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Marieta Maglas Mar 2013
It's summertime. The saxophone  jazz
sounds are pirouettetting the waves
to find their own balance. It's a mauve

inner dance in almost everything around.
More exactly, the melodious movable
sounds become soundable movement

needing a reverberation time to dissipate  
the energy. The movement releases its  own
purity to become simple fecundity. The pulsed

sound waves are also old memories  lost in the
natural green. The saxophone  looks  much
more like a Tahitian prince dancing his love

on the sand. The singing mauve sea waves
have a sadness taste at sunset. The last one
is a watery mermaid and he embraces her

while searching the high. The sounds need
touch and life. They need to dematerialize
and to disappear into the universe. The

saxophone  remains a solitaire keeping
safe his evanescent  hermetic equilibrium.
Martin Narrod May 2014
Something original. Of newer words, that originate from the pleasure and happiest of timeless incidents. The happenings, back of the park, near a set of restrooms, a pool of clear sea water and a purplish-red starfish. A sea cucumber. Trailing sea lions diving off of a cliff, a vertical display of rocks, moving a millionth of an inch each year. You caught me.  --------

I can't nail it. It happens to me when I sleep, it comes around me, over my shoulders and latches onto my breaths. I'm breathing and it creeps inside of me like a mealworm, I turn to look for it and it disappears again. It lives in a shadow but it is also a shadow of itself. An anomaly, a space for time and the tell of time, its hidden agenda, its positive nature, how it yields itself to prey, how it coos for a sweet smile, runs up to me in mid-day traffic, and kisses me, noon at military time.  ------  

The blessings come. All of them. Laid out on a table in red and white checkerboard, making the eggplant parm and the homemade vinaigrette. Peanut butter chocolate chip vegan cookies. A dandelion necklace that only fits around my wrist. It makes me weep some twenty years ago on a Playskool slide, orange, red, bright. I'm looking around my neck and still it's not there. Every where I want to be, every where I've gone and could go. I should go to California too but all of this...stuff, everywhere, under my legs, in my pockets, the closets tumbling high and low, I haven't had enough to change, and still I am wanting something else. You the same, my shoulders tell me stories, I listen and I fall asleep.  -----  

Sometimes my nerves grow quiet, my words grow- but then they just fall again, skittering in a lull plash of blue-green pond water. The bench I sewed to the ground. A tale of mirth and woe. I cannot call on you, you will not come. Sleeping beauty, blue eyes, blonde hair. I wrestle you in the day to day, the hour to hour. Minutes cannot go by. Pages that turn but I remember everything. My mind will never go.  -----  

Two pink letters in the post today. Maybe neatly placed for you. A fake-tattoo puffin, upper-left hand corner. My hands are empty, they have indecent memories, they write indelible superpowers. I can't go on. I run lake water over my ankles, slowly drift beneath arcing waves and cold grey skies. Half a day blue goes black, night comes and I whisper when the sky goes quiet. Nothing is as serious as this.   ------    


In a white box there are two pairs of shoes and a soft bear. The bear without the name. He doesn't speak to me so I leave him with the sea birds. Put them in a push cart and show them off, I take them here, I take them there. No one asks his name, where he's going, what he's going to do. ------------


Tuesday's are the worst. I count and count and count. I will never forget Tuesday's, twisting like a cuneiform jelly, fingernails spoiling me-meat, breaking the Styx crossing the river Rhine, there is nowhere that I will not go, only for me to cross time. To wait, I really hate waiting. Nothing comes between, I lie to a stranger and they fall in love instantly. I see you on Monday evenings and I want to kiss you gently, the sides of your neck, on the inside of your hand. Where do you go when all the shadows go? ----

Some of me is backwards. The waves shape the sky. A rabbit goes with a fire truck, a blueberry with a cephalopod. Back to the soft wood walls of the cotton luxe room. My legs have never felt so safe, you have never made my teeth so happy. In Russia you touch my face, I see you, a picture of you, any part of your eyes or the things you draw upon and I am instantly in love. I love you, a part of you, all of the parts of you, your soul is the only part of me disconnected. You are the happiest moments of my pleasure. You taste like Tahitian Vanilla and Acai berries. Gold grains hit our shins as we go like great wild horses through the alluvial plains. -----

