It’s not My will, but Thy will,
Let Me die on the cross for their sins,
And My blood pave way to eternity;
Yet My Soul is sorrowful unto death.
Abba, take away this cup from Me;
Yet if it’s Thy will, and not My will.
Father, Thy promise Thou made with the serpent
That Thou would put enmity ‘twixt him and a woman,
And I should bruise his head;
Nevertheless he should bruise My heel.
For this is Thy eternal promise for man
Who been formed in Thy image;
But been smashed himself with the deceiver.
Flesh is weak and tempting;
Yet the spirit is willing and godly,
For Me too passed thro’ the way of the tempter;
Yet cursed him with Thy Eternal Word.
Unfelt agony runs into My soul,
When I bear the sins of the world,
And who on earth knows it,
Except Thou and Me, Who are ONE?
Do men know Me, Who is in Thee,
And Thou in Me, hath stripped off Glory
And hath become a servant to them,
And made in their likeness with all humbleness
Carrying the cross of shame and abuse?
My sweat is as it were great drops of blood
And Gethesmene I pray turns red.
Who knows but Thou ought ought to reveal
That My blood be shed on the cross
Which is the symbol of the new covenant?
Father, in the beginning I AM,
And all things made by Me and for Me
Who hath come unto earth as the Light,
And I AM Thy Glory, full of grace and Truth.
My Father, here come My betrayer,
For his time hath come to strike Me
As he has to bruise My heel,
And I should then bruise his head,
For it’s Thy Eternal plan of mystery.
Here comes he with the spirit of darkness
Carrying lanterns and torches and weapons
Of unrighteousness and ungodliness.
Father, let Me finish Thy work,
But strengthen Me with Thy Spirit.
Now the betrayer hath sneaked  unto me.
Look, he kisses Me amidst the mob.
Am I his beloved for his kiss?
Yet he is My beloved.
He hath dipped himself in My cup of blood.
It’s Judas kiss bought for thirty silver.
He hath sold his soul to the roaring lion
Which devours the sons of Adam.
I made Judas My apostle;
But he  made himself the liar’s instrument.
The night I am put in chains in the realm of darkness
And I am left alone with none to share mine.
Where are My apostles, My disciples?
I remember Peter’s words
That he said he would go with Me,
And I know the rooster should crow
After his denial of Me thrice to go.
He is a mere man who knows not
That things written be accomplished in Me.
They drag Me, kick Me with their boots of sins,
I am chained by their unrighteousness,
And am whipped by their blasphemy of My Father,
For when I am rejected My Father is rejected
As My Father and I are ONE,
And who hath seen Me hath seen My Father.
My people spit on Me all the way
Where blood from My body sheds.
The thorny whips tear My flesh;
Yet I rejoice in My Father’s will,
But their sins sadden My soul.
I am dragged unto the high priests
Who’ve been awaiting My trial.
Even My disciples have forsaken,
And left Me alone, but My Father in Me.
Am I held ‘midst people of the law
Which was the schoolmaster awhile
Until I finish it with My blood.
Their trial with Me hath begun with bitterness.
And Peter is seen with a mob at the fire.
False witnesses spewed on Me, yet contrary,
Whose arrows stuck on My statement
That I will destroy the temple,
And in three days I will build one.
Behold, And they’re spiritually blind and deaf.
They spit on Me blindfolding My eyes,
And play prophecy of hide and seek.
Each spit on Me is a sin of  theirs
And their hurt in not on My body but soul.
They kick Me with their boots with spikes,
And the unrighteousness of My people bruises.
My soul bleeds not of Me but of their doom.
The father of lies mocks at My Eternal plan.
The liar can bruise but My heel,
And his head is already beneath My heel.
My people strike Me with the palms,
And they slap on  My cheek with prophecy;
Yet I hold peace to defeat the liar.
No man is found to paint the pallor on My face.
I am denied thrice as of My mysterious plan.
I am tried till the sun sinks at the horizon,
And I become the laughing-stock of My people.
I thirst, but not a drop of water I ’m offered,
Where found midst earthly meals the disciples of the liar.
To liars My Truth seems blasphemy
For professing themselves to be wise and godly,
They’ve turned scoffers strolling in lusts.
I’m ‘gainst the mighty liars,
Who’ve forgotten I AM Almighty
Having denied the Power of the Most High
Whose Eternal plan of salvation is for them
Whose trial against Me is vain;
Yet satan in disguise kicks My heel.
My angels were struck in pride in Heaven,
And so were drained off into hell
With their filth and lust in darkness.
They spit on Me Who is the Lamb.
The trial ‘ere Pilate take its roots,
And no roots of earth are of Mine,
For My Father breaks off every branch
That beareth no fruit in Me.
For they wear attires of pomp and pride
With no clothes of righteousness.
Hidden in the mask of flattery
Pilate hath no way to mark justice;
Yet it hath been the Eternal plan of salvation
In Me Who is the Lamb of sacrifice.
Who knows My kingdom is not of this world?
I’ve come down to speak the Truth
That hath made the governor question Me:
‘What is Truth?’
And who believes I AM the Way, the Truth and the Life?
For all have eaten the forbidden fruit
Which hath set free the son of peridition
Who is the father of lies of all ages.
And Pilate sets free a convict as is the custom
Which hath a way in the Passover.
Truth sets free the blessed souls from Death;
But falsehood sets free sinners from Life.
I’m whipped in flesh to bleed;
But I  am whipped in spirit by their sins.
I’ crowned with thorns and twigs:
The metaphors of sins and iniquities.
They throw around Me a purple robe
And cry against Me in sarcasm
That I would live long as the King of the Jews
Whose minds are darkened by worldly wisdom,
For My kingdom is not of this world.
They slap Me on the cheek with arrogance,
I remember Judas’ kiss on the same cheek
Who hath drowned in the lust of silver.
I make neither complaint nor not of repulsiveness,
For it’s My Father’s will to bear the cross.
Back to the porch of the palace
I’m made the season with withering leaves.
Their crown and robe on Mine are their hypocrisy
Who cried against Me riding on a colt.  
Their crown and robe on Mine are their hypocrisy
Who carried against Me riding on a colt,
They threw their cloaks of praise and shouts
Across the way I trotted upon on the colt,
They laid branches cut from trees,
And I knew they were clothed with filthy attires.
Their praises and shouts now turned to curses  and abuses.
I’m now thrown into the hands of disciples of the liar
Who is a like a roaring lion to devour.
Their faulty law plays in their hands
And laughs at My Father’s Rock of Salvation.
But I laugh at the liar’s defeated victory on Me,
For in My resurrection Death hath no victory.
Who knows death took its roots since first transgression
In Eden with the consumption of the Forbidden Fruit;
Yet in Me Life is sealed in Him to Eternity?
I’ve longed for Judas’ godly sorrow like the prodigal son,
But he was bitten by the serpent on the Tree
Where the betrayer tasted the Fruit and died.
He took himself to the tree of death
For the taste of the Fruit turned bitter to him.
Power of this world hath blinded Pilate’s conscience
Whose power hath been predicted over Me
With My self-will hidden in the Most High.
The Eternal plan of salvation hath tied Pilate.
Who washed himself in his self-righteousness
And throws Me out for want of  pomp and pride.
