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julian Sep 2010
that seven days-
i still think about the idea of someone sleeping outside in the cold-
i get very nervous and sad-
when it's cold and i am smoking in front of my home-
then again i kinda smirk and smile-
i know it could happen again-
me outside after the library closes-
sitting and waiting-
wishing and hoping-
i never thought that day would come-
shopping at the dollar store-
thinking i can make it-
all i need is something-
if it rains-
if it rains-
if it rains-
well it did and it got dark-
so i chickened out of the outdoors-
i went in search of warmth-
i found the only fresh grass in the whole parking lot-
darkness is different in the forest-
darkness is different in the city-
the first of my reflections of being homeless...
tangshunzi Jun 2014
<p><p> Io non so voi .ma il mio calendario è pieno zeppo di occasioni speciali di questa primavera - bambino docce .lauree .matrimoni - è il nome .** intenzione di esso !Mi piace aiutare gli amici impostare i loro eventi .così ** sempre prendere nota di eventuali tutorial per composizioni floreali .Questo fresco .succulento centrotavola fai da te da Bare Root Flora \u0026 Laura Murray fotografia è esattamente quello che sto cercando !Non perdere nessuna delle graziosa nella galleria .<p> Condividi questa splendida galleria Da Robyn : Primavera offre una tale generosità incredibile di bellissimi fiori che non abbiamo potuto resistere alla possibilità di riunire alcuni dei nostri preferiti per creare un lussureggiante primavera centrotavola perfetto per i tanti incontri che accadonoin questo periodo dell'anno : docce .feste di laurea .festa <b>abiti da sposa 2014</b>  della mamma e altre occasioni speciali !<p>è? nostro preferito opacoènave ?pezzo di filo di pollo abbastanza grande da creare una forma abbastanza stretta nel vostro contenitoreè? nostra di cinque tipi di vostri fiori preferiti .Provate a variare la forma un po 'così che alcuni sono morbidi e soffici.alcuni hanno una linea più lunga .alcuni sono più grandi .alcuni sono più piccoli .alcuni sono viney in natura.Variety rende la disposizione bellissimo !Abbiamo usato peonie.lillà .rose spray.tulipani .clematis e rami apple blossom .è? Ne o due tipi di fogliame.Sentitevi liberi di foraggiare dal vostro giardino di fiori e foglie !Abbiamo usato Dusty Miller e geranio profumato .è?coltello floreale o alcuni tagliatori -no forbici!Forbici danno gambo di un fiore .che vieta da bere correttamente .<p><p> Il primo passo per qualsiasi composizione floreale stupendo è quello di preparare i vostri fiori !Assicuratevi di pulire fuori qualsiasi fogliame che cadrà al di sotto della linea di galleggiamento .Foglie in acqua incoraggeranno la crescita di batteri .che accorciare la vita del vostro arrangiamento .<p> successivo .preparare il contenitore .Piegate il filo di pollo per adattarsi perfettamente all'interno del contenitore .Il filo di pollo agisce come una griglia per tenere i vostri fiori dove vuoi .dando il vostro disegno la forma desiderata .<p> Iniziare con la raccolta e l'immissione alcuni dei vostri grandi .soffici fiori in un gruppo qui .peonie e rose a spruzzo.Dà la disposizione  <a href="http://www.belloabito.com/abiti-da-sposa-2014-c-13"><b>abiti da sposa 2014</b></a>  un bel punto focale .Successivamente.aggiungere in alcuni dei vostri fiori lungo linea ( nel nostro pezzo abbiamo usato il lillà e tulipani ) .Utilizzare i fiori lungo linea per creare una forma giardino - esque selvaggio .Il movimento è fondamentale .lasciate i fiori raggiungere e picchiata !Darà il suo  <a href="http://www.belloabito.com/abiti-da-sposa-corti-c-49"><b>abiti da sposa corti</b></a>  pezzo così tanto la vita !<p> Trasforma il tuo imbarcazione in cerchio lenti come si progetta .continuando ad effettuare i tuoi più grandi.soffici fiori un po 'più basso .con i vostri fiori linea leggermente più alto .Inizia a riempire con le tue chiome .<p> Abbiamo terminato il nostro accordo con rami di mele e clematidi .La clematide viney è il tocco finale perfetto .Abbiamo lasciato la nostra sbirciare sopra le nostre altri fiori per dare al pezzo un aspetto molto selvaggio .Fotografia <p> : Laura  <p><a href="http://www.belloabito.com/goods.php?id=674" target="blank"><img width="240" height="320" src="http://188.138.88.219/imagesld/td//t35/productthumb/1/4609935353535395473.jpg"></a></p>  Murray Fotografia | Fiori: radice nuda FloraBare Root Flora è un membro del nostro Little Black Book .Scopri come i membri sono scelti visitando la nostra pagina delle FAQ .Bare Root Flora VIEW</p>
DIY Lush Primavera Centrotavola_vestiti da sposa
LA Hall Nov 2013
America on a map!
Imagine the northeast corner.
I am in Vermont riding the Amtrak southbound. It's raining.
The clattering of wheels tearing through rusty iron tracks.
Forehead against the cold window's glass,
I hear a steam whistle.
I look out the window: grey, drizzling.
We roll,
past the barbed-wire fences that crown the prison fence,
past great, soggy fields littered with old tractors, and misty mountains far behind,
past brown silos that rise up, thick and crowned with silver heads,
past a deer leaping through a rainy field,
past a propane company--five great, white propane tanks,
past a marsh, harpooned by a telephone pole--a sparrow jumps off the wire,
a cemetery on a green hill,
little brick towns,
the Interstate--rainbow colored tipi in a field behind,
past a great, charcoal cliff, hard with sharp creases like a crumpled piece of black construction
        paper buried,
past a Sunoco station--green dumpster in the parking lot,
into a thick wood--past the cold rocks,
past brown leaves poking through the dusting on forest floor,
past all the pines, which have dandruff,
past twiggy sapling branches, only leaves withered and curled like dried jalapenos,
over a bridge--the great, cold river, wide and glassy--islands of ice and snow--the riverbank dirt is
        hard.
The bell dings thrice.
The train begins to slow.
It stops, jerks me back in my seat.
The steam whistle blows.
I look out the window.