I cannot count to you. There are no goddesses in numbers. I only have sleep, for you to look me square away into a bliss I have in a picture of the two of us, lost in our faces, our hands wandering each others knees. I sit across from you and I am not close enough. I go closer and I want to be inside of you, all across my limbs expanding our spiritual forms, intertwining in our skins. So I speak, I lay my words gently in front of you so you cross them as you walk our path, back from the sea into a narrow slumber. Sleep is the only place we all can play. You, me, her, her, and I.
sobie Mar 2015
My mother raised me under the belief that monotony was a worse state than death and she lived her life accordingly. She taught me to do the same. About five years ago, my mother died. Her death steered my course from any sort of seated, settled life and into a spiral of new experiences.
For months after she left, I skulked about each day feeling slumped and cynical and finding everything and everyone coated in the sickly metallic taste of loss. I noticed that without her I had allowed myself to settle into a routine of mourning. I pitied myself, knowing what she would have thought.  Life was already so different without her there and I couldn’t continue with life as if nothing had happened, so I jumped from my stagnancy in attempts to forget my mother’s name and to destroy the mundane just like she had taught me to. I had to learn how to live again, and I wanted to find something that would always be there if she wouldn’t. I had a purpose. I tried to start anew and drown myself in change by throwing all that I knew to the wind and leaving my life behind.

I was running away from the fact that she had died for a long time. When I first picked up and left, I befriended the ocean and for many months I soaked my sorrows in salt water and *****, hoping to forget. I repressed my thoughts. Mom’s Gone would paint the inside of my mind and I would cover it up with parties and Polynesian women.
I was the sand on the shores of Tahiti, living on the waves of my own freedom. A freedom I had borrowed from nature. A gift that had been given to me by my birth, by my mother. I tried to lose myself in those waves and they treated me with limited respect. More often than not, they kicked me up against their black walls of water. They were made of such immense freedom that many times made me scream and **** my pants in fear, but they shoved loads that fear into my arms and forced me to eventually overcome the burden.
As time slipped by unnoticed, I created routine around the unpredictability of the tides and the cycle of developing alcoholism. One night after a full day of making love to the Tahitian waters, my buddies and I celebrated the big waves by filling our aching bodies with a good bit of Bourbon. By morning time, a good bit of Bourbon had become a fog of drink after drink of not-so-good *****? Gin maybe? I awoke to the sight of the godly sunrise glinting off of the wet beach around me, pitying my trouser-less hungover self. With sand in every orifice, I took a swim to wash me of the night before. I floated on my back in silence while the birds taunted me. I felt the ocean fill every nook and cranny of my body, each pulse of my heartbeat sending ripples through it. My heart was the moon that pressed the waves of my freedom onward and it was sore for different waters. The ache for elsewhere was coming back, and the hole she left in my gut that was once filled with Tahiti was now almost gaping. It had been a beautiful ride in Tahiti but I had not found solace, only distraction. The currents were shifting towards something new.
She had always said that the mountains brought her a solace that she never felt in church. They were her place to pray and they were the gods that fulfilled her. She told me this under the sheets at bedtime as if it were her biggest secret. I had delusional hope that she might be somewhere, she might not be gone. I thought if I would find her anywhere it would be there, up in the clouds on the highest peaks.
The next day, I was on the plane back to the States where I would gather gear. The mountains had called and left a needy voicemail, so I told them I was on my way.

In Bozeman, the home I had run from when I left, every street and friend was a reminder of my childhood and of her. I was only there to trade out my dive mask for my goggles. I had sold most of my stuff and had no house, apartment, or any place of residence to return to except for a small public storage unit where I’d stashed the rest of my goods. Almost everything I owned was kept in a roomy 25 square foot space, the rest was in my duffel. I’d left my pick-up in the hands of my good man, Max, and he returned her to me *****, gleaming, and with the tank full. I took her down to the storage yard and opened my unit to see that everything remained untouched. Beautifully, gracefully, precariously piled just as it was when I left. I transitioned what I carried in my duffel from surf to snow. I made my trades: flip flops for boots, bare chest for base layers, board shorts for snow pants, and of course, board for skis. Ah, my skis… sweet and tender pieces of soulful engineering, how I missed them. They still suffered core-shots and scratches from last season. I embraced them like the old friends they were.
I loaded up the pick-up with all the necessities and hit the road before anyone could give me condolences for a loss I didn’t want to believe. I could not stray from my path to forget her or find her or figure out how to live again. I did not know exactly what I wanted but I could not let myself hear my mother’s name. She was not a constant; that was now true.  

