"sprouting" poems
You call me
She, Her, Daughter, Girl
Shhhhh...
You speak with a blind mouth,
Look at me, see me
She isn't me,
Only a fantasy that you clutch till your knuckles grow pale.
I am not broken, I am free
But you hide behind a veil
Afraid to finally let go of...
Long hair, Lipstick, Lace dress
You question each time I show you my truth,
"Are you trying to hide your femininity?"
No, my femininity is simply not my definition.
Spend a day in my skin, in my cage,
And don't cry when the words start to pierce you like daggers,
Shhhh... Stay silent, don't worry, it's just a phase.
Now do you see that "She" just doesn't make sense?
You speak to me but your voice seems distant,
Bouncing off of me and echoing
Like I am the hollow statue of the girl you used to see.
"I am right in front of you, you know"
But my words are only heard when they come from her lips.
Do you see me now?
Mother, Children, Wife, Woman
A silent prayer each night for all the things I am not,
Stomach swollen, hair to my waist
The glow of an expecting mother on my face.
Curves, not edges,
Pink, not blue.
Delicate hands grasping the man who stands in my place.
Do you see me now?
Pants swollen, hair to my brow,
Along my jaw,
Down my legs,
Sprouting from my toes.
Do you see me now?
Bulged, Buzzed, Boy
Blood on my sheets, not between my legs
Stained by the girl who lies in her place
Fresh coat of gel and cologne,
Swirls of shaving cream.
Bare chest, Burning skin
Twitch of an Adam's apple when breath comes short,
Nervous fidgets with a tie,
tick tock,
"Pick me up at eight"
"Treat her right" "I will sir"
"Will you be my..."
"You're going to be a father!"
"You are the best daughter we could have asked for"
...."Son" I whispered.
But you didn't hear,
Please tell me
Do you see me now?
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 3:01 AM UTC
Silicate, emotionless sedimentary,
Darling, it is cold, doesn't care wheter it breaks or if it is swept away in a stream, cut into small pieces by the sharp rush of flowing water,
While it may hold no emotions, it can be the bringer of hope, bliss, happiness, sadness but also spite and envy, or a simple fulfilment,
Look at the wedding-rings, their stones on top to embellish beauty such as the insurance to be with the other through thick and thin,
Some diamonds are rough, but they are stronger than stones, if that is enough, harder and almost unbreakable, sorted in line moliculary,
When the kiss of death puts us to rest, a tombstone is the sad, cruel remembrence of a former life, sprouting blossoming and blooming, before returning to the soil it once had found its origin, its beginning,
I will try to be your wishing one, your shooting star, racing through the glory of the starlit nightsky to catch a moment of your passion,
Burning up within the atmosphere of your warm embrace, dearest.
Drawn by your gravitational impact on me, I will be your comet, returning to you each day without burning away as rapid as a meteor.
Darling, alike a blazing Sun you make me melt.
~ Umi
Apr 9, 2018
Apr 9, 2018 at 6:25 PM UTC
#*Nightbird perches high
beneath the shooting stars
that dapple the bouquet
of sleepless peace
... his soft downy breast
has lent breath
to the sweet April afterglow
heaving with song
The mystical feathered troubadour's
swooning echo
A melodic twilight serenade
conjures a moonstruck metamorphosis,
sprouting magical wings of flight;*
rousing *a lonely heart's esprit
to fly away unfettered
in constellations of song
How dare imaginings spilled from the big dipper
enchant such an enrapturing magic spell?
It's so far to fall from swinging on a star!
It's so far beyond nearing crescent moon
when you wish upon a star
Thereupon struck by a bewitching bolt of starlight;
Dropping asudden as a shooting-star!