Concrete platform, dark red station & roof,
a crowd of boys and girls, standing with perfect posture in sharp blue uniforms, hats adorned with
        golden crests,
they march on the train
and fill up the seats
of The Great Metal Snake: hollow and in it people sit,
The Great Metal Snake: slithering down the state,
It will leave me in a small city soon,
at an overcast station,
and slither down to D.C.,
and slither back, with the oily clatter of spinning iron wheels . . .
We took the snakes,
out of of our nightmares,
slimy green sliding through cupped hands to jump and bite your cheek, hanging like a lanyard,
or sliding through the sweat of jungle-floors waiting to bite ankles,
or coiled in redbarns, on piles of hay with spiders dropping down cold open windows in front of
        full moon,
full moon: silver train wheel.
I hear the steam whistle.

We took the snakes,
out of our nightmares,
dissected them with scalpals,
nodded and walked to the drawing board then built.
Decades later, the unveiling:
The platform crowd leans over the tracks and looks,
the bell dings thrice,
the steam whistle hisses,
the engine is coughing,
wheels are chugging--
around the corner He came,
with great, clear eyes like glasses:
black, iron Anaconda of Industry.
His brothers are barreling
From New York to Sacramento,
Siberia to Stalingrad,
Italy to France,
under the English channel,
down Africa.
From Burlington to Brattleboro--
barreling down the state--
I am riding His brother home.
JoJo Nguyen Feb 2013
How could it be
that it's just me
wondering when we
will laugh again with glee.

What scared ghost do we flee
into Summer's buzzing bee
passed a late Falling tree?

I grant that he
has a good degree
and a family pedigree,
but aren't we all free?

I feel tainted with frosty
touches of Northern fee,
invoices billed from a Cree
living in tent or tipi
while burning my effigy.

Down on one knee
at a Maypole jubilee,
drunk and happy,
tragically at the end greedily
eating too much Sandra Lee,
that's me!

Half squinting a dopie
smile and slanting queer
boats with rhyming keel,
I barter with a misty sea,
wanting badly to ***,
but instead shade my eyes to see.