My truck made it half way there and across the Canadian border before I had to set her free. She had been my stallion for some time, but her miles got the best of her. It was only another loss, another betrayal of constancy. I walked with everything on my back until I eventually thumbed my way to the edge of the wild forest beneath the mountains that I had dreamt of. They were looming ahead but I swore I caught a whiff of hope in their cool breeze.
With skis and skins strapped to my feet, I took off into the wilderness. My eyes were peeled looking for something more than myself, and I found some things. There were icy streams and a few fattened birds and hidden rocks and tracks from wolves and barks of their pups off in the distance. But what I found within all of these things was just the constant reminder of my own loneliness.
I spent the days pushing on towards some unknown relief from the pain. On good days there fresh snow to carry me and on most days storms came and pounded me further into my seclusion. The trees bowed heavy to me as I inched forward on my skis, my only loyal companions; I only hoped they would not betray me on this journey. I could not afford to lose any more, I was alone enough. My mother was no where to be found. The snow seemed to miss her too and sometimes I think it sympathized with me.
I spent the nights warmed with a whimpy fire lying on my back in wait hoping that from out of the darkness she would speak to me, give me some guidance or explanation on how I could live happily and wildly without her. Where was this solace she had spoken of? Where was she? She was not with me, yet everything told me about her. The sun sparkled with her laughter, the air was as crisp as her wit, the cold carried her scent. I could feel her embrace around me in her hand-me-downs that I wore. They were family heirlooms that had been passed to her through generations, and then to me. The lives that had been lived in these jackets and sweaters were lived on through me. Though the stories hidden in the seams of these Greats had long been forgotten, died off with their original masters, I could feel the warmth of their memories cradle me whenever I wore them. I cringed to think about what was lost from their lives that did not live on. I was the only one left of my family to tell the world of the things they had done. I was all that was left of my mother. She had left her mark on the world, that was clear. It was a mark that stained my existence.
These forested mountain hills held a tragic beauty that I wish I could have appreciated more, but I felt heavy with heartache. Nature was not always sweet to me. For days storms surged without end and I coughed up crystals, feeling the snowflake’s dendrites tickle at my throat. I had gotten a cold. Snot oozed from my nostrils, my eyes itched, my schnoz glowed pink, my voice was hoarse, and I wanted nothing but to go home to a home that no longer existed. But I chose to go it alone on this quest and I knew the dangers in the freedom of going solo. The winds were strong and the snow was sharp. New ice glazed once powdery fields and the storms of yesterday came again and there was nothing I could do except cower at the magnificence of Nature’s sword: a thing so grand and powerful that it has slayed armies of men with merely a windy slash. I was nature’s *****. I felt no promise in pressing on, but I did so only to keep the snow from burying me alive in my tent.
And I am so glad that I did, because when the great storm finally passed I looked up to see the sky so hopeful and blue bordering the mountains I knew to be the ones I was searching for. I recognized them from the bedtime stories. She had said that when she saw them for the first time that she felt a sudden understanding that all the many hundred miles she’d ever walked were supposed to take her here. She said that the mere sight of them gave her purpose. These were those mountains. I knew because the purpose I had lost sight of came bubbling back out of my aching heart, just as it had for her.