Now I’m in the arms of thorns and bushes
Laden with the cross of the world set out;
Yet My journey thro’ human darkness is for a while,
For the Reward of Eternity is awaiting Me
And the ones who are rooted in Me.
Each whip lashed on Me is the multiple sins of the world,
And the spikes of the whips tear My flesh,
And I bleed with the agony of lost souls,
Whom I’ve made for Glory with My Father.
Behold! A toll strikes this hour
When I hear the hellish roar at a distance,
And I know the traitor hath flung the silver
Which have no price for his destiny.
I shed tears for him but he’s lost
For his death is certain in My Eternal Plan,
And who could change it but Me;
Yet it’s all My plan of mystery in the Father?
They hit Me with a stick o’er the head,
And mock lat Me saying ‘Long live the King of Jews.’
A scepter of stick ****** into My palms,
A game of mockery is played  ‘gainst Me;
Yet I am as innocent as a lamb led to the slaughter,
As writ in the Scriptures with the design of My Father:
I’m oppressed, and afflicted down to death on earth;
Yet I open not My mouth to charge complaints,
I’m brought as a lamb to the slaughter,
And as a sheep before her shearer is dumb.
All the way I’m kicked to fall on the stony path.
Look! My knees bruised and torn for you,
Still are there moments of repentance from hypocrisy.
**! Here am I fallen on the thorny twigs.
Behold! My clothes are torn with blood flowing out.
They tilt Me with their pompous boots.
I try to lift Myself but laden with the cross.
Pity of sacrcasm plays in their hearts
And in turn a man from Cyrene is laid with the cross.
I carry the sins of the world for crucifixion;
But he’s made to carry the wooden cross behind Me.
Is it My Word that says unto you:
‘Take up your cross everyday and follow Me?’
Nay, but to forsake the world of sins
Be My doctrine with the love of My Father.
You cannot carry the cross I bear;
Yet you can carry yours beside Me.
Shouts of abuses thunder into My heart
Amidst the cry of lamentation across the way.
They hook Me up with scornful epithets
And the liar of the world bruised My heel;
Yet I walk the path of obedience to physical death
That My death on the cross shows Way to Eternity.
I hear the cry of My people,
Why do they cry with wailing?
Do they mourn over My trial on earth
Or o’er their sinful attires.?
Who knows, but I know?
They shed tears of emotions,
And who knows their sins crucify Me?
Behold! I hear the Nightingale’s song ‘cross the stormy breeze.
Is it the song of melody unto My people
For they murmur Nature too mocks at My trial?
But I know My creations are under My power.
They’ve painted the day’s sky with glooms
As their pilgrimage on earth smeared with sins.
Back on Me the cross is ****** and I’m knocked down,
And My face dashes ‘gainst rocks on the way.
The spiky rocks tear My skin to bleed,
I bleed and bleed till the last drop.
Little children kiss My bleeding cheeks
And they take the mark of My sacrifice.
The sun soars higher and higher
And each phase of My journey is of My Father’s plan.
I scale ‘gainst the steep hillock with lashes on My back.
The fiendish serpent laughs at Me,
And strolls with the exotic steps drowned in hellish dirt.
And I know he bruises MY HEEL:
But he ‘knows’ not I’ll bruise his head.
My disciples walk apart with arms tied,
For none can break the design of My Father.
The sun strikes the altitude and I reach the slaughter.
They drag Me unto the ‘place of the skull’.
Who’ve thought I would sleep ‘neath the grave
Which hath no future for death is once for all.
Their conscience is buried in darkness by the liar,
Like dried-up springs and clouds blown along by a storm,
Their thoughts and deeds lie in vain of glory,
All bundled in filthy rags of lusts,
Whose promise of freedom is spoken by the father of this world,
The mighty trap hidden with baits of freedom of slavery.
Who knows but My Father of My destruction of the Temple;
Yet be rebuilt in three days in glory?
Behold! They strip off My clothes to naked.
The serpent sneaks onto the Forbidden Tree
With a cynical comedy of errors;
Yet it bruises My heel with its bitten fang.
My Father drove out Adam and Eve from Eden
Who had turned unholy committed themselves to the liar.
Now the liar, he thinks, drives Me out into the grave.
But I will destroy him with My dazzling presence.
My garments  they part and share ‘mongst themselves,
And My robe made of single piece of woven cloth
With no seam found in it, thrown at dice.
Do they know it’s of the Scriptures foretold?
They lay Me on the cross down on the earth.
I recall My infancy couched on the manger:
How I was cared and nurtured by My human parents.
I was in the safe arms from bitter cold;
But now I lie sans comfort and in blood.
My arms are stretched across to be nailed,
Lost of strength My legs are pulled along.
My people watch the gory sight of crucifixion.
They nail My palms and feet ruthlessly.
How I healed My people from diseases
How I fed My people from starvation!
How I walked to listen to My people’s sorrows!
But they watch Me now lying on the cross.
Do they know of My death on the cross?
The nails are pierced deep into veins and nerves,
Streams of blood flow down unto My people;
But they kick My blood splashed ‘cross My face.
Unfelt agony and untold miseries crushed My spirit,
For they repent not of their sins but die
Forsaking My Father’s promise unto those who believe Me.
When nails are pierced Mine My Father strengthens Me.
I bear the pain for the promise of My Father.
They raise Me nailed on the cross.
Curses and abuses lashed on Me,
And they shout they’ve cut the root of the tree.
Alas! They do not know what  they do;
Yet My Eternal Plan of  these shall happen.  
I look at My disciples at the Cross
Whose darkened hearts I perceive.
Full of heaviness with a doubting hope
Of what will happen to Me and them.
They’re petals turned pale in the evening,
They’re the garden of Fall with no fruits bearing,
Like distant stars with faded light they look
My people fling upon Me mockery:
‘He saved others; let Him save Himself
Who claimed the Son of God!’
Not to save Myself is My advent to the world;
But it’s My Father's Eternal Design in Me
That salvation is for mankind in My Father’s likeness.
It’s written above My head of the Kingship:
‘This is the King of the Jews’
Who know not of My Eternal Kingship,
Not of this world, but of the Heaven.
Behold! The criminal on My left hurls at Me:
‘Are You the Anointed One?  Save Thyself and us!
Is he the son of Cain who turned a fugitive?
Is it not like “am I my brother’s keeper?
The convict on My right is another prodigal son
Whose sorrow of his filthy rags turns his blessed.
‘Lord! Remember me in Your Kingdom!’
My promise unto him hath crowned his a hope of glory:
‘This day shall you be with Me in Paradise.’
It is the prime of the day with beams of fire splashed across:
The sun is in its meridian lashing unforgiving rays.
Behold! The sun is darkened by the clouds of glooms,
It’s day but turns night as a premonition
What happens to the creation in My Day in Glory.
The temple of the city trembles at My Word’
And the curtain is torn in the middle,
Yea, Moses’ law turns unto rags with no price,
For I make the New and Eternal Law of love in Me.
Nightly day survives until My Last Cry’
Troubled with the heaviness of My people’s sins:
‘My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?
‘Yet it’s finished. Thy work on earth is done,
Father, here I commend My spirit unto Thee’.

