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King Panda Jun 2017
I could not accept you—star
incarnate, carved and swollen
in the trunk of a fustic—

*****-yellowed and preened—risen
and alive I strap my
saddle to your back. My heels
dig to the dark side of

a price yet to be paid—an eye
of a coursing, being scrubbed
into the spots of grain—heat
eaten by earth. Star set.
Star rise.
Star be

livid and leaven


whispers the cowboy
sitting in a lawn chair on the
front porch—his hat falling
off from crowning, bald-headed

tilt. space and all its wonders.
There was a mother of goat
She had three kinder
She ordered them in hardness matter
"Don't ever and ever open the door under

Any raison
Even one says she is your mother
Wants to tell or has an order"
They all agreed and she went for work
There was a stranger

Passed by the neighbor
He was the greed bear
He said to himself in whisper
As he heard the kinder playing at higher

Voice reflecting their cheer
,"these must be fat
I will eat and lost my hunger"
He watched the home three days with great hear
He heard the mother telling that order
After the mother went, he went there

He knocked the door
When one answered in clear
He said, "I am your mother
Open the door to have a fare"
The first believe that

The first forgot the order
He opened the door at fast
The bear was so hunger
He took him out and ate at faster
When the mother returned

She found them had decreased
When she was learnt
She cried a lot
On the following day, she ordered

When she went, the greed bear came at fast
The door was knocked
He said, "I am your mother
Open the door to have a fare"

The second believe that
The second forgot the order
He opened the door at fast
The bear was so hunger

He took him out and ate at faster
When the mother returned
She found them had decreased
When she asked

She cried a lot
On the following day, she ordered
When she went the greed bear came at fast
The door was knocked

He said, "I am your mother
Open the door to have a fare"
The third did not believe that
He ordered him to stretch his hand

The bear forget the difference between his hand
And the shape of the goat's hand
The small goat said,"
Wait to get your hand kissed"

He got a rope that was a strong
And tided his with the stable rod
The small kid called all neighbor
While the bear screamed, mercy asked

His mother was attended
The bear was so hurt
The mother stroke his trunk
The swollen kinder were out

They were so sorry
They apologized to their omission
They said," we learnt a lesson
We will not forget forever"
Obey your mother

Obey your father
They knew more, more
They have more experience
And know which intelligence is

And which is carrying the worse
the greed have been great suffer, to fill his hunger and greedy. obeying the parents as the knew more
Cné Jun 2017
The smell of rain precedes the storm
that looms out in the west.
The sound of distant thunder
causes racing in my chest.

The temperature begins to drop
as I begin to flee
Seeking shelter from the storm
beneath a lonely tree.

I cower there, although I know
this haven's a mistake.
I know this is a lightning rod
but that's the chance I take.

The clouds, like battlements,
now, tower overhead
Ominous...majestic...and
they fill my heart with dread.

Drops of rain begin to fall
and plop among the leaves
Followed my the icy hail
that toward my shelter weaves.

A branch has fallen near my crouch
and nearly I am crushed.
My choice to wait beneath the tree
now seems a little rushed.

I stumble out into the storm.  
The rain is driving hard.
Lightning strikes the tree I'd left.  
The trunk is black and charred.

How foolish was my little hike
in spite of warnings thus.
Stay at home when storms approach
or next time...take the bus
Really I was in my car in a terrible storm but it was very scary.
Jesse stillwater Jul 2018
there are the ones
that feel it climb up
the shadow towards the light,
hesitation on every rung,
each wave of the arising
      overwhelms  unabated ―
and woe betides those
who are on the run
from a storm's deluge


A rousing ocean breeze
stirs inside the memory
of an unframed seashell
lying on the hearth mantel;
heightened sensitivity
lapping soundlessly,
spindrift plashing
the shoreline
of another world's
feigned peace


Perhaps the muted voice
of guilty pleasures,
hushed by their own
hidden truths
Feeling the unfelt textures
of every stifled vibration
left unbreathed


The naked truth befallen
so cold and lonely
Running in circles,
volatile as all those
     unspoken excitations raging ―
and the whispers of those
who hear not
the voices in the wind


An emotionally enslaved  heart
tarries,  marooned high and dry
in a memory on a distant sand bar
     lain fallow for so long ―
stagnant darkness
of an unsated soul
gathered on the back
of a parched tongue
sullied wordless


Rising up through
a dusty hieroglyph corridor
through an unlocked
labyrinth gate;  vestige echoes
from somewhere left behind
in an incomprehensible
abandoned wake


It's getting harder and harder
   for an insatiable soul to breathe ...
   climbing up a tree trunk―
up within the silence
of the listening tree


  Toes dug into
the rough bark furrows ―
fingers reaching upwards
beyond their deepest known grasp


A shadow stranded
out on a hangin' bough
hearkening without ears that hear:
“perhaps they’ll listen now“  
the wingless bird sings
in psalms that fly away
on tattered feathers
over untamed waters roil


Back to nature’s waning youth,
the bough bends unbroken
to taste the freedom
of the wild absolving seas



Jesse Stillwater
June     2018
Notes:                                                                                                          
a friend sent  a link to a deeply thought provoking modern classic 70's song about Vincent Van Gogh and the complexities of imperfection some of us relate .... i'd listened to the words prior but never heard before now.