These peaks as barren as plucked pelicans and peacocks, but as beautiful as the feathers taken from them, were beacons in the night for those in search of a world of dreams in which to create a new reality. From them I heard laughter jiggle and echo, hefty and deep in the stomachs of the only people truly living it seemed. When I was scouring the vastness of this wilderness for a sign or a purpose, I followed the scent of their delicious living and I guess my nose led me well.
A glide and a hop further on my skis, there the trees parted and powder deepened and sun shone just a bit brighter. Behind the blinding glare of the snow, faces gleamed from tents and huts and igloos and hammocks. Shrieks of children swinging from branches tickled my ears, which had grown accustomed to the silence of winter. As I approached this camp, I saw they were not kids but grown men and women. It seemed I had stumbled down a rabbit hole while following the tracks of a white jackalope. I had found my world of dreams. I had found them. I had found a home.
I was escaping my lonely, wintery existence into a shared haven perfectly placed beneath the peaks that had plagued my dreams. A place where the only directions that existed were up and down the slopes and forwards to the future. Never Eat Soggy Waffles did not matter anymore. By the end of my time there, I had even forgotten my lefts and rights. The camp had been assembled with the leftovers of the modern world and looked like a puzzle with mismatched pieces from fifty different pictures. At first glance, it could have been a snow covered trash heap, but there was a sentimental glow on each broken appliance that told me otherwise. Everything had a use, though it was not usually what was intended. The homes of these families and friends were made of tarp or blankets or animal hides and had smelly socks or utensils or boots or bones hanging from their openings. There were homemade hot springs made of bathtubs placed above fires with water bubbling. Unplugged ovens buried in snow and ice kept the beer cooled. Trees doubled as diving boards for jumping into the deep pits of powder around them. The masterminds behind this camp were geniuses of invention and creation. Their most impressive creation was their lifestyle; it was one that had been deemed impossible by society. This place promised the solace I had been searching for.
A hefty mass of man and dogs galumphed its way through the snow. Rosy cheeks and big hands came to greet me. This was Angus. His face grew a beard that scratched the skies; it was a doppelganger to the mossy branches above us. But his smile shone through the hairs like the moon. There are people in this world whose presence alone is magic, an anomaly among existence. Angus was one of them. Not an ounce of his being made sense. The gut that hung from his broad-shouldered bodice was its own entity and it swung with rhythms unknown to any man; it was known only to the laughter that shook it. Gently perched atop this, was his shaggy white head that flew backwards and into the clouds each time he laughed, which was often. Angus fathered and fed the folks who’d found their way to this wintery oasis, none of which were of the ordinary. There was a lady with snakes tattooed to her temples, parents who’d birthed their babies here beneath the full moon, couples who went bankrupt and eloped to Canada, men and women who felt the itch just as me and my mother had. The itch for something beyond the mundane that left us unsatisfied with life out in the real world. All of them came out of their lives’ hardships with hilarious belligerence and wit, each with their own story to tell. The common thread sewn between all these dangerous minds was an undeniable lust for life.
The man who represented this lust more than any other was Wiley and wily he was. He’d seen near-death countless times and every time he saw the light at the end of the tunnel, he would run like a fool in the other direction. He lived on borrowed time. You could see that restlessness driving him in each step he took. Each step was a leap from the edges of what you thought possible. Wiley was a man of serious grit, skill, and intelligence and never did he let his mortality shake him from living like the animal he was. He’d surely forgotten where and whence he came from and, until finding his way here, had made homes out of any place that offered him beer and some good eatin’. Within moments of shaking hands, he and I created instant brotherhood.
The next few days turned into months and I eventually lost track of time all together. I could have stayed there forever and no day would have been the same. I played with these people in the mountains and pretended it was childhood again. We lived with the wind and the wildness the way my mother had once shown me how to live. I had forgotten how to live this way without her and I was learning it all over again. We awoke when we pleased and trekked about when weather permitted, and sometimes when it didn’t. Each day the sun rose ripe with opportunities for new lines to ski and new peaks to explore. The backcountry was ours and only ours to explore. We were its residents just like the moose and the wolves. My body grew stinky and hairy with joy and pushed limits. Hair that stank of musk and days of labor was washed only with painful whitewashes courtesy of Wiley. Generally after a nice run, we’d exchange them, shoving each other’s faces deep into the icy layers of snow, which would be followed with some hardy wrestling. By the end of each day, if we didn’t have blood coming out of at least two holes in our faces then it wasn’t a good day.
I never could wait to get my life’s adventures in and here I was having them, recalling the unsatisfied ache I had before I left. Life was lost to me before. I had forgotten how to live it after she had died. Modern monotony had taken control until my life became starved of genuine purity and all that was left then was mimicry. But the hair grown long on these men and smiles grown large on these woman showed no remembrance of such an earth I had come from. They had long ago cast themselves away from such a society to relish in all they knew to be right, all their guts told them to pursue: the truth that nature supplies. Still I worried I would not remember these people and these moments, knowing how they would be ****** into the abyss of loss and time like all the others. But we lived too loud and the sounds of my worries were often drowned in fun.
     We spent the nights beside the fire and listened to Wiley softly plucking strings, that was when I always liked to look at Yona. Her curls endlessly waterfalled down her chest and the fire made her hair shimmer gold in its glow. She was the spark among us, and if we weren’t careful she could light up the whole forest.  She was a drum, beating fast and strong. Never did she lose track of herself in the clashing rhythms of the world. She had ripped herself from the hands of the education system at a young age and had learned from the ways of the changing seasons f
Ma Cherie Sep 2016
You're having a bad day
not everything is good?