Discarded to dry.
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
If Rihanna and Bob Marley had a baby,
it would be her. She was as fierce as peace can be.
Born in the suburbs, I had never seen
coffee-colored rastas with caramel tips,
pulled back from a shaven head
into a ponytail.
She skated in an oversized hoodie
across San Marcos square — a watering hole for
porteños playing hippie.
Mad man strummed ukuleles wildly;
couples dancing interpretively; jugglers rode on unicycles,
as if they were all training for a jester convention.
Still, I couldn’t tear my eyes from her
broken strands tied in knots swinging freely.

Her sea-foam stare met my blue gaze.
I looked like a dork; my hair plastered
and sweaty. I wore a black tank top,
waiting for another bus to another city.

She dismissed her band of perros
and grasped my hand, asking me
if I wanted to sleep by the river with her.
It was late so I said yes.
We walked from the yellow lights
of the town square.
She grimaced.

No more bones for starving dogs.

I wasn’t starving, just lost,
a traveler,
dried from a bucketful of adventures,
I dreaded repeating as empty stories
over
and
over
and
over.


O Celia,
you were a coyote wearing a hoodie;
no one could tame you, refracted by the white
light of the moon that embraced each
of your steps by the shrubbery-ridden riverside.
I stumbled as we approached
an embankment sheltered by magic trees,
the glistening water chilled waves to perked ears;
reflections of villagers, we pitched tents together,
tipi-ed by the ritual
of finding niche in transition.
You built the fire; I prepared the mate;
your weary locks whispered callejero wisdom.
Your stories were everything I wanted to say,
but too timid to be.

You were dancing in my basement,
bathing in moonlight *******,
unashamed to say how good the water felt.
You probably lost your virginity in your tent;
shadows of leaves shaking a disturbed night,
unlike I, crying, semi-drunk, wishing I hadn’t.

You actually played the guitar;
you bought it yourself;
it was tied to the skateboard
you drug behind on open roads.
I got a guitar for my birthday after
watching Lindsay Lohan be a rockstar in a movie once.
I was inspired to play for a while.
Then it just sat in my room.

So you taught me your favorite song, Legalizenla
We didn’t even have a porro — you wished we did.
But all I wanted was to memorize those chords
So you listened to me play them out of tune for hours,
pressing my fingers on the fretboard like butter.
Strums shuddered my soul.
You wrote the lyrics in my journal
with the note, con mucho amor.

Now, each time I dust off my guitar,
I warm up with that song  
to remember your vibrations.
Honest opinions here? What do ya'll think?
DJ Goodwin Jun 2012
While the world is trying to reach us
We abandon shallow spectres of time
And scratch each other’s itches
Salaciously.

We sink into these magic hours,
****** under coverlets of dreams.
While outside thunders leaden showers,
No water leaks in through the seams

Surrounded like a snake
By suffocators of reality
We shed each other’s skins
Coiled in twists of content.

Angels dance from her fingertips,
Twirling in nascent currents.

The world outside is dissolute
It wails and spatters.
It sneers in through silver panes
It wants none of what we have, the miscreant;
It wants only to breathe its grimy breath.

But we are resolute.
In fact we are ebullient.
The haze of incense, the heat of bodies,
Our world is infinitesimal.

We cavort under our big top; our tipi;
Our tableclothed Elysium.
We dance through each other’s minds
Twirling golden ribbons
Behind us like shooting stars.

We soar through subconscious clouds
And smile at forbidden sunlight
Splashed across our faces.

And we sink back slowly
Listening to the fading showers
We sink back slowly
Into these magic hours.
copyright 2012, David J. Goodwin
Jun 16, 2012
Anthony Williams Aug 2014
Soon the northern sun has a corona
nations bound to its regal attitude tide
high sea son's tossed
a half crown head turning golden summer
seas on ends
to land shiny tails down south
as if every sea's on wings
away to seek or sink an immortal sun
I stand on
the divide
feeling the hesitation

two day's
the moon's
seas wax fuller
bridges
spangling love waves
from a salt shaker
on a pearl within
your aphrodisiac
world is my oyster

hinge wriggled open
to be held at bays
sliding into the mouth
of nature's hunger
for where a tan fades
into season spicy
summer's parting harvest
of farewells

surface mining to be done
by stripping vegetation
down to bare branched amber
ore deposit shafts
of light marking
the sun dial's changed number
with your toppled hourglass figure
a vase
pressed with dahlia
and salvia flower
upset without the friction
of pepper heat
milled into smooth skinny
latte malt
drunk on moisture
laden skies