Rolling like trailing thunder;
tucked and tumbling ―
somersaulting,
celestial rumbling
blossoming with an unearthly joy
A nascent winged heart splayed bare,
soars upon cresting wind waves;
dreaming of that shapeless
w h o o o o s h ―
gathering beneath
~ uplifting wings ~
Suddenly ― gliding freely,
winging gracefully
upon wafting star drift glitter;
lilting lightly upon the arising cadence
of nightingale's melodious fluted song
Nightingale sings sweet April perfume
beneath the star shed lamplight twinkle
... and it makes no difference if it's only a dream
if my heart had wings*
imagined by: Jesse Stillwater
Apr 27, 2018
Apr 27, 2018 at 11:26 AM UTC
when she was eight years old
she
asked her mother
have you seen the girl with
lashes like butterflies against sharp cheekbone branches?
a dandelion sprouting from sludge covered gutters and streets
streets, where you feel that bitter bland nothingness in your stomach
it feels buttery to stare at her:
see how snow outstretches arms and twirls tippy toes, envies her grace
see how balloon sized raindrops pop, target the freckles on her arm
see how her forehead crinkles when she concentrates, nothing more than a beacon
proclaiming she trickles with stars
when she was eight years old
her parent's violent protests slipped bruises under her skin like pennies in a coin slot
but they could not contain the celestial girl tucked under her ribcage.
she would still look at her like she was the breakfast sun on a saturday
whistling by the creak, catching glimpses of dresses from behind the legs of trees.
see how this is special love, sweet as strawberry fields under soft sun
they would never feel on their forked, sour tongues
Oct 15, 2017
Oct 15, 2017 at 2:35 AM UTC
Can you see it coming
Sprouting through the buried soil
From the seed you unknowingly sow
Can you catch it as it grow
Spreading tender leaves green
Feeding on your sinister thoughts
Can you nip it off, can you?
before the sapling gains ground
Jealousy... Spreading its roots
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 1:04 AM UTC
The cover might be torn.
The pages might be worn.
But never judge a book by its cover.
Never know what you'll discover.
There's so much beyond what's seen.
Just need to respect the poor as well as the queen.
The words might've suffered scorn.
The theme rejected before being born.
But never judge a book by its cover.
There might be a gift for you to discover.
The healthy now the ones mourn.
Disabilities sprouting like corn.
Never, I say I never judge a book by its broken cover.
Because in the fragility hides what you must discover.
Copyright 2011
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 7:25 PM UTC
I see you, monster...
In your sockets bore dead, dark eyes
They hold the blackest of stares
Nebulous swirling pits of demise
Thin lips would spout the most sibilant of hisses
Every so often would curl into a snarl
Dry and chapped, almost unworthy of kisses
Large, rough snout, jutting out like a crag
You sniff around tirelessly for easy targets
Preying on the unsuspecting minds of those under your flag
Tapering chin, sprouting strands of coarse hair
Unkempt and gritty from your last meal
Decaying teeth, crooked due to little to no care
Your face is cratered; tales of trying adolescent years
Wearing a face only a mother could love
Expressionless but it screams out your fears
Ugly jointed limbs that grew out of sync
Disproportionate, misshapen, grotesque
Little noggin with sparse hair, packed within, a brain that thinks
I hear you, monster...
As you stalk your sleepless nights
Nocturnal ambience be your playground
Lurking in the dark; places with no light
Bulky, heavy feet but deft and silent
Can barely notice when you're up and about
As if cloaked yourself stealthy, with steps ever transient
Respire you do, exhaling breaths so gnarly
Ingesting good air, converting into fervid, loathsome notions
With which you paint a portrait so ghastly
I feel you monster...
Deep within the recesses of my heart
Destroying and distorting all that was pure
Testing my will till I should fall apart
You're but the twisted manifestation of conscience
Feeding on my trials and nurturing them into vile abominations
I despise that of you but I seem to have developed dependence
I see you, monster...