Yes, that's very true...
come in and sit down.

You haven't eaten?

Well...
you came to the right place.

Here is a nice armchair,
my Grandmother's from Ethen Allen
yes...
a beautiful deep burgundy color
with goldenrod yellow twirling paisley
in a burning orange background...
lovely she is
her shapely curves...
rugged, straight lines
carved into flowers
her cherry stained legs
worn edges...
so soft, comfortable and weathered

I agree
she is very reliable and sturdy
and she is kind
so forgiving...yes?

Oh, fresh coffee ...
ahhhh you smelled it,
of course
here you go
a steaming cup of hopeful dreaming...
brilliant,
in a aromatic plume of Tahitian Hazelnut
swirling ribbons of fresh Vermont cream
cinnamon rolls in the oven
sugary love smells intoxicating...
yes?
glazed sugar awaiting

as cool crisp dried leafy breezes
flow through waiting drapes of warm white linen

Yes, so very  poetic this place...
A gift...why I'd say!
I love this time of year
very much...
especially the trees...
floating in the air
the leaf dancers drift silently
waving Goodbye in the Fall winds

Welcome to my  Vermont
to the beautiful Green Mountains
in splendid peaking colors
panoramic splendor
The natives so
oh...you know

They call 'em verdant visions
again come springtime
come on, stay awhile
put on a friendly smile
a welcome done in style
my home is your home
take your hat off what's the hurry?

Cherie Nolan © 2016
Smile everyone! & thank you!!
Said darling daughter unto me:
"oh Dad, how funny it would be
If you had gone to Mexico
A score or so of years ago.
Had not some whimsey changed your plan
I might have been a Mexican.
With lissome form and raven hair,
Instead of being fat and fair.

"Or if you'd sailed the Southern Seas
And mated with a Japanese
I might have been a squatty girl
With never golden locks to curl,
Who flirted with a painted fan,
And tinkled on a samisan,
And maybe slept upon a mat -
I'm very glad I don't do that.

"When I consider the romance
Of all your youth of change and chance
I might, I fancy, just as well
Have bloomed a bold Tahitian belle,
Or have been born . . . but there - ah no!
I draw the line - and Esquimeaux.
It scares me stiff to think of what
I might have been - thank God! I'm not."

Said I: "my dear, don't be absurd,
Since everything that has occurred,
Through seeming fickle in your eyes,
Could not a jot be otherwise.
For in this casual cosmic biz
The world can be but what it is;
And nobody can dare deny
Part of this world is you and I.

Or call it fate or destiny
No other issue could there be.
Though half the world I've wandered through
Cause and effect have linked us two.
Aye, all the aeons of the past
Conspired to bring us here at last,
And all I ever chanced to do
Inevitably led to you.

To you, to make you what you are,
A maiden in a Morris car,
IN Harris tweeds, an airedale too,
But Anglo-Saxon through and through.
And all the good and ill I've done
In every land beneath the sun
Magnificently led to this -
A country cottage and - your kiss."
chuck a stetson Jul 2011
plug-in your head music
remember being young
on a pogo stick
a unicycle
with training wheels
under
sunshine of your
love

o’ shine on
you crazy
diamond
run in the
jungle
feel the rain
on sunny day
and let it be
misunderstood

stop your moon tears?
run in Reeboks?
come on
you painter of
words
chew
good & plenty
plant
lime lima beans
kaleidoscope kale
juicy fruit gum
harvest
magenta mangos
paisley peaches

or go to an auction
bid on
T-bone
bubble gum
sprout beans
Tahitian telecaster
pre-rolled wagon wheel
sweet sixteen candles
Hound Dog Taylor’s
Brownie McGhee loafers

no?
yes?

don’t change
your lunatic fringe
in twilight’s open season
read
The Hidden Singer
dance
boogie woogie
cha-cha-cha
outside the house of the rising sun

so turn it up, Mr. James
your big wheel
keeps on turnin’
groove
to the little bird
who sings and sings

© 2011 chuck a stetson
written for a poet-genius I've been fortunate to know these past two years.
Ronald J Chapman Jan 2017
With the dawning of a new year,
As love in my eyes guides me to you,

Thoughts burning with desire, soft lips kissing,
I write these words of passion to you, my love,
My only love.