layered over swaying
thought bubble dreams
of cloudy evenings
freckled rain
and streaming grain
fleeing the field seemingly overnight
as fleeting as goals
scored between our legs
running off home
hands full with harvest in
cartwheeling arcs
stored with the last gasp
solar flared nostrils
wild as meadow ripened
yearlings

in the joy of escape
we join their bare backed
flight circuiting dizzy
shamanic heights only to fall
back to earth like Pegasus
shaking off Bellerophon
striking a mount Helicon
with hooves whose marks
cause springs to channel
fountains of inspiration
after defeating a Chimera
with great spirited whinnying
breathing out tipi fire vents
gone sweat lodge native
skins lashed outside
keep the glow snug inside

rustling about the bite
incoming winds of change
fright the landscape
flocking to shower
in fresh cooler air
lifting us like birds to shadow
the moves to renewed
lighter climes leaving
soaked sticks
dripping acorn colour
scattering an autumnal quilt
around tired bed fellows
an interlocked cycle pattern
for coming riders on the storm
to be in memory trunks
splashed with mist
pooled effort

released to dry and recover
side-by-side
once the wardrobe fills wooly
headed
for warming coats of evening
russet
we settle tone down on a chill out
wish
list ridden dotty by a love chauffeur
cycle
ticked off sun set to be sent
to bed early
just when ours clock on two
four
season
happy hour
by Anthony Williams
Meghan C Aug 2014
(i’ve a habit
of hiding
inside parentheses.)

it’s two o’clock in the morning
and all i can think about
is the way
your eyelashes
fluttered
after you winked at me.

photographs feed my urgency
as i drown myself
in thrashing, foamy
rivers that
glisten with memories.
we held hands
with linked fingers.
(we both acknowledged it.
i
wasn’t joking.)

with broken hearts, we were
magnetized. only
brute force
and the physical presence
of sixteen pairs of eyes
pulled us apart.

a logical explanation
was given
for the tipi. you must know
by now
that i take rationale
at face value.

if you’re a book, you’re
wide open
but your pages are written
in invisible ink.

i need to know
what you
know.

(as of now, the
you&me;
i dream of
exists only
in hypotheticals.)
Alan S Bailey Dec 2014
Quietly softly ferns fields, wheat cool smooth crisp clear skies and Sun, delicious meal. Gentle light soothing ray wondrous' Universe Of coming day. Smooth sunshine pushing fern And pine sweet smell of hickory today. Fresh water uplifts Spirit Antlers preened tended to flock birds and Water crest. Valley field stream droplets of pure gold light and flown. Disappearing Into the thick brush Eagles Spirit is shown. Tipi cools offers new light to upcoming Fire to stay warm and keep it going, under Pure leaf of almond colour hides a gold Feather sweeping winds blown crushing it To the forest ground and letting in the  Light...
Jude kyrie Sep 2016
Many long winters have passed
since I was a young brave.
My skills are now faded
with the light of my eyes.
In the great domain
of the Algonquin Tribes.
I hunted with my father
a wise and kind chief.
He taught me the love
of all the ways of the Great Spirit.
Who provides all we will ever need
to sustain our people.
The great buffalo
in their numbers too large to count
Would feed our people
until the end of all moon and stars.

Our ways were a gift of life
the ways of our lineage from start of days.
The newcomers took our land and our talk
The buffalo was wiped from the land
by their sticks of fire.
Their bodies left to rot in the sun.
What was the gift of Manitou they stole away.
The water in our rivers
is as poison from their waste.
The fish are sick and
cannot be eaten by our people.
What was our pride, they scorned.
Our children they took
to teach them new ways
Our blood they spilt
into the soil of our heritage.
Now we are imprisoned
on the land of our freedom.
I stay in my tipi old and frail
my face lined with many years.
I dream of a clear sky
an eagle flying to the mountain.
The herds of buffalo
thundering again on the plains.
To sit around the fire with the pipe again
telling the deeds of our forefathers.
No peace will ever rest my mind
Sometimes we forget what we have done.
jude
Jude kyrie Sep 2015
Native Lament
A Story of Innocence Lost
By
Jude Kyrie*