You're horrid and beastly, an embodiment of absolute horror
I await the day that you would finally dissolve
For I am weary of seeing you staring back in the mirror
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 9:23 PM UTC
Perched quietly in the shadows of the night,
Observing completely, using all her might,
Untouched the landscape sat; she breathed a sigh,
She leapt and began to fly
She soared through the trees, dark and murky,
Weaving in and out, the ride a little jerky,
Until she reached the clearing, blooming and sprouting,
Where she landed and began scouting
She spotted a baby, small and alone,
Hungry and confused, wanting to be shown,
Flying over to the area in which it sat,
She pulled some wisdom from her hat
Unmoving and silent, she sat as an example,
Showing her apprentice just a little sample,
Teaching patience and perseverance was first on the list,
She didn’t quit until it got the gist
Next thing she knew, her student was growing,
In no time, it was the one doing all the showing,
She took a step back, gazing proudly at her work,
While the child continued doing all the groundwork
Rays peaked out across the horizon in all hues,
Most of which consisted of reds and blues,
She looked at the child, beckoning it to fly on home,
Although she longed to stay and roam
As the sun rose, slow and bright,
She decided to turn and take off in flight,
Twisting and turning through trees and brush,
She flew on quickly, as if in a rush
She spotted it then, modest and small,
The place she longed to go most of all,
Adventures are fun and she liked to roam,
But there’s definitely no place quite like home.
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 10:27 PM UTC
i am not your ******
nor your sister.
i do not know the meaning
of these words, mister.
except
in instances where
i hate us
like
they hate us.
a putrid loathing
sprouting from different
colored grounds
but a dangerous flower
nonetheless.
they are not just words,
they are drops of blood
spilled from the lashed backs
of our enslaved
triple grandfathers
and mothers.
our slang replaces
hoses
pushing us back
during marches
and righteous riots.
aggression
equals regression
equals deppression.
and now,
it's all our fault.
now it's
black on black assault.
now it's
fly shoes and ghetto booties.
poppin' bottles and
poppin' caps,
running through nights like
street ******* rats.
what would
W.E.B. DuBois say if
he'd seen this
backstep taken
after we'd come this far,
after reaching for stars
and dropping
the ball?
now
i love this color.
i love this color
and prefer no other.
all i'm saying is,
let us pick one day
when we put the negroidian away
put ****** back in it's roots.
no, not the movie,
don't me toby.
let us get the dream rollin'
Mister King style,
not Master P style.
no big rims, or leather seats.
none of that ****
for awhile.
i'm saying takeover.
i'm saying african-america makeover.
i'm saying,
let's take
our pride back,
like our
homeland lions.
let us make black
a taste not so sour.
i'm saying,
Black Power.
Nov 18, 2010
Nov 18, 2010 at 8:03 AM UTC
Based on a painting, "Nuclear Puppies", by Julie Nagel, 2001
You’re a mutant, you know—
got funny dog babies sprouting
out of your head like they were
ears. Those copies of your face
look up at a sky of ashy gray,
perked and tense. Are you listening
to yourself? What choir
of dog-eared deformities
sings to you? Maybe they should have
howled louder before we dropped The Bomb.
Maybe the yellow caterwaul of their
melting butter bodies would have stayed our hand.
I doubt it though.
This is what we do. We burn things.
We tinker, adding and subtracting until
what’s left is blasphemy—until what’s left is
you. A yellow almost-dog, a sagging
body with melted flesh where there should
be fur. Sad monster; beg your alms
from the atomic Frankensteins who made you.
Your skyward eyes are bright, still happy
anywhere but here. But your abominable
body lies here staring into gray space with
Alpo still sticky on your nose, wet, brown snow.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC
spring planting, spring harvesting, spring garlic
One of the great joys of having a job in agriculture
is to think days, weeks, even months ahead,
One of the great joys of having a job in poetry,
like a fireman, a patient planter of love,
you wait to be called,
then becoming by being,
part of an all consuming burning
come spring, take advantage of the cool, wet weather of spring
to put in multiple crops of peas and lettuce, also a great time
to get your perennial vegetables,
like asparagus and rhubarb, started
the planting cycle is not an either/or,
come harvest thy labored fruits,
nine crops to harvest come March,
kale, pick leaves as needed,
leeks, best left in the ground
and harvested as needed,
parsnips, purple sprouting broccoli,
rhubarb, spring cabbage, spring cauliflower,
and of course, my personal fav,
Spring Garlic
Garlic, like like love, is generally planted in the fall,
before the frost and harvested the following late summer.