The warm breeze from feathers of Angels tickles my heart,
And the blood flows deep in my veins as my passion rises from deep,

Within my Soul, I create fantasies from my thoughts of you.

Your hypnotic dark Tahitian pearl eyes,
Have me under your spell.
I give my life to you. What would you have me do?

Your mysterious black hair,
Shiny and soft, wishing to feel it's touch,
As it covers my eyes with love,

As the sun wakes on a new day,
Our dreams never end.

Just the two of us,
As the rest of the world sleeps;

Taking hold of your soft hand,
As we walk along the quiet beach,
Listening to ocean waves sing,

God created something truly amazing when He made the miracle of you.

These are only words;

Until the end of time plus one thousand years, my love.
There will never be enough love poems written,
That can ever describe how much I love you and only you,



My miracle!

Copyright © 2017 Ronald J Chapman All Rights Reserved.
(Iljimae) - Flower Letters) (eng sub)
https://youtu.be/vdiTnTNckQ0
This poem is for Baby Boomers,
Most of us collecting Social Security
By now, many of us already retired in
Some shape or form, blessed by
Blessed Be, those defined benefit
Schemes we indentured ourselves,
Shackled to for so many years.
Now it's money every month for life,
A pension adjusted to the cost of living,
Inflation-proof as they say.
But who's to judge
When quality of life has its own
Net present value?

But we remain comfortable as they say,
With Social Security and VA benefits,
And the Roth-IRA,
The muni bonds and annuities, quite comfortable,
Thank you very much.
But just how comfortable?
Admittedly, much of my
Wellbeing, drug and/or alcohol-induced.
Prozac in the morning,
Xanax, as needed later,
Medical cannabis--preposterously legal in California,
And that reliable trio: beer, wine & hard liquor--
Scotch & Soda, my oblivion, my River Lethe--
And Ambien,
GENERIC NAME: ZOLPIDEM,
To sleep, perchance to dream.

Yes, of course, I am medicated.
Yes, without doubt,
I am mighty high.
And yes, I feel mighty good.
I deserve to.
I earned it.
Do I dare disturb my universe?
Try ******, just to see
What all the fuss was all about?
65: perhaps a suitable age for
The LSD trip I dared not take at 20.
No, a lifetime of bourgeois caution,
Years of playing it safe,
Mock me, even as they
Serve me in retirement;
Serve me well for the
Miles ahead before I sleep.
Serve me well for the
Miles ahead before I sleep.
Bite me, Robert Frost!
Do you ******* stutter?
Of course, I experience some difficulty
Coming up with a good reason for
Getting out of bed in the morning.
But who doesn’t at my age?

My Hemet porch:  so
Serene this time of year.
I require no western sunset,
No cool Pacific Ocean breeze or
Shoreline vista to soothe me now.
I’ve sailed the seven seas.
I've crossed the lines.
I am a square-knot sailor.
Initiated by Neptune himself,
I am Bluenose & Golden Shellback,
And sundry other salty achievements,
Crisscrossed on Mercator’s grid.
I've been wowed by spectral majesty,
Moonrise at sea, stars streaking,
I’ve rolled toward Tahitian beaches on
Sultry tides and currents,
To Polynesia in late austral summer.
I’ve sailed with Coleridge.
"Eftsoons," I ate the bird that flipped the bird.
Upon a painted sailing ship; upon a
Paint-by-number ocean.
Southward I fled, to
Fire and ice, and finally,
Atonement.
I am forgiven now, for
Having flipped my wig, at the
Bird that brought the
Fog and mist, and all the
Rest pulled from ***, of
Meshuggener, greybeard loon;
Crazy mariner's rhyme,
Perchance, to rime?
I flipped the bird, again.

I have no complaints.
Life owes me nothing.
Of course, I have trouble
Coming up with new excuses for
Getting off my bed each day.
But who doesn't at our age?
Fragrance and color
gods gifts for the islands,
The pacific the flowers part of every Tahitian day,
A flower lei or headdress a smile, laughter loving people
Friendly people
make us feel so natural
Welcoming
Our gifts are these people
our future if we follow their lead
We are sure to prosper
Ronald J Chapman Dec 2014
Hello, 'Dark Eyes'

Dark and bright I see in your eyes.