Many long winters have passed
since I was a young brave.
My skills are now faded
with the light of my eyes.
In the great domain
of the Algonquin Tribes.
I hunted with my father
a wise and kind chief.
He taught me the love
of all the ways of the Great Spirit.
Who provides all we will ever need
to sustain our people.
The great buffalo
in their numbers too large to count
Would feed our people
until the end of all moon and stars.
Our ways were a gift of life
the ways of our lineage from start of days.
The newcomers took our land and our talk
The buffalo was wiped from the land
by their sticks of fire.
Their bodies left to rot in the sun.
What was the gift of Manitou they stole away.
The water in our rivers
are as poison from their waste.
The fish are sick and
cannot be eaten by our people.
What was our pride, they scorned.
Our children they took
to teach them new ways
Our blood they spilt
into the soil of our heritage.
Now we are imprisoned
on the land of our freedom.
I stay in my tipi old and frail
my face lined with many winters.
I dream of a clear sky
an eagle flying to the mountain.
The herds of buffalo
thundering again on the plains.
To sit around the fire with the pipe again
telling the deeds of our forefathers.
No peace will ever rest my mind again.
rocky makesroom May 2018
I REMEMBER LOOKING FOR MY PARENTS BEFORE I WAS BORN... MY MOM AND DAD.
BEFORE I WAS BORN INTO THE WORLD OF MAN, FLOWERS, LITTLE PEOPLE LIVING ALONG CREEKS AND MAGIC...IN GOODNESS AND BAD...THE FLAWS OF HUMANNESS.
THE ABSOLUTE ANSWERS OF LIFE SELF HEALING FROM VARIABLES OF KINDNESS, SONGS, AND FEASTS OF PURE WATER… SYMBOLS GROWN IN, ON, AND THROUGHOUT MOTHER EARTHS FLESH. BEFORE I WAS BORN I WAS IN THE STARS, I WAS IN MY OWN HEAVEN.
I WOULD DANCE IN THE SKY AND SING AS LOUD AS I COULD…
IN THE FOREVER OF INFINITY’S OF STARS AND DARKNESS OF TRAILS AND PATHS.
THE GOURDS I DANCED WITH SPARKED OF COLORS AND GLITTERS LIKE SUNLIGHTS TRAPPED IN MELTING ICICLES IN APRIL SHOWERS.
STARS SHIFTING THROUGH THE UNIVERSE LIKE DRIED PLUM PITS FALLING SCATTERING IN A LONG WINTER NIGHTS GAME… LIKE BROKEN HULLS FROM WILD RICE SHIFTING WINNOWING CARRYING AWAY IN FALL BREEZES…
STAR CONSTELLATIONS, MIRRORS REFLECTING DIRECTIONS...TRAILS FOR WINDS TO FOLLOW...PROMISES OF OUR DAILY LIVES TOLD IN THE SUN'S JOURNEY.
STARS WOVEN WITHIN WEBS OF WATER DROPS LIKE ON A DREAM CATCHERS DELIGHT...LIKE SPIDERS ART WOVEN WITH DYED PORCUPINE QUILLS TIED DOWN SEWN WITH LOVE AND COMPASSION ON SOFT RABBIT SKINS.
MEDICINE SCATTERED ACROSS THE SKY..ACROSS THE FACE OF MOTHER EARTH, UNDERWATER, ON PRAIRIES, IN HOT DESERT SANDS, IN WOODS IN FAR FAR AWAY LANDS.. IN BIRCH BARK PATTERNS AND NEWBORN FINGERTIPS.
WITHIN RED SKY NIGHTS AND SHOOTING STARS I SEARCHED FOR PORTALS..
PORTALS LIKE TUNNELS THROUGH TIME..PORTALS OF CAREFULLY PLACED TWISTED TIPI POLES..PORTALS OPEN THROUGH BOWLS OF PEACE PIPES CARRIED WITH LOVE LIKE A CHILD WRAPPED IN SACRED BUNDLES...PORTALS OF PRAYER...PORTALS TO CONNECT TO CREATIONS CREATOR AND EVERYTHING THAT MIRRORS CONSTELLATIONS...PORTALS FROM THE DUST OF CORN POLLEN..PORTALS OF  WALLEYE OFFERINGS FROM DEEP LAKES WITH DEEP MONSTERS...PORTALS OF SALTY TEARS AND THE UPRISING SMOKE OF LITED SAGE AND SWEETGRASS...PORTALS IN THE SOUND OF YOUR ZIPPERS GOIN DOWN ON THOSE BADASS BOOTS...PORTALS OF HOW YOU LICK THOSE GLOSSY Pink LIPS.. AND ALL THOSE BUTTERFLIES THAT FLY WHEN YOU BLINK YOUR EYES.. PORTALS OF CRIES FROM HOMELESSNESS, ADDICTIONS, OVERDOSES..PORTALS OF FISTS AND SCRATCHES, PORTALS OF TWISTED ZIGZAG PAPERS, ORIGAMI MAGIC, SMOKE RINGS THAT FORM INTO HEARTS AND ARROWS...PORTALS FROM DESPERATE BOOTS OF SYRINGE NEEDLES...PORTALS OF BROKEN BOTTLES AND SHOTGUN TWISTED BEER CANS…
LINES OF RAILS OF CRUSHED POWDERY CRAZINESS...PORTALS OF SYNTHETIC **** AND SYNTHETIC HOPES AND SYNTHETIC REALITIES.. THEY BITE AND STING LIKE PORTALS OF SHARP BLADES...CUTTING THROUGH YOUR OH SO BEAUTIFUL SKIN...PORTALS OF YOUR OFFERING OF PAIN CUZ ITS THE ONLY THING THAT’S REALLY OURS TO OWN AND OFFER...WHIRLWINDS OF VORTEX MADNESS...PORTALS LIKE THE ONE ALICE FELL INTO… IN HER WONDERFUL BUT VERY SCARY WONDERLAND...PORTALS LIKE THE ONE WE MAY OR MAY NOT EVER FALL INTO...WAY DEEP INSIDE OURSELVES.
1.
Spirits trample the rain-starved
Plains like herds of fattened buffalo.