But from March to May,
once the ground has truly thawed,
the young lover plants, spring garlic or green garlic,
can be harvested.
it’s a long bus ride to Western Canada
where the garlic spring has come,
ain’t complaining lots of time to write foolishness
and plant a few good bus poems in northern ontario
and even michigan,
the window slides, and the seeds scattered,
but at every bus poet stop,
those that need it,
planted many inches deep
April 2 naught how I wish I was nineteen again
Apr 12, 2019
Apr 12, 2019 at 4:02 PM UTC
old hunger makes us sick
forget who we are and
where we're going
how to see thru fog
how to pierce the sky
where's the truth in all this
mustard gas and lies
translucent silken shadows of people
wishy washy wistful thinking like
'o look at big sophisticated words dribbling across page - verbal *****
great philosopher all expression and
thought purge speaking in a vacuum'
petulant little lines for liar's lurid heart
petty little fines growing large from the start
what is this point you speak of and how do we get there
if it is really about the journey and not the destination
then can i get off right now
or
can i be seal eye headlight hi beams
is there trust enough left between us two
to go on down this road together
or part ways at lightning fork in path
no
i go into petrified forest bog
to hide and melt and decompose
bucolic rot under stalwart stoic onlooking trees
you go to riches, glory, ******* and now sprouting planted seeds
misgivings all forgotten like
irreverent, irrelevant childish deeds
and
i grow bitter and ferment
starving gut absinthe
filled with frozen wormwood lies
like Poe and de Quincy and all the rest
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 10:35 AM UTC
Gliding through the fog,
She comes to the clearing,
Bluebells, Bluebells everywhere,
Violets and bluebells,
You can almost hear them ringing,
Ding-a-ling, Ding-a-ling,
The breeze whistles through,
The newly sprouting trees and seedlings,
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 12:35 PM UTC
A wild man is not a boyfriend, he is a force.
Can you love me in the blinding heat of a birthing star, when I shower warmth on distant moons?
Can you love me in the hole of the cosmic Black, where no one can reach me? Not even you?
Can you love me then too?
Can you love me when I drag buffalo skulls through the dirt for days, to the rhythm of an ancient drum?
Will you love me if my beard hides the scars in my heart, from battles I cannot explain?
WIll you love me when I lack courage, when I am defeated, when I won’t let you patch my wounds?
WIll you trust me when I smell of sweetgrass and sage, and when I stink of whiskey and sweat?
When I drink from the cup and play in astral light, will you anchor me to Home?
What happens when my words don’t work, and I can speak with only my eyes?
Can you love me enough to let me go, without asking me where I’ll be?
I am no poodle to lay groomed on a leash at your feet. I am the wolf that fetches the bones of truth.
A wild man is not a boyfriend. He’s not built for animal husbandry. He is a force. He is a cause for an effect. He is a mission.
Are you afraid to let me inside you? Not just my flesh, but my soul. The wild man is neither burglar or vandal. I will not take anything from you. I will not trample on sprouting seeds or pick flowers as a trophy. I am the sun on flooded fields and the fire for tangled webs.
Don’t be scared, lover, mother, maiden, crone. Take me as I am.
Even if I have the power to destroy worlds, I will not destroy you.
A wild man is a protector. A father. A warrior for all that is good.
When the chaos seeks to obliterate you, sheering your flesh from bone, I will hold all the pieces together in love, until you are ready to reassemble.
When your seas boil, and your winds throw cars at corn fields, I will wait patiently for you to catch my eye, so that both of us can laugh.
When Hell opens up the fiery gates, and sends all the cosmos against you… I plant my heels deep in the ground. I lay my shield low. My sword is sharp then, my love. The steel sings sweetly. With a smile, Hoka Hey! My last breath a farewell kiss. Today is a good day to die.
For ours is the oldest love affair. The greatest story ever told. Cupid and Psyche, Shiva and Shakti, You and I.