Deep, dark magical eyes...
Like priceless Tahitian pearls...

Dazzling, fascinating,
Magical, delightful...  

Deep, dark amazing eyes...

Behind these charming eyes...
I see a beautiful bright soul,
So very bright. These dark eyes warm my heart.

Sparkling with Intelligence, kindness...
Love, truth, talent, hope, faith...

I see shining out of these dark and bright eyes.

Dark and bright I see in your eyes...

Hello, 'Bright Eyes'


Copyright © Ronald J Chapman All Rights Reserved.
Ronald J Chapman Nov 2014
Your beauty is in a time so far away that I can never reach,

I stand here in the February 17 snow
and raise a glass of wine to the past,

Your beauty is in a time so far away, that I can never reach,

Your smile is like blooming cherry blossoms in the springtime
Your eyes are as dark and beautiful as Tahitian pearls,

Your beauty is in a time so far away, that I can never reach,

My love for your beauty and charm will always last,

For more than one thousand years your name,
has not been forgotten,

And until the end of time,
My beautiful Queen Seondeok! of Silla,
Your beauty and charm will always last!

© 2014 Ronald J Chapman All Rights Reserved.
Queen Seondeok of Silla information http://www.newworldencyclopedia.org/entry/Queen_Seondeok_of_Silla

Related Music Video Queen Seon Deok OST - Come, People of God (with Lyrics)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QUx4gtpCiEs
brooke Jun 2016
I so often yearn for the brilliant freedom
children exude at the public pool--
in their Tahitian orange board shorts
swinging like mudflaps against youthful
legs covered in fine, blonde wisps,
girls in lemon sorbet one pieces
standing triumphantly akimbo
at the water's edge with small
protruding bellies for no other
reason than to be, beauties
much like wildflowers, lone columbines
or other pale fauna--

evenly evertan or milky white,
beet sunburns that creep down the sharp points
of shoulder blades, barely held in place by sheets of taut canvas
leaking water and blinking rapidly
beneath oily fingers smeared with sunscreen and diluted
peach creamsicle--fresh glass blades pressed and dried to
little feet as if they were pages out of a wriggling book--

slapping wetly against pavement so hot you could
swear the children sizzle , leaping over bathers--teenage
girls that flinch and scoff--as if they can fly and we are ants,
them, giants who we cannot touch. Whose droplets barely
graze us, whose enveloping warm wind we ignore or
reproach.

If we grow dim and colder as we age then these are still boiling, still
utterly reactive to any and every substance
every limb a curious proboscis, mercurial temperaments and
tiny hearts that flash like switchboards and wallop against
caverns heavy with discovery.
(c) Brooke Otto 2016
Ronald J Chapman Feb 2016
My Star Shine,

My love for you is like,
The brightest of diamonds,
Your face reminds me of,
Happy times and bright, sunny days,
Together, we are like chocolate ice cream and whipped topping.

Oh! lovely Star Shine,
My sweet diamond,
Your beautiful dark eyes, like Tahitian pearls,
The perfect companion for these past 100 days,
Of traveling through my dreams.

Walking along the warm white shore sands,
Holding hands,
Laughing and singing our favorite songs,
How bright and blue the Eastern sea is today,
Can this be reality or only a dream?

I like walking along the warm sandy beach of an Eastern sea,
But not as much as I love kissing you.

Oh darling Star Shine,
Your lips taste like sweet pink cotton candy;
The shining sun sparkles in your soft black, hair.

You're like the brightest sunrise I have ever seen.
Thank you for traveling life with me these past 100 dreamy days,

Today, Valentines day,  I give you the keys to my heart,
So you may unlock my Soul.

I love you my Star Shine!



Copyright © 2016 Ronald J Chapman All Rights Reserved.
(Kiss Scene) 100 Days With Mr.Arroganthttps://youtu.be/HjVDvCMkSmY

---------------
From
Understanding K-Drama: 100 Days
BY Joan MacDonald | Mar 04, 2014 02:45 PM EST
"The 100th day of a relationship is considered significant in Korea and its normal for couples to celebrate the occasion. It can either be 100 days since they met or 100 days since they officially began dating. Sometimes that anniversary is celebrated with a dinner out, flowers and a cake. It will likely include a gift, which could be chocolates, a stuffed animal or jewelry such as a couples ring. The 100-day milestone implies a commitment.
Stephen E Yocum Dec 2023
An addendum to 2013 HP poem
"The Road to One Chicken"
with 37,000 "Public" reads.