Who are these people at the bridge to meet me? They are the villagers----
The rector, the midwife, the sexton, the agent for bees.
In my sleeveless summery dress I have no protection,
And they are all gloved and covered, why did nobody tell me?
They are smiling and taking out veils tacked to ancient hats.

I am **** as a chicken neck, does nobody love me?
Yes, here is the secretary of bees with her white shop smock,
Buttoning the cuffs at my wrists and the slit from my neck to my knees.
Now I am milkweed silk, the bees will not notice.
They will not smell my fear, my fear, my fear.

Which is the rector now, is it that man in black?
Which is the midwife, is that her blue coat?
Everybody is nodding a square black head, they are knights in visors,
Breastplates of cheesecloth knotted under the armpits.
Their smiles and their voces are changing. I am led through a beanfield.

Strips of tinfoil winking like people,
Feather dusters fanning their hands in a sea of bean flowers,
Creamy bean flowers with black eyes and leaves like bored hearts.
Is it blood clots the tendrils are dragging up that string?
No, no, it is scarlet flowers that will one day be edible.

Now they are giving me a fashionable white straw Italian hat
And a black veil that molds to my face, they are making me one of them.
They are leading me to the shorn grove, the circle of hives.
Is it the hawthorn that smells so sick?
The barren body of hawthon, etherizing its children.

Is it some operation that is taking place?
It is the surgeon my neighbors are waiting for,
This apparition in a green helmet,
Shining gloves and white suit.
Is it the butcher, the grocer, the postman, someone I know?

I cannot run, I am rooted, and the gorse hurts me
With its yellow purses, its spiky armory.
I could not run without having to run forever.
The white hive is snug as a ******,
Sealing off her brood cells, her honey, and quietly humming.

Smoke rolls and scarves in the grove.
The mind of the hive thinks this is the end of everything.
Here they come, the outriders, on their hysterical elastics.
If I stand very still, they will think I am cow-parsley,
A gullible head untouched by their animosity,

Not even nodding, a personage in a hedgerow.
The villagers open the chambers, they are hunting the queen.
Is she hiding, is she eating honey? She is very clever.
She is old, old, old, she must live another year, and she knows it.
While in their fingerjoint cells the new virgins

Dream of a duel they will win inevitably,
A curtain of wax dividing them from the bride flight,
The upflight of the murderess into a heaven that loves her.
The villagers are moving the virgins, there will be no killing.
The old queen does not show herself, is she so ungrateful?

I am exhausted, I am exhausted ----
Pillar of white in a blackout of knives.
I am the magician's girl who does not flinch.
The villagers are untying their disguises, they are shaking hands.
Whose is that long white box in the grove, what have they accomplished, why am I cold.

Near in the distance stood an ant on a chair.
Smooth but spiky skin with a flock of golden hair.
The ants name was Brian and his mum was the queen.
She drank lots of ***** in the largest nest ever seen.
Brian bucked the trend and turned to magic on the street.
Slight of hand his favourite or should I say 6 feet?
back to the story,
Brian was on a chair
Just about to remove it and levitate in the air!
The trick of a all tricks He hoped to be a star.
Make lots of money and travel wide and far!
The chair was removed and Brian floated high. No strings attached going upwards to the sky!!
Not a place for ants and this trick he did not tweak for Brian was last seen in a big birds beak.
The rumours quickly spread when attached to a tree twig was Brian's golden wig.

Some people like fall, but not me.
It's full of death and decay, the gorgeous pieces of fire drift
from their skeletal homes and burn out into
sodden mushy brown paper.
Hard smooth and brown pebbles, spiky holey bombs, and twirly helicopter blades fall from the same skeletons and hide
beneath the paper, waiting for an innocent victim,
lying in the perfect position to slip someone up so that
they lose their bags and packages as they themselves go
slip slide crashing into the ground.
The victims are sure to rise up again, but with some bruises and bits of soggy brown, stuck all over their clothes
In fall, all the blooms of color decease, all fruit and vegetable and good green things die and leaves the world sodden mushy and brown.

Some people say they like winter, but not me.
It's a cold cruel and heartless season, robbing any last trace of life
from all helpless and left-behind creatures.
The vegetation becomes glazed over with melting glass and is the
one spot of beauty, as the only green left resides on prickly evergreens, housebound plants, and the occasional tacky
coat.
In winter, there is no way to leave your personal fortress without mountains of clothes, and so every person becomes a
chapped lipped, red cheeked, stiff fingered puffball.
Every time you jump into a mound of the white fluff that accompanies the dread season, some is bound to creep into your shirt and boots, freezing whatever it touches, and then ever so so slowly flowing along your skin, one of Gaia's little tortures.

January brought cold weather, as well as a igloo shaped as home
fabricating a sort of warmth in a desiccated environment, it's a
sandpaper type coarse tip toe around the tacks scattered on the
floor type cold, childishly misplaced and a childish ignorance.
February brought one of the purest primrose flowers out of the
field, stuck in drought drowning in murky waters, covered in
dirt, and i washed away the dirt marks that i recall, was all over
you. It's a sobering feeling to find someone who completes you.
March brought lightning, but clouds shook the strikes away into
Davy Jones locker collected in mason jars, but lightning is not a
controlling virus. It doesn't hide it's burn marks or it's scars left
on vulnerable bodies that are at their tallest height, their peak.
April caused me to be a narcissistic but raucous child, enjoying
the effulgence showered on me, as well as the rain that poured.
This smile was stuck climbing to my ears, and I let life take the
rains as I stayed acquiesce to my worries. When it rains, it pours.
May brought a forest of doubt, growing introverted and placing
dynamite in my path, these mirrors won't show me anything but
the truth, anathema's bile spilled onto the yellow brick road and
I was dragged along for the unfortunate ride constantly mocked.
June was the end of the road and the start of a new and brighter
one, like a window flying open with all of my hopes and dreams
being carried by owls. My algorithm is being solved, one step up
without a tyrant. I'm going to dissociate myself from everyone.
July let the mirage give in, five years of desire to visit arizona
with it's rusty colored mountains and spiky tumbleweeds
sprawling hope back into my lungs that there is bandages
for the wound imprinted on my heart back in soggy April.
August showed me that it smells like burnt hair here, but the
good kind, if it makes sense, with hot air brushing against
my skin twirling with excitement that I've arrived, bringing
a bit of Texas with it. I've never been more happy to see rain.
September introduced me to jets at seven in the morning and
trains at ten, mountains that are almost an optical illusion, like
cardboard standups I could push over, and feelings of a lost friend
brought back after glancing back at my ex best friend of five years.
October was dressing up as my favorite movie character, kids
are quoting the movie as we fill our backpacks with dozens of
candy bars and filling me with the fresh october air and freedom.
Texas never provided that comfort. It's so real and overwhelming.
November was the interlude, 1,000 miles back to Texas brought
melancholy but i unraveled my roots back to the Greyhound,
an akin aching grandmother I brought back to her feet, as well
as got back to my feet when i slammed on my brakes and hit hope.
December brought me slamming my feet back onto the ground
when i left her walking home alone, but it taught me to love hard
and let go when you're given up on, that Christmas is all about
soft piano playing corny songs that are meant to bring you cheer.
Today brought me here.