Same same but different. Would we have it any other way?
A wild man is not a boyfriend. He is a force.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 9:09 AM UTC
she walked
foot on each crack in the sidewalk
the heel of her boot
sinking
and then her skin peels away
turpentine wiping away
the painting that is her mask
and she walked
she crumbled
her bones dust
come back
you've gone too far, little girl
the wind blows her away
the sun cremates her memory
and she is born again in the rain
sprouting from between
the cracks in the sidewalk
and she walked
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 12:36 PM UTC
There's a flower in between the rocks
Undesireable unless one seek the flower
In cravices in the shadows of ***** towers
Procure trade on whims of nameless men
Openly or in disguise she thrives due to
Demands, in decadence of her world
The underworld enslave her soul
Like the geisha in *******
Decries a social stigma
Imposing upon her
Remove her off
The streets if
you will
But
She
Will
Come
Back sprouting
Amongst people and rocks
Enticing yet perceived as weeds still.
Feb 5, 2018
Feb 5, 2018 at 6:51 AM UTC
Walking through a field,
Bountiful with flowers,
Their aroma caring my senses.
Green grass in plenty,
The sun shining down,
The ultra violet rays lightly touching my skin.
With so much beauty to scan my eyes over,
I’m not entirely sure where to begin,
Within a few steps Im paralyzed.
What I see is absolute bliss,
A single lotus surrounded by wildflowers,
By roses and tulips.
I’m set back by the luck I have to come across this.
Unsure of what do first,
I stand back and gaze at the perfect and breathtaking natural beauty.
Yes there is a few broken leaves,
Yes there is other lotuses in the universe.
However, this lotus has come into my life.
At a time where im walking alone,
Where my mind is flooded by screams.
I decide to take a step closer,
And another,
Then another,
Till finally the lotus is within my reach.
The screams have ended,
In their place is a beautiful song being sung,
Overcame with joy I lean down and smell the lotus,
At that moment im sent through the galaxy,
Witnessing pure amazement,
Simple pleasure,
My heart swells and my throat tightens.
I feel a single tear leaving my eye.
I begin spending moment after moment admiring the lotus,
My eyes transfixed upon it,
I forget im even in a field surrounded by other wild growth.
Then I notice the sunset,
The moonlight shining upon the lotus,
Revealing that within its broken leaves there is light and color.
I’m entranced.
I reach out to touch the lotus
But stop.
I realize I cannot pick this flower for it would stop growing.
Instead I go day after day,
Watering and caring for it.
Watching it grow,
Watching it become more gorgeous by the minute.
With every hour spent my happiness grows.
With every second passing,
It’s my heart I surrender for the lotus to hold.
Several years pass,
Still I visit this magical field,
Still I care for and water the lotus.
Learning patience,
Gaining strength.
This lotus is conforming me into a better man.
I’m growing older now and soon my life will end.
When that time comes I hope to be buried in that flowery field.
Next to the lotus ive surrendered my soul to yield.
With hopes that I can spend forever with it by my side,
Sprouting into something as blissful and breathtaking as the lotus.
To my lotus, for taking my heart.
Jun 22, 2018
Jun 22, 2018 at 10:07 AM UTC
Unlimited essence of floatation
The slow turn of rotation
Flying across the vast stitched multiverse
Extreme wave of beauty, but with a curse
So large, infinite if you will
Though, at float I am, still
Moving towards a planet
Gazing deep within it, I can tell it is stranded
The low gravity warped around my astral shell
Not enough to send me to a dwell
Paralyzed as its beauty is spectacular
The dark, purple atmosphere moves upon deeper into my soul
Absorbing and soaking its cosmic realm, my eyes center towards a trickle of light
A shine calling upon my invite
Invitation towards the 3rd Heaven
Still trapped within the box
The 2nd Heaven
Leaning closer, my aura and the planet's begin to lock
An increase of gravity as it embedded
Embedded a mere astral body on towards a new oasis
The closer I began, I noticed how my eye was so basic
Or was it
Creating barriers, I mustn't
Now upon the barren, desert soil
The dim black and purple formed as crystals
A plant sprouting, as the roots coil
Gazing upon the birth of one's self, a force trickles
Awaken from the deep slumber of meditation
A possibility of an infinite number of myself brings an essence of incredible invasion
Or perhaps, I'm moving forward within my soul
Moving closer towards a reality-based goal
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 11:19 AM UTC
everyday
they bloom
pink popcorn
sprouting on trees
cotton candy flowers
soon to be devoured
by hundreds of hungry tourists
at the click of a button
one flash
and the moment
is over
beauty becomes litter
and litter turns to dust
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 12:17 PM UTC
They are the heart givers
and the breath takers
without them I cannot live
but just like my exgirlfriend
they can't seem to find
where they left their compassion.