Cloaked in tawny hides, they pound
the earth: invincible grass dancers.

From the ground spring their harvests
of sickness and health, good and evil.

A shaman ignites his sage bundle,
tosses pebbles on the tipi floor.

He stumbles backward, eyes turned
inward, arms outstretched to receive

the medicine's blessing. He soars in vapor
trails of hawks, surpassing the smoke,

the sky, the spirits' singing to the drum,
the cosmos' luminous fringe.

Eyes on fire like liquid lightning,
he peers into the future, the past,

liberates forces of healing, gathers up
baskets of goodness, effusive with wonder.

2.
Above the dusty brown hills, the turquoise
sky casts shadows on ancestral shores.

All must cross the waters, awaken from
their trances, devour supernatural dreams.

The shaman cries out in ancient rapture,
his flesh on tenterhooks, shredding into leaves

of supplication, tears of blood and water.
Horses snort in the distance. Raptors

circle overhead. The shaman grapples
with the spirits, ***** power from their

dances, grinds grasses' green seedlings,
the growing treasure of the earth.

He calls down hawks of heaven, builds
a bed of red feathers. Smoke wavers

through the night sky, orange as a harvest moon.
In the deep sleep of bears, the dying rise up.
Feathers and warpaint are symbolic disguises for the enemy ...

Looking forward and inward, Crazy Horse was consumed by his vision as he rode into the ancestral camp of the unmarked trail. It was here that he listened for the older voices who kept council with the past.

There was no shield to protect from arrows fired from within. When shot from the heart of ancient wanderings and hitting their target, life turned into death and then life again.

The symbols of the warrior... the arrow, bow, and horse, were painted on tipi’s proud and were there to guide your spirit on its path to who you would become. The images depicted a true warrior’s journey — war being a portal —catalyzing with its deliverance the freedom of your spirit.

Death burns celebration as its kindling, renewing everything within the finality of its embers, taking you back to the beginning of all things possible, where …

The rules
   the reasons
   the ridicule
           and the redemption

all fade in your memory, while you become more of what you always were — and less of what the timid crave.  

Unveiling your spirit
   rejoining your fathers

as your feathered bonnet and warpaint lie burning in the flames of a distant council fire.



Kurt Philip Behm: July, 2024  
(From Searching For Crazy Horse)

— The End —