- kra

Smoke, it is all smoke
in the throat of eternity. . . .
For centuries, the air was full of witches
Whistling up chimneys
on their spiky brooms
cackling or singing more sweetly than Circe,
as they flew over rooftops
blessing & cursing their
kind.

We banished & burned them
making them smoke in the throat of god;
we declared ourselves
"enlightened."
"The dark age of horrors is past,"
said my mother to me in 1952,
seven years after our people went up in smoke,
leaving a few teeth, a pile of bones.

The smoke curls and beckons.
It is blue & lavender
& green as the undersea world.
It will take us, too.

O let us not go sheepishly
clinging to our nakedness.
But let us go like witches ****** heavenward
by the Goddess' powerful breath
& whistling, whistling, whistling
on our beautiful brooms.

The barber asked "what would you like?
Quiff?
          bun?
           Mohawk?
slicked back?
           side parting?
                    centre parting?
                                            greased?            
                                      permed?                  
                           straightened?
                   skin head?
               bald head?
        spiky?
        A comb over?
pony tail?
        pig tails?
                    curly?
                            frizzy?
                      dyed?
                               mop top?
                         French crop?
                 blue rinse?
           purple rinse?
                             step?
                                    undercut?
                                              shaggy?      
                                     dreadlocks?"
"No thanks" I replied
"I'll have a short back and sides and make it messy on top please"

Fountain, that springest on this grassy *****,
Thy quick cool murmur mingles pleasantly,
With the cool sound of breezes in the beach,
Above me in the noontide. Thou dost wear
No stain of thy dark birthplace; gushing up
From the red mould and slimy roots of earth,
Thou flashest in the sun. The mountain air,
In winter, is not clearer, nor the dew
That shines on mountain blossom. Thus doth God
Bring, from the dark and foul, the pure and bright.

  This tangled thicket on the bank above
Thy basin, how thy waters keep it green!
For thou dost feed the roots of the wild vine
That trails all over it, and to the twigs
Ties fast her clusters. There the spice-bush lifts
Her leafy lances; the viburnum there,
Paler of foliage, to the sun holds up
Her circlet of green berries. In and out
The chipping sparrow, in her coat of brown,
Steals silently, lest I should mark her nest.

  Not such thou wert of yore, ere yet the axe
Had smitten the old woods. Then hoary trunks
Of oak, and plane, and hickory, o'er thee held
A mighty canopy. When April winds
Grew soft, the maple burst into a flush
Of scarlet flowers. The tulip-tree, high up,
Opened, in airs of June, her multitude
Of golden chalices to humming-birds
And silken-winged insects of the sky.

  Frail wood-plants clustered round thy edge in Spring.
The liverleaf put forth her sister blooms
Of faintest blue. Here the quick-footed wolf,
Passing to lap thy waters, crushed the flower
Of sanguinaria, from whose brittle stem
The red drops fell like blood. The deer, too, left
Her delicate foot-print in the soft moist mould,
And on the fallen leaves. The slow-paced bear,
In such a sultry summer noon as this,
Stopped at thy stream, and drank, and leaped across.

  But thou hast histories that stir the heart
With deeper feeling; while I look on thee
They rise before me. I behold the scene
Hoary again with forests; I behold
The Indian warrior, whom a hand unseen
Has smitten with his death-wound in the woods,
Creep slowly to thy well-known rivulet,
And slake his death-thirst. Hark, that quick fierce cry
That rends the utter silence; 'tis the whoop
Of battle, and a throng of savage men
With naked arms and faces stained like blood,
Fill the green wilderness; the long bare arms
Are heaved aloft, bows twang and arrows stream;
Each makes a tree his shield, and every tree
Sends forth its arrow. Fierce the fight and short,
As is the whirlwind. Soon the conquerors
And conquered vanish, and the dead remain
Mangled by tomahawks. The mighty woods
Are still again, the frighted bird comes back
And plumes her wings; but thy sweet waters run
Crimson with blood. Then, as the sun goes down,
Amid the deepening twilight I descry
Figures of men that crouch and creep unheard,
And bear away the dead. The next day's shower
Shall wash the tokens of the fight away.

  I look again--a hunter's lodge is built,
With poles and boughs, beside thy crystal well,
While the meek autumn stains the woods with gold,
And sheds his golden sunshine. To the door
The red man slowly drags the enormous bear
Slain in the chestnut thicket, or flings down
The deer from his strong shoulders. Shaggy fells
Of wolf and cougar hang upon the walls,
And loud the black-eyed Indian maidens laugh,
That gather, from the rustling heaps of leaves,
The hickory's white nuts, and the dark fruit
That falls from the gray butternut's long boughs.

  So centuries passed by, and still the woods
Blossomed in spring, and reddened when the year
Grew chill, and glistened in the frozen rains
Of winter, till the white man swung the axe
Beside thee--signal of a mighty change.
Then all around was heard the crash of trees,
Trembling awhile and rushing to the ground,
The low of ox, and shouts of men who fired
The brushwood, or who tore the earth with ploughs.
The grain sprang thick and tall, and hid in green
The blackened hill-side; ranks of spiky maize
Rose like a host embattled; the buckwheat
Whitened broad acres, sweetening with its flowers
The August wind. White cottages were seen
With rose-trees at the windows; barns from which
Came loud and shrill the crowing of the ****;
Pastures where rolled and neighed the lordly horse,
And white flocks browsed and bleated. A rich turf
Of grasses brought from far o'ercrept thy bank,
Spotted with the white clover. Blue-eyed girls
Brought pails, and dipped them in thy crystal pool;
And children, ruddy-cheeked and flaxen-haired,
Gathered the glistening cowslip from thy edge.

  Since then, what steps have trod thy border! Here
On thy green bank, the woodmann of the swamp
Has laid his axe, the reaper of the hill
His sickle, as they stooped to taste thy stream.
The sportsman, tired with wandering in the still
September noon, has bathed his heated brow
In thy cool current. Shouting boys, let loose
For a wild holiday, have quaintly shaped
Into a cup the folded linden leaf,
And dipped thy sliding crystal. From the wars
Returning, the plumed soldier by thy side
Has sat, and mused how pleasant 'twere to dwell
In such a spot, and be as free as thou,
And move for no man's bidding more. At eve,
When thou wert crimson with the crimson sky,
Lovers have gazed upon thee, and have thought
Their mingled lives should flow as peacefully
And brightly as thy waters. Here the sage,
Gazing into thy self-replenished depth,
Has seen eternal order circumscribe
And bind the motions of eternal change,
And from the gushing of thy simple fount
Has reasoned to the mighty universe.