I cannot breathe
but that is only because it cost too much to live
understanding their desire of money
it pains me to know greed
not of my own will be the cause of my death.
That in my generosity I forgot
planting trees does not grow the greens they seek
and the carrots sprouting are ones they eat
not the ones they don't wear to the office
but dance around their family with.
Education was supposed to be their gravity
and with each ounce of knowledge
built an anchor to the moon
because instead of humanity
they've become a celestial star
whose imagination wanders
outside the orbit of those who may be suffering.
A broken hearted soul
paves the waiting room with their corpse
because while in the void
something had to go and
it wasn't the money
but a man that couldn't
afford to keep his heart going.
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 1:53 AM UTC
hip-hop
split my mind open,
hear me flip-flop
happily irritated
watching your
constipated
face break
heavy tears
you shake
you ache
so take
a break
and take
a breath
digging holes
taking pills
sliding down
murderin'
fillin' hills
the chills
my thrills
no bills
countin' kills
ten fingers
smell lingers
hell bringers
not singers
give me that...
bring me there...
–
shovels
the troubles
my doubles
be bubbles
black moths
white veins
no money
hopping trains
you blame
the rain
for pain
insane
to think
a drink
of water
taught her
brought her
to the edge
nothing left
to take
so...
give me that...
underground....
hip-hop
split my mind open,
hear me flip-flop
happily irritated
watching your
constipated
face break
heavy tears
you shake
you ache
so take
a breath
ahhhhhhh
give me that...
bring me there...
we're going underground
–
your games
my flames
the names
we tame
the light
breaks night
we slide
we hide
in
the
dark
so take
a breath
Underground...
hip-hop
split my mind open,
hear me flip-flop
happily irritated
watching your
constipated
face break
heavy tears
you shake
you ache
so take
take me
bake me
shake the dirt
from my bones
love's
no longer
got me
in a
choke hold
feeling bold
stories told
so grab
a hold
as we unfold
underground
no longer bound
by fear
my dear
the present is clear
growing and sprouting
underground
–
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 1:43 AM UTC
__Body__
Let me love and care for the art piece
of your body- every pulsating touch of your
spasms. Jumping wildly; while washing
me in your spring water on top a mountain
of passions. I’ll spurt within you, from its tip.
And in kind; let the wetness of your lips
sooth my skin. Kissed by your sensual soul, as
it echoes every word of thirst, running down your
throat; chasing after every breath we lose in
a moment.
_Still, let us not love in haste._
__Amazon Queen__
I gaze at you, as my sprouting rose in
bloom. But not something so delicate; she is
tall, shapely, and sturdy— my Amazon Queen
that keeps me in the centre of her rainforest.
As she lets my words water her floret by
their tip- its warmth and gentleness spoke of
a love so deep and fulfilling.
__Foot fetish__
Oh, how she stimulates my eyes,
as I make out with her eye’s persuasion;
my mind often rehearses how I’ll love her
in it’s imaginations- my mind’s perfect
simulation;
For our desires are much sweeter,
by every bite of her smooth chocolate skin
I adore her more than I would have
yesterday- to quietly bless each step
she’ll take tomorrow. And a reason for me
to kiss her feet.