  Title is last final lyric line from:  "Vincent" (Starry, Starry night) 1971
Writer(s): DON MCLEAN, ENRICO NASCIMBENI,
ROBERTO VECCHIONI
Pagan Paul Jun 27
.
Through a forest glade
and down a narrow path
there stands a sacred tree
with its heart torn in half.

Bramble clings to its trunk
ivy covers over its bark,
reaching up for the light
fighting against the dark.

Forgotten by the woods,
ignored in a crowded place,
for it yearns for attention,
just a little tender grace.



© Pagan Paul (27/06/19)
.
Brody Blue Aug 2017
Under the tree of the university
A shadow was gruesomely cast.
The branches made too much shade
And there grew no grass.
No one would lie under its wood
Down beside its trunk;
It wasn't essential, there was no potential,
Claimed the revered monk
But late at night you'll find him lying in the dirt
Wearing a Paisley Poplin Shirt

The click of the gears define his years,
A cycle on a chain
A cloud of sand thrown by his own hand
Hones forth his pain
He blows seeds of dandelion weeds
****** a ****** field
And he pretends that he intends
To reap this horrible yield
Because unintentionally he subconsciously convert
To one who wears a Paisley Poplin Shirt

Covered in rust, a blade he adjusts,
His mind remains unwrung
The words to speak were too **** bleak
So he cuts off his tongue
He'll be finished when he's diminished
These humanly sights
If there's no vision at the end of his mission
He'll gouge out his eyes
And Helen Keller takes one of her old ragged skirts
And fashions him a Paisley Poplin Shirt

Why must we be obsessed
With the unseen
When we know we cannot
Make something out of nothing
And to those of you who think that you cannot be hurt
Stones go thru a Paisley Poplin Shirt
Song Lyrics
I found my soul at 300 baud
in a world the world would one day come to adore
before there were webs
we were the spiders
before there were laws
nothing could be denied to us
we were wardialling before cybercrime
we were a virus before virii became a fake news byline
but if busted I'll deny I ever tried to
break a trunk through MCI jamaica
sat on ******* station for days
raking in creds like a madmuhfuhn rap master
with nothing greater than a pair of headphones
and a cheap cassette tape deck to take me there
kids today dont respect what they play with
back in the day we had to be outlaws
to connect to todays day to day bandwidth
.:MaG:. (Lo0Ns/A((e55)
Kevin J Taylor Sep 2015
This—  This is the closest we have been in forty-seven years. Graveside, I close my eyes. See again, her lips smeared, her head turned, as she had lain unconscious. Whispers of Other Men—   Immoral—   Immoral living—  Declared unfit for motherhood and I am only days from four.  

Before that, in white shift sitting at the foot of her bed and singing quietly to herself. Singing, brushing and lifting her hair. Letting it fall. She is lovely to me. Later that night, weeping, anger, fists and cries.  

At fifty-one I look like him. Fist-Man. Father. He wept in Irish taverns filled with weeping, singing drunks. She had danced the Sunrise on Hastings, whatever that meant.  

She was gone when I was taken. I was gone if she returned.  

A Child Welfare office filled with nervous women, children dressed in Sunday-best and a faint wash of fear—   these memories, all memories, discomfit and jar.  

A metal cup with orange juice. Warm, sweet and slightly bitter. The far end of the room. A bed made in a wooden trunk. Eyes slipping. Box lid closing. Sleep—  

Bewildered, pushing, opened, the room lies stark, white and empty. No mothers. No children. No one waiting here. The lump that rises to my throat is the same one— the same one that rises in spasms from my chest on that dark-boxed, white-roomed and room-filled afternoon.  

In forty-seven years I would stand above her on that overlooking hill. No words to mark her place, a plot numbered between other unmarked and numbered graves. Maybe she was gone again.  

Gone before I could tell her what had happened, that I was sorry, that I would be a good boy, beg her— find me.  

Eyes opened, I have waited long enough. The sun is hot. White lines trail across the sky. Paper from one pocket. Pen from another. I write. Roll tight and push as far in as this ground will allow.  

White paper, ink. Graveside for her. Wayside for me.  
A mark was kept. A mark was left.  

A deep breath in, not held and out.
The Sunrise was a low-end hotel on Hastings Street in Vancouver. The bed-in-a-trunk sequence was as described. The orange juice had a sleeping drug in it and the trunk-bed was used to separate children from parents or guardians without a fuss. '61. Alberta.
.
Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry from common things.)
Frank Russell Mar 2014
Never feel alone, my friend -
dormancy is also transient,
same as your winter depression...

Only yesterday I heard a flock of geese
overhead in the twilight
announce their return
while a heedless scampering squirrel
repeatedly circuited the trunk of an oak.

The Pervasion is always complete;
embrace it in your awareness
as the Sun's virility will soon
embrace the fields and countryside.

Regrouping the sacred elements
through delicate processes,
rugged mating rituals,
and rebirth -

Forming a symmetry
of vital love incarnate
dispelling all loneliness.