  Is there no other change for thee, that lurks
Among the future ages? Will not man
Seek out strange arts to wither and deform
The pleasant landscape which thou makest green?
Or shall the veins that feed thy constant stream
Be choked in middle earth, and flow no more
For ever, that the water-plants along
Thy channel perish, and the bird in vain
Alight to drink? Haply shall these green hills
Sink, with the lapse of years, into the gulf
Of ocean waters, and thy source be lost
Amidst the bitter brine? Or shall they rise,
Upheaved in broken cliffs and airy peaks,
Haunts of the eagle and the snake, and thou
Gush midway from the bare and barren steep?

The salt marshes and mud flats
And a nice sea breeze
Lots of flowers
Lots of colours shapes and sizes
Prickly ones spiky ones round ones
Red Begonias
It was nice being on the seashore
We've been there several times before

The air hangs heavy today
After last nights banging of the drum
Its strobe light pyrotechnics
The awe inspiring deluge
That washed even criminality from the streets
The old horse-chestnut tree who's shade I often steal
Proudly exposes its now swollen spiky fruit
We sigh together, this old friend and I  
Another summer will soon come to pass
Let us drink its final rays

White cotton kisses
I pretend you occupy the space of this  pillow
I remember your navy sheets
I think they kindly absorbed the blood
it was there, somewhere.
beating or gliding within walls of muscle.
This type of loving has become liquid and electrical.
It is certainly electrical.
spiky pains edging fingertips
Strands of copper threaded into the grooves of your fingerprints
It has a real colour. I don't know what that is.
It's weight fits inside your body.
It is manufactured.
Maybe the ***** triggered it.
Or the serotonin shots when I see your face.
All I have with me now is bone dry fabric and wadding

railroad yard in San Jose
     I wandered desolate
in front of a tank factory
     and sat on a bench
near the switchman's shack.

A flower lay on the hay on
     the asphalt highway
--the dread hay flower
     I thought--It had a
brittle black stem and
     corolla of yellowish *****
spikes like Jesus' inchlong
     crown, and a soiled
dry center cotton tuft
     like a used shaving brush
that's been lying under
     the garage for a year.

Yellow, yellow flower, and
     flower of industry,
tough spiky ugly flower,
     flower nonetheless,
with the form of the great yellow
     Rose in your brain!
This is the flower of the World.  

                         San Jose, 1954

Her brother's
vinegar-soaked-oven-baked
                  
conker

conquering all other

conkers.

The moment held on a a string
before swinging to collision

like a cartoon
pOW!wOW!baMMM!

She cuts her chestnut
carefully in two.

The popped out conker
...her baby

in its greeny spiky
pram.

She talks to it.
Kisses it.

"Shhhh...baby a sleeep!"

Her brother's marble
a blue and cold world

propelled by a swift deft flick
of a bitten-to-the- quick thumb

the little blue world inches
relentlessly  towards

scattering all be-
-fore it:

when worlds
collide.

A solar system
destroyed.

He now
the conquerer of conquerers.

She
places her marble

gently in her other
spiky green pram

like she's rearing
an alien.

She's got two babies.
One a conker...the other a marble.

She takes good care
of both of them.

Worries about
their well being.

Loving them for what
...they are.

She watches the world
through the eye of the marble

a tiny blue universe
held in her palm.

You measure in
vast spaces that my memory fills
Revolving.
I take you where
you thought before you might
get left behind.

Instead
Our Love is
sly references
to Private Jokes and
how your eyes light up
as you twirl around inside
your favorite Polka Dot Dress.
Knowing
“That’s when I think you look your best.”

With Egyptian eyeliner
to illuminate the understatement.

Kudos.
Deserved,
after all you do accept
(Not without forgiving humour...)
A latent tendency in myself
to elongate an awkward silence
after committing whichever topical
and firmly established social faux pas
given the setting.

Not forgetting,
my oft lauded lack of a certain finesse
Establishes
around my name a peculiar sentiment
Windswept spiky hair and caught-out schoolboy face
Notwithstanding.

Perhaps,
“it’s clever not to deny the girl”
her entertainment.

It is angel impact bullwhip vivid
Stampede fingers landscape obedient
Jail bust escape laughing run
Spillway thought stream fuzzy essence
UGG boot toe tubs and water stings
Earthquake tyrant Celsius fools
Pin lake petrol ice filled deserts
Spiky flames in outer space
Sculpture freak show withering exhibit
Fathom emergency breathe and ****
Nut shell gorillas invisibly cracked
Cow fed nirvana BBC
Shades of zero audio cauldron
Same vein madness virus mansion
Culinary horror infection procedures
Geyser rich nutrient pea-pod turmoil

A- She is just like me. A leader. A strong, independent, bisexual woman, she controls the alphabet from this end, and everyone respects her.

B-He's a nice guy, a bit pretentious, but nothing too special. The first time I saw Friends, I new that Ross was literally the letter B incarnated.

C- B's best friend, goes by male pronouns, but is gender fluid sometimes. He is much more genuine than B.

D- One of A's closest friend. She is cool, and kind of like a bad *** English teacher.

E- A ****. Your typical school bully. He's dating D.

F- E's wing-man, but like the stereotypical wing-man, he is kind hearted, but too much of a shy follower. And he likes D.

G- H's brother. Good student, slightly over weight, and just as homosexual as his sister.

H- The "mom" of the friend group. She is smart and supportive. My favorite lesbian of the alphabet.

I- A real cool dude. Spiky hair and sunglasses. He likes to lean against brick walls and just look cool. Very cool.

J- He is K's best friend.

K- She is J's best friend.

L- He hangs out with M, but not too much because he really isn't found of her littler sister N. He's too much of a wimp for my taste.

M- She is a really independent confident girl. She goes on double dates with O, P, and her sister N. She has a side thing going on with the letter A.

N- She lives in the shadow of her sister. She kind of reminds me of my own sister.

O- He is P's best friend, and always tells him what to do. He reminds me of E, but they've never met.

P- Let's O push him around. He hangs out with O, M, and N. But his true love is Q.

Q- She is quiet, but strong. She is madly in love with P. They sneak out together a lot. She has over protecting parents.

R- She is the leader of the Q-R-S friend group. A transgender and asexual bad ***. She supports Q and P, but not S and T

S- Tries to listen to her older friend R, but is just a good kid making bad decisions. She has a HUGE crush on both T and U.

T- Loves U. Strong male, plays football and works at a car wash.

U- She's a princess. Very quiet and polite. In a relationship with T, but I don't know her true intentions.

V- U's older sibling. A-gender and a CEO of some big business.

W- Same personality as H, but not as motherly, and bisexual.

