ends... a ghost of a poet, with this heart ache and pen...

(Oh Goddess my Goddess...!  When...?)
sophia Jan 2019
You have my heart,
in the fragile palm of your hand.

My love for you,
runs deeper than the ocean.

It beats with a purpose,
and that purpose is you.

Stars shine in your eyes,
magnitudes of watercolors dance.

In pools of flowery light,
your spirit of gentleness roams.

Like a gentle lamb,
you love the meadows of gold.

Jumps higher than the sequoias,
you leap with the hope of a child.
Nicholas Burge May 2018
Sequoias in flames
Sow their best and likewise you
Reap in height and weight
Mike Essig Apr 2015
by Wendell Berry

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.

And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.

When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.
So, friends, every day do something
that won't compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.

Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.

Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.

Listen to carrion -- put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.

Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.

As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn't go.

Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.
This poem actually changed my life. It's possible. That's why poetry is vital. It could happen to you.
Glenn Currier Mar 2023
Joy
Translucent and
undeserved mercy
streams into me
humbling me like giant sequoias
who draw my eyes to the heavens!
Dan Jun 2019
“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood”

It is written in the Hagakure
That when faced with situations
Of life and death
To choose death
For it is more honorable to do so and die
Than to choose life
Retreat
And then die all the same

Is this what it means to be bold?
To strike out
Against odds that seem impossible?
To stand strong and shout out the eternal phrase of
“I don’t give a ****”
The one in the arena
The ultimate stoic
Uncompromising but not cruel

I must become a man of action
And though it is not the singular soul that drives history forward
Those who do so are not passive
Not timid
They do what must be done
Like Lenin
They are reasonable people
Even when pushed to do things that seem unreasonable at the time

This is how one must be bold
Taking hold of that great spirit that drives all great people of action
To be determined, strong, discipline,
More virtues to be explored
Legs strong as sequoias
I stand on stage in front of you
Reminding myself
And urging those of you who need to hear this
Stand in that arena
Do not choose retreat
Be bold
And leave your mark on the world around you
First of a series on virtues. Quote at the beginning from Theodore Roosevelt
Anamarija Aug 2019
In lavender vase my thoughts are squeezed
The Nietzsche ones
Drinking matter of circulatory flow
the essences of life
flattened like a cardboard box
squatting
cardiac precursors.
Do you know that the heart is an *****
who determines us?
- Let go of your heart now!
Let go of lavender!
They already go to the slopes
expert of earthly death.
Everything is ahead of my time.
Even myself.
Let's go into the shade of a tree
The highest in the world!
We will last the floor longer
his needle shield.
Until we darken like bark
ripe bananas
Under the Herculean arrow of passing
Let's go under the sequoias.
Do you know that the tree remembers every touch?
Every scent of humanity absorbs
into its rough surface pores.
The warmth of his roots
it will soak up our rustling peels
skin
with lavender scent
that of the continental
Let's go under the sequoias.
Let's become the keeper of the sky
his last lines.
In my name and yours
let's be redwoods!
Michael Marchese Mar 2017
We have risen from dirt
To be stewards of earth
To account for all life
Free of value or worth

Evergreen in our growth
To divine suns of truth
Chlorophylling our minds
With a fountain of youth

Still losing ourselves
In an arboreality
Nurturing seeds
Of an elementality  

One of sequoias
Who weep with the willows
And make their leafbeds
Out of solid rock pillows

So spill your coal ash
In our wildest streams
You can't stop the flow
Of our lucid sea dreams

Repainting the blue
Iridescent with reefs
Transcending horizons
Of vision's motifs

Where Shamu think tanks
Dive deeper than whales
Exploring the depths
Of serpent shale scales

Who drill to our cores
As we quake with the force
Of Pompeiian eruptions
And wars of resource
Nat Lipstadt Aug 7
unbeknownst
to the human race,
every year the free trees,
those of the forest, the great gardens,
have an annual convocation, a solemn communion and a
delicate conversation

the gathering is attended by insects and avians,
for theirs is the heavy responsibility,
that which the trees cannot do,
they must do, i.e. move, be agents
of pollination

Trees gather, the sequoias officiate,
for they the elders, are wise in the
rings of history that tells of ritual,
sacred sayings, the reasoning,
the young ones don’t full  comprehend

“Who shall give aid and comfort to the human dead?”

Who shall give of their seed
that will be carried by our friends,
they may be scattered planted,
in the graveyards where
those that tended and
sheltered us,  
lie buried,
and the living
who tend to
their ancestral,
will adjoin, all
in need of shade and
comforting song?

there is great rustling of the wind,
the most honored,
query those attendees,
why must we choose?

let each of us contribute
according to their needs,
let the randomized
scattering by our winded
and flighted avian friends
best express our gratitude…

thus forests, parks, great gardens,
and yes, the cemeteries of mankind,
ALL
were seeded, deeded and refreshed,
and the world was cleansed,
commended, interdependented,
defended and extended…

Wed Aug 7 2024
even I write nonsense when no sense
is available
Dawnstar Mar 2019
in my dream,
fringed with sequoias,
she, love of my death, holds me.

— The End —