__Moist__
Surely as the night is washed by the gentle rains-
I have these saturated thoughts, pondering how
she’ll drown me over another night’
As she could never
have the most without I in the middle;
her underwear feels so moist.
__Climactic Prelude & Conclusion__
Would you love to experience a climactic
prelude; a middle so sweet in its time;
While my eyes ripen at the sight of your
ripening fruit,
Oh, so sweet in its time, let me capture
and savour that juicy fruit,
For yes indeed we had fallen in love-
but let not that fruit eventually fall;
From its tree, to rot off its vine; let me bite
you as mine- to taste your heaven’s ecstasy;
In this climactic prelude; I promise the middle
is filling, and its conclusion won’t be short lived.
Jul 1, 2024
Jul 1, 2024 at 8:22 AM UTC
It was a hand me down,
An old Chevy that grandpa didn't need,
It was just a little truck,
But it would do,
Blue and silver, with rust sprouting up here and there,
A creaky tailgate,
No ac, but a sunroof,
Comfy seats that held you like a race car,
The smell of dust wafting from the vents
It had a little engine that needed work,
It had old tires that needed to be replaced,
A layer of dust that needed to be washed off.
But I didn't care,
It was my first truck!
New engine,
New tires,
A deluxe wash at the co-op,
And a black ice air freshener,
This truck was born again.
Spinning tires and dust flying,
Rolling down the streets and tearing up the gravel roads,
This truck purred like a kitten.
I didn't care if people had bigger trucks,
Newer trucks,
Fancier trucks,
This was my first truck
And I loved it!
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 11:49 AM UTC
It was a hundred years ago,
When, by the woodland ways,
The traveller saw the wild deer drink,
Or crop the birchen sprays.
Beneath a hill, whose rocky side
O'erbrowed a grassy mead,
And fenced a cottage from the wind,
A deer was wont to feed.
She only came when on the cliffs
The evening moonlight lay,
And no man knew the secret haunts
In which she walked by day.
White were her feet, her forehead showed
A spot of silvery white,
That seemed to glimmer like a star
In autumn's hazy night.
And here, when sang the whippoorwill,
She cropped the sprouting leaves,
And here her rustling steps were heard
On still October eves.
But when the broad midsummer moon
Rose o'er that grassy lawn,
Beside the silver-footed deer
There grazed a spotted fawn.
The cottage dame forbade her son
To aim the rifle here;
"It were a sin," she said, "to harm
Or fright that friendly deer.
"This spot has been my pleasant home
Ten peaceful years and more;
And ever, when the moonlight shines,
She feeds before our door.
"The red men say that here she walked
A thousand moons ago;
They never raise the war-whoop here,
And never twang the bow.
"I love to watch her as she feeds,
And think that all is well
While such a gentle creature haunts
The place in which we dwell."
The youth obeyed, and sought for game
In forests far away,
Where, deep in silence and in moss,
The ancient woodland lay.
But once, in autumn's golden time,
He ranged the wild in vain,
Nor roused the pheasant nor the deer,
And wandered home again.
The crescent moon and crimson eve
Shone with a mingling light;
The deer, upon the grassy mead,
Was feeding full in sight.
He raised the rifle to his eye,
And from the cliffs around
A sudden echo, shrill and sharp,
Gave back its deadly sound.
Away into the neighbouring wood
The startled creature flew,
And crimson drops at morning lay
Amid the glimmering dew.
Next evening shone the waxing moon
As sweetly as before;
The deer upon the grassy mead
Was seen again no more.
But ere that crescent moon was old,
By night the red men came,
And burnt the cottage to the ground,
And slew the youth and dame.
Now woods have overgrown the mead,
And hid the cliffs from sight;
There shrieks the hovering hawk at noon,
And prowls the fox at night.
5.9k
May your passionate, glowing soul forever prance happily among the wildflowers sprouting at your feet.
May your strong, soft hands forever piece together the bits of broken you find within your peers.
May your glistening, hazel eyes forever warm my heart.
For this, I am thankful.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 10:01 PM UTC