X- The third wheel to the X-Y-Z clan. Also agender, and really just a fly on the wall. They sees a lot, but really don't like to socialize. But they really like going to the zoo.

Y-  Z's beta. Her best friend, and wife. They are ride and die ******* for life.

Z- Just like A. Exactly like A. Only she is in a committed relationship with Y. She controls the alphabet from this end, and everyone respects her.

Swing high, swing low
To the different birds I say hello
Then monsters come to devour the pretties
They grin and show me teeth full of flitties
Swing high, swing low
A demon pushes me onto a spiky pillow
Then cotton candy softens the blow
and turns to blood
Swing high, swing low
I really do not know
Why the female body causes so much distress
When the moon decides that it's time to fertilize
Swing high, swing low
There are no seeds to sow, so
please, hormones, just leave me alone.

To M.

See, I should have kissed you.

I should have kissed you when I had the chance to. Should have pulled you closer, stood on my tiptoes, my hand tightly clutching your neck, and kissed you full on the mouth. Should have run my fingers through your spiky hair, smiling as your arms closed around me.

I should have found you, the taste of tiramisu still on my lips, and I should have kissed you, giving you a taste of the happiness in a box that you'd handed me so timidly.

Your voice still rings loud and clear in my head, I hear it when I read your messages, that distinctive accent, eyebrows raised, cheekbones moving. And that smile, so sly and cunning, your lips slightly upturned. I *should have kissed those lips when I had the chance to do so. Then and there, among tears and sporadic, almost desperate hugs, I should have kissed you. When you held on to me for just a little longer, your hug tight, your hands running along my back, I should have traced your lips with mine. I should have sealed that promise with a kiss.


"You never see a person only once in a lifetime," you whispered in my ear, your breath tickling me. "That's a promise," I choked on tears, "You hear me, it's a promise."


I should have kissed you; instead, I hugged you once again as you held me tightly and rubbed my back. I should have just reached out. Fate or whatever mystical force there is ******* us up pretty badly. If only I'd met you earlier. If only I'd known you before I got mixed up with the wrong person. I wish we'd had more time. I wish I'd done a lot of things differently. My heart drops in my stomach every time you say you miss me. Your voice will fade away. I won't be able to conjure up your face without looking at pictures, and all your familiar features will be blurred by time and memory. The ephemeral imprint of your skin against mine will soon be gone forever. My heart will grow cold.


The taste of tiramisu will linger, though. Always in the back of my mind, the unanswered question of what it would be like to taste it from your lips. Have tiramisu some time. I hope it tastes like me. You never see a person only once in a lifetime, but perhaps you only have one chance to kiss.

I should have kissed you.

Kourtney Kardashian usually displays some quirky style when shooting her reality show Keeping Up With The Kardashians.

And on Monday the 36-year-old single mom was at it again as she wore a baggy army green jumpsuit when landing with her three kids Mason, aged five, Penelope, aged three, and Reign, eight months, in St Barts to shoot her E! show.

Looks like mom Kris Jenner, 59, did not get the fashion memo as she was seen descending the steps of a private jet alongside Khloe, 30, Kim, 34, and Kendall, 19, in the exact same getup.

The jumpsuit seemed to hang off Kourtney, who paired the staple with clunky platform black and beige jazz shoes, gold necklaces and gold-rimmed aviators. The ex of Scott Disick played down the glam with a ponytail and minimal makeup.

Kris wore her suit in a more fitted manner that showed off her slim waistline.

The ex of Bruce Jenner (now Caitlyn of I Am Cait fame) added beige combat boots and a small beige Hermes bag to her look.

Her hair was worn styled in a spiky fashion and she didn't forget to glam it up with vintage sunglasses and lipstick.

Khloe was playing good auntie as she carried Penelope, who was cute in a white dress.

The girlfriend of NBA star James Harden had on a black sleeveless mini dress and black high top sneakers. The E! babe carried a large neon yellow Hermes purse and wore her blonde locks up in a messy top knot.

Kim, who carried daughter North, was the most dressed up by far.

The pregnant wife of rapper Kanye West had on a tight beige dress that showed off her baby bumpy (she is expecting a son in December), beige rain coat and strappy beige heels. Her hair was worn down and parted in the middle.

North had on a summer dress and beige sandals, and her hair was worn in a top knot.

Kendall had on a plunging blue outfit with black and white Adidas sneakers.

The Calvin Kelin model had a black purse on her shoulder and gold-rimmed aviators on, copying her older half-sisters Kourtney and Khloe.

Her younger sister Kylie, who turned 18-years-old over the weekend, was not seen.

The crew for Keeping Up With The Kardashians could be seen holding cameras and a boom as the stars walked off a red, white and blue private jet.

The family has been shooting the next season of the E! show, which will air after I Am Cait ends.

The Kardashians often film their reality show when on vacation as they did in Armenia earlier this year and in Greece in 2014.

This show of unity comes the day after Kim and Khloe were seen arguing with Cait on I Am Cait.

Jenner's comments about her family in her Vanity Fair cover interview have become a running bone of contention among the Kardashian clan.

Kris confronted her ex-husband over what she has said about her in a powder keg moment that was teased after Sunday night's episode.

Kris tells her in a video posted on E: 'You're sensitive and amazing to all these new people in your life, you're just not so sensitive and amazing to the family that you left behind.'

Caitlyn gives her side, responding: 'I try to do everything I can to be nice, reach out. You have to see it from my perspective, be an ally when it comes to dealing with the kids.'

Then the former Olympian says, 'Don't go there, this is not the issue. I was defending myself. It was a distraction from the sense of who I was, that doesn't mean I didn't love you or the kids.'

Throughout Sunday night's episode Caitlyn is shown getting into arguments with her stepchildren, first with Kim and then with Khloe.

When Kim comes to visit Caitlyn first complains about how her family had all kept their distance.

She said: 'Nobody's come out [to visit], Kourtney hasn't made a move at all, obviously Khloe hasn't come close - I feel so isolated out here. All of a sudden there's this wall that's up there.

'I just want everybody to be happy. I love, love, love all my kids. I wish you guys were here every **** day.'

But it is not long before Caitlyn is also being criticized, firstly due to her nature and then due to what she has said about her family to Vanity Fair.

Kim said: 'You still have a little Bruce in you. I thought Caitlyn would be a little kinder. I think that there's some things that you said that you might not realize are hurtful.

'You said that Kendall and Kylie were a distraction. When they read that - I don't know that they'll quite understand that.'

The conversation then turned to Kim's manager mother, with explosive results.

Kim said: '[The interview] said, "had Kris been accepting to who I am, we still would be together" - and that is the most unfair thing in the world to say.

'You're a woman now and she is not a lesbian - she does not want to be with a woman, that's not fair to ask.'

Caitlyn defensively insisted: 'As time went on our relationship changed drastically. In my eyes it's like, "Well, I don't need him any more - I've got all the girls." I felt it in the way she treated me. She wanted me out of the house.'