-fr
Helena Aug 2018
Crisp leaves fall down her spine
Shedding the youthful look
Of her once
Tangerine-tainted shine

Her body shreds but trunk keeps growing
Her hungry hands, unwilled, unknowing
look for the tang, the sweetness
She once held between her thighs


Amidst the cruel winter
Thoughts invaded her spine
But she grew and grew till she
Outgrew her mind

What a wonderful thing
Time.
ryn Feb 2015
Arms outstretched like the branches of a tree
Aspiring to be amidst with those borne of sky.
Gnarly bark, imploring the eyes of another
Weathered and worn... Skin and grain but parched dry.

Twig-like fingers that would bear no leaves.
With open barren palms that hover in the wind.
Longing and thirsty for the tears of rain
Pining for the heavens to wash away all they have sinned.

Spreading disjointed roots dig in,
In touch with the unseen core buried deep.
A tainted trove of lifelong poisons...
They greedily drink and keep.

Lone little trunk... That shoots up strong from ground.
Sturdy and hale, at least to the naked eye.
When in fact it's core is rotting within,
Eaten away by the worm of a single unassuming lie.

Sad fruitless tree...
Standing amidst the green thriving brush.
It dies with the hours baked in sun...
One day it'll fall, consumed by the secrets trapped in a silent little hush...
Lily Peacock Jun 2017
These eyes of yours,
Coaxing me into warmth.
You gather around me,
Like moss on the bark of an old oak.
Palms pressed against the trunk of me,
You seal the gaps in my fractured heart.
Nesma Aug 2018
Dear me,

I hope this letter finds you kind, I hope it finds you at ease,
I hope it finds you as you were born.. a soft spring breeze.

I am writing this letter to inform you that your time is not up, that you still have space to unfold, that you are a continuum that doesn’t have to settle for the broken uni-verse where you were unraveled.

You, love, are not limited to your synonyms.

You, love, can develop into a hurricane that doesn’t dwell in a farmer’s cabin.
You, love, can develop into a hurricane that travels between the back of your mind and its front.
You, love, can develop into a hurricane with a FedEx envelop for a title.
You, my love, can develop into a hurricane that transports your memories from the backyard of your colon to the backside of this letter.

You, love, can develop into a sandstorm speaking the names of the Saharas to your left and to your right.
You, love can develop into a sandstorm that does not blind the sufi midnight traveler.
You, love, can develop into a sandstorm that travels beyond the desert.
You, my love can develop into a sandstorm carrying a water-well for the thirsty.

You, love, can develop into an ocean that doesn’t stand in arrogance where there is land.
You, love, can develop into an ocean that waxes and wanes to the rhythm of the moonlight caressing you.
You, my love, can develop into an ocean that doesn’t erode the rocks standing on its shore.

You, love, can develop into a soft spring breeze that makes a home of all the other seasons.
You, love, can develop into a soft spring breeze that gently ****** through a baobab tree trunk.
You, love, can develop into a soft spring breeze that playfully tickles the arms of a refugee on her bus to camp.
You, my love can develop into the synonyms you are not limited to.

Kindly find attached to this letter the love your father has tucked in bed a long time ago and never double checked on it.
Kindly find attached to this letter the understanding your mother stored in the kitchen cabinet she is too short to reach.
Kindly find attached to this letter the forgiveness you have tried to grow out of sunflowers seed every winter.

Sincerely,

Yours.
ryn Dec 2018
I await such time,
my toes would dig.
And spear deep into the earth;
take root and keep me planted.

I await such time,
when my trunk -
my core would regain its strength.
So that I wouldn’t sway
too easily in the wind.

I await such time,
my bark would thicken -
like carapace upon the flesh.
So I may be protected
from scathing lashes
of ravenous tongues.

I await such time,
my branches would reach up
with unwavering conviction.
Knowing the clouds in the sky
would be the cushion and salve
to my gnarled digits.

And I await such time,
my leaves would finally sprout
and green.
Then they could rustle
and whisper the tales and hopes
of my past, present and future.
patty m Nov 2017
Today the sparrow chirps inside my head.  Tiny wings flitter nervously from the hedge darting out for bread newly spread upon the lawn.

I  throw it everyday but still they're nervous and I can't blame them as my own heart beats rapidly in sorrow.

a friendship broken
and still my heart cries in pain
fluttering wingless

Could it be these tiny birds are totem of the sad,
then perhaps butterflies represent new life and hope?  

sage little sparrows
tiny heads peeking through hedge
watching for the hawk

The rabbits are nibbling late summer grass.  Their tiny noses and ears twitch.  Some will fall while others flourish, the world isn't always kind . Gentle furry friend your baby is bigger now and no longer stays close to the hedge but cavorts upon the lawn as all children do; Still she's not quite as knowledgeable as you,  my friend with fur so soft and gentle eyes.  Yet you will both survive this city living, hopping through the spray of sprinklers on lawns, digging holes ever watchful.  Perhaps we all learn to adapt even soft furry creatures.

Today a bunny
burrows protecting new life
small carrots my gift