She was there again, a vision.
Slow walking with assured purpose
and grace not seen in most women
of any age, barefoot or in sandals.
Mainland restrictive shoes unknown,
and not required by her. A free spirit
exhibiting nary a hint of artifice,
a natural unaffected beauty.

Wind fluttering her long dark hair
like a flag atop the mast of a sleet
schooner upon a gentle rolling sea.
A Tahitian girl barely 20 walking
beside me, on a dirt road, by the
vibrant blue Ocean, holding my
hand and smiling.

Not having a common language
our eyes, some pidgin talk and
gestures conveyed all that was
needed. We loved one another
for a few days and nights, and
then too soon I departed as crew
on a sloop bound for Bora Bora,
while she remained happily
behind on her beautiful island.

Both this girl and her island
tenderly vividly remembered,
for over 50 years.

Some impressions last forever.
Unlike myself, she remains young
and vibrant evermore, a benevolent
ghost memory dream only appearing
at night and always assuredly welcome.
Now from time to time she visits me
in my dreams and I always wake up
smiling. Last night was one of those
times, and I was compelled to write it
down.
Kat Jun 2019
The devil is a beautiful woman, I crumble in her haunting presence.
She's stained inside the past and she ascends into the present.
She purrs and twirls inside my ears, "the devil's voice is sweet to hear."

That's a pretty .22, up there above the fireplace, I bet it would look prettier reflected on my pretty face. The devil is a pretty girl, her shadow is Tahitian pearl.
She comes and goes without consent, she plagues my dreams with evil ****.

I wish the devil was here now, she'd grab a knife and show me how.
The devil has the worst suggestions, I'm prisoner to her subjections.
The devil is here and she is vile, I think she's going to stay a while.

The devil and I might become friends, I hope she doesn't leave again.
We could cook our dinner fancy, play around with necromancy.
Maybe the devil isn't real, she's just a feeling that I feel.
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2020
Misted jade mountains tower above,
surrounding me in a semicircle of tropical beauty.
On a warm white beach of my sandy bed, I found my Tahitian tan,
as the rhythmic waves sang their song, lulling me to sleep.

At night under the khaki green canvas of a rented tent, I hid,
its sides protecting me from dangers in the night;
palm sized spiders, alien insects, and falling coconuts…
I hold out for the safety of day of my cozy soft sand.

Thus, I found myself at a time fate sneered at me;
as I pitched a tent under the coconut palms;
with other travelers I happened upon while adventuring:
ivy league graduates, a burly pipeline worker, and me.

My memories are rich with the smells, sounds, and feel of the Pacific;
vignettes of lush blanketed mountains, wrapped in bright turquoise seas,
and me, barefoot in the surf, eating fresh coconut from a newly cut husks,
enjoying golden days in the sun.
All poems copy written by Vicki Kralapp August/2020
Johnny Noiπ Oct 2018
****. Duke Brady is supported by more local areas; Many adults have power and blood. Children use children, children under insurgents that **** destructive children and children. Children who have boys are children. The light in the sky that night and night awaits the stops of waiting without the desire of finding the city; meetings and conventions, sing only as the Tahitian Goddess who sits by the docks, but the old have grown to all the numbers available as good and good; The effects of many predators are talked about by predictions.

Rapture. By the Duke of Caesar does the large number of places of the palace; Most adults have power and blood. Of the child, the son of perdition, but to those who **** the children, and children of the insurgents to use their children. Boy babies. Without waiting for the light of heaven that night be, Let it expect the city to the councils, and meetings of the tongue and discovering the Arcadians, that alone are produced by the docks, so that they which are of the goddess sits in Tahiti, but it is the child grown, and the good of the numbers to all he is good; The effects of many of the predators predicted are talked about.

Rapture. By the Duke of Caesar does the large number of places of the palace; Most adults have power and blood. Of the child, the son of perdition, but to those who **** the children, and children of the insurgents to use their children. Boy babies. The effects of the many of predators are predictably talked about.

— The End —