Kim, insisting Caitlyn should have been thrilled and saying 'good riddance' to a relationship that 'wasn't mean to be', told her: 'If I was with someone for 25 years I would look for the positive things and try to end it on a good note.

'You said "Kris mistreated me" - it sounded like she beat the s**t out of you. You could have a little more respect.'

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/princess-formal-dresses

www.marieaustralia.com/blue-formal-dresses

I feel like Godzilla in a frilly party dress
Wearing ribbons and flounces while causing distress
Or a jalapeno pepper in a pumpkin pie,
Dangerously spicy and living a lie
spiky and snarly like a cat in a cage,
yet trussed up in garlands that tighten with age
I'm sweet on the outside, I'm feeling quite witchy,
If you've read my poem, you'll say I'm just ******.

I had my phase of finding things
and picking them up,
of wanting to turn them in
but not having the courage,
a little butterfly charm at the bottom
of the pool and I was always
scared to put that much pressure
on my ears but someone
was missing their wings
so I dove,
and I was missing wings too
so I came up sputtering and coughing
and afraid to talk to anyone
with the authority of Lost and Found
so I left my conscience drowned
and the wings closed in a fist.

And I found another thing, a
butterfly charm again,
mocking me,
and I stayed up and hoped
the guilt would fly away
but 'social  butterfly' is a misnomer.

I had my phase of refusing to eat
anything inside of which I couldn’t see

even grapes had to be peeled
and I would marvel at the spiky lines
tearing through each one,
angry veins
in something so soft and sweet

my raisins and my juice
my Friday-night wine substitute
seemed so childish to me
until I knew about the spikes
and watched as they grew
inside myself

I had my phase of being me,
and it is isolating and spiky
and you don't like it

I’d stop to indulge in my cursed writer’s rut,
And cease to perch beneath the spiky pine,
Like the winter snow my thoughts doth jut,
Beside a flame, on delicious dreams dine,
No forest bequeath or mountain’s soul call,
Just the spring of my writer’s pen approach,
As doth many a story on these blank pages fall,
The chilly snow, nigh the singing wind encroach,
Perhaps my mind in another universe doth roam,
Witness to more then what the eyes here fathom,
Like a child’s delight in summer’s soft moan,
Stories of Mermaids dwelling in nature’s *****,
Star by star and sun by sun, stories here themselves doth tell,
Of beautiful Queens and Kings of valor, my pen doth here compel.

Ready my therapist, ready the tissues
Suicidal jargon and self harm, tenth issue
My tears, the alien plants to my fragile
sanctuary, ******* all the water and smiles,
Are changing to healthy oak trees,
Odd, in Blue Season, trees shrink to weeds,
The rain queen has become a frivolous giver,
And I remember how the cactus use to quiver
because Blue Season meant the Sun’s burning rays,
Well, the cactus isn’t **** anymore! Back to wearing his spiky clothes always.
Industrial air to countryside,
My fauna and flora haven’t died,
Actually they have multiplied,
The poachers, the self harm, hasn’t ambushed,
No, no! They have been seen about
But they’re less and success is a doubt.

Momentary depression, the lethal poison to
my sanctuary, wreckage seems to be subdued.

It's a pity, its a pity
though we hate anything thorny,
 and silently meditate on serendipity,
  the cactus, we planted inadvertently,
 among chrysanthemums and roses
                                            we swear by,
grew real quickly, proliferated avidly.
Look at their ghastly smiles, prickly.

You find them raise and shine early,
on any weather, rain, drought or snow,
when the gentle flowers all are withered ,
and sleepy, they remain succulent and sturdy.

It's a pity, fragrant flowers loose heart easily,
but  cactus, without fail, remain  alert and cocky,
It's a pity, nice ones can't fight back and smile,
look, the cactus flowers ask for nothing special,
though spiky, they make us believe we are lucky.
*Aren't we thankful, for their tender mercies?

Buttercups Diversify!
Posted by Olivia Kent on June 19, 2013 at 11:46am
View Blog
Buttercups Diversify!

In peach tinted temple of time,
Painted in poetry's dreams,
We kiss, we talk, we ,
Writing leisure through pleasure and pain,

I laid on your bed,
You bathed my shoulders so sore,
Left me smouldering with desires for you,
You donated to me, while we played in daylights sweet kiss,
A sweet single bright buttercup,
Dressed in waxen yellow,
Precious petals sparkling, shining ,
Glowing in the afternoon, after laying on the the spiky dry grass,
After dancing had passed,

A garden full of dreamers dressed in pink and white, blessed with fragrance, pure.
Collected from a century of rose tree,
The tree had seen much over the years about a century I was told,
Witnessed bombings in the blitz,
Watched mother's father's children's kiss,

Flowers of such beauty, dressed with a drizzle of love's sensation tickles,
As the dance goes on!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

6:30 am
The chippy irritation from my bedside table
forces an unconscious groan.
Starting from my curled toes
swelling
in tidal wave tremors
to my twitching torso.
Manifesting in indiscriminate slapping of
lamps
reading material
and finally
the clock…
 
If I were honest in my disdain
I wouldn't turn on the lights
nor spend a minute
looking for acceptable clothes
to appease civilization

…But I do.
 
People expect to see Me today, wrapped
in preconceived ideologies.
Some societal, some induced.
Portions I have enabled - even propagated
with detailed grooming rituals,
ongoing hair color treatments,
and anti-aging skin
regiments.

Which is a lie

Because I still see it… everyone does.
Minimizing at best.
But "anti"?
Not.
 
I aquiese to the
expectations.
Because this
carefully crafted,
death defying carcus
is the only thing
Most of them will ever know...

The painted
coiffed
decorated
Me
and my persona,
coated in Teflon,
sculpted to situations,
an everyday
chameleon
who will never let one title
stick to the
hot rock climate
I call life.
 
It has been said
you are who you are
when no one is
watching.
But my village watches.
 
Through most of this life,
in and out of my glass house,
I am
in my universe
a spectator sport
with expectant fans.
Where the others hope
the receiver makes the catch,
the singer hits the high note,
the magician disappears…

And I enter.
Stage right.
With my highlighted spiky hair
in perfect
chaotic
order.
 
(I let go for a very short season.
The silence about it
spoke of the
disapproval.
Yawn.

So what?
I was grieving.
I got better and gave in
to recycling...

Hi honey, I'm home...with old Me.)
 
The "real" crowd touts
transparency
as a measuring stick of
unfettered character.
While border-free openness
and lack of secrets
may only make one a bad confidante…
not a great person.
 
The diversity of Me is
untainted by opinion.
Purity needs no approval, nor apology.
I am intentionally
loud and quiet,
public and private
seen and unseen
understood… and not.
No lesser
or greater.
Equally
Me.
I am all that you see.
Which, by the way,
is the better part of
Me.
 
They drive by daily.
Casting stares
on the angular structures
in the city.
Never doubting
viability.
Even though there were plans,
predestination,
packaging,
posturing.
Yet a man... a man
with these four p's
is branded of
superficiality,
rigidity,
dishonesty.
 
People...
Ignorance is bliss
but you are WAY too happy
criticizing contingency
while mocking
less than
perfect
charisma.

Disgusting.

So lost
in your lack of personal
direction
that you prefer
everyone else
burn their maps…
I have seen my map.
I have planned the route.
I have chosen the vehicle.
The person I want you
to see is who
I am.
Because that is all you will
ever know.
And I like him
or I wouldn't be him.
 
Don't ask for my transparency.
You couldn't deal with
the guts of
it all.
That's okay too - you shouldn't have to.
We all are who we are
in the moment our lives
intersect.
Some murderers are loving fathers.
Both are true.
 
So be sure of this
one thing.
I do my hair for
me.

I'm glad that you like it.

Me and the crew riding around in the PT Cruiser.
Soda oozin' out the cup like the one of Biggest Loser.
Don't let the insults be spiky, like the shell of King Koopa.
Goin' back and forth : we in the movie Looper.
Be chill like the Buddha.
Dude, uh, I think you dropped your burger.
Electric surger blew up like the Time Warner merger.
The inside of our place on fire ;
The officer called us liars.
Wanted to throw us in the manor on the Cliff of Briar.
Yeah, it's an American Horror Story.
Being profiled because of ethnicity,
We're Mexican, see,
But we're not gonna steal something worth $3.50.
Looking at us like monsters of Loch Ness.
Yeah, we may come from a pool of cess
But you're simply too incredulous
To think of a time other than 1955.
You can ruin our lives
And throw us in jail in the blink of an eye.
Don't even need to find
A shred of evidence to kick our behind.
You feel like we're behind your back
Cocking our guns with a slight click-clack.
About to shoot them off with a ratatatat
While we're caressing our "gang tats".

But that's not how it is.
You think we all give weapons to kids?

the spiky pavement under our toes
running aroind like no one knows
our whoops and shouts are getting violent
but our true feelings may always stay silent

you're thinking only of getting to bed
but i look at the stars as you run ahead
they hold secrets we'll never see
and wishes and loves we hope can be

i bring my mind down to look at you
and find my feelings all askew
for you see, my loyal, beautiful friend
im falling in love all over again

Gnomes out back who fuss and moan,
The weeds are too high they continue to groan,
I feel for them I really do,
But they know I am busy with so much too.
Ungrateful resin folk who cop an attitude about a few colorful sprigs,
Despite the fact they live in such lavish digs.
So some spiky ends of greenery may tickle their noses,
While they continue to hold their impish poses.
In fact I am planning a surprise for their flower bed,
Rainbow rock pebbles and new mulch will soon be spread,
Plus multiple squirts of ****-be-gone,
Next week you'll see a whole new lawn.
As I shell out more loot to keep this bit of paradise lovely-
I keep my eyes wide open for signs of impending mutiny.

She could never do anything.
Her parents thought nearly everything
was immoral & blasphemous.
A boy from school had gotten her
a poster for her birthday
of her favorite band Good Charlotte.
It was just harmless pop music
but her parents didnt approve of
all their black clothes, tattoos, spiky hair, and eyeliner
so they were making her tear it down.
It was the only thing
hanging on her walls
that was hers.
Everything else had to do with
Joseph Smith & the Morman Temple.
That's all the two of them ever talked about
but when she actually asked questions
and was critical of the beliefs of the church
they just shut her down
with empty answers & irrelevant metaphors.
"But Mom there isn't anything bad about this band! It's made for kids!"
"That's what worries me Amanda...the media & music companies want to poison your mind. The morals of this country are falling apart, heck they're not even there anymore. Amanda...you and I both know that this band does not follow the teachings of the prophet. You know how we feel, you need to choose the right. Remember?"
With her head down and tears falling, she knew she couldnt win.
"Yes."
"Okay then."
Her Mom said, tearing the poster off the wall.
She held it out to her.
"Come on. Rip it up."
"What?"
"Rip the poster in half."
"No. No way. If you wanna tear it, then you do it. I'm not gonna destroy a gift from my friend. What is the point of this? Am I not allowed to have anything?!"
Her father stormed into the room.
"Young lady....I am NOT going to stand for such disobedience!"
Her mother stood in the doorway, while her father violently ripped the chords for her phone and t.v. out of the wall.
"Three months grounding. To your room, no phone, no tv, and absolutely no theater activities after school. I don't care what it's for. Now sit on that bed, and get out your book of morman. Dinner will be ready soon, you can come down then."
He slammed the door shut and locked it from the outside. They had a special lock installed.
She paced the room, her thoughts going a mile a minute.
If she didnt do something, she would lose her mind, she decided.
Inside a pile of stuffed animals was a phone.
Her secret phone.
One of those prepays, she kept it on with babysitting money.
She didnt know if it would do any good, but she called the cops. She had to try something.
An hour later
they were eating dinner in silence, when the doorbell rang.
Her father shot her a suspicious look, before getting up to answer.
The girl could hear the officers talking to her father at the door.
They came inside and sat in the den
talking
for a good five minutes, maybe more.
Finally he called her into the room.
"Amanda."
"Yes, Dad."
"Did you call the police on me?"
"...yes." She said, looking down.
"Why? I havent hit you. Have I?"
"No. But...you keep me locked up all the time. You wont just let me be a normal kid. You're so into the church, you can't see what it's doing to you. Officers I've spent the past two months locked up in my room. Now they want to ground me three more months. All because I wouldn't tear up a Good Charlotte poster. Just because they're not mormon, doesn't mean that they're bad. Does everything have to be about church? All the time"
The two cops looked at each other, concerned, with wrinkled brows.
They were both young, crew cutted, blond hair, blue eyed, boys in blue.
One spoke up, clearing his throat.
"Amanda...a band like that...doesn't follow or honor the teachings of the one, true, prophet....Joseph Smith."
"Yes, you really must obey your parents. The lord commands it."
"Nooooooooooooo!!!"
The girl shrieked, blood-curdling, up the stairs
to her room.
They were everywhere, there was no escape. Her parents, teachers, neighbors, friends, and even the police.
It was the Mormon Church's town.
She finally embraced the solitude
decided to just ride it out
wait them out
and then get out.
When I finally got a car
I would drive by her house
and she would always be there in the window
waving back at me.
She had two long years of that
before she was finally
granted freedom at eighteen.
My friend in the Tower of Zion
the Morman Rapunzel
Pretty in Pink with her short blond hair.
She had to be free.
Today she lives on a piece of land
with her husband and some dogs.
She made it.

I don't want
To break with you.

Can't we still be babies
In a tub,

Tattling to our mums;
Watching our worlds end,
And still falling asleep as friends?

I want to still be
The angle-face good one,

To your fantastically beautiful spiky one,

But you see, with age,
Comes bitchiness and a sense of

Self respect.

I never had that before
Around you.

Oh, I was your good little dolly,
Darling of your heart

But you like to beat that muscle well,
Don't you?

Much harder than necessary.

So why then
Do you think that
This constriction and skipping of a beating
Was a surprise attack of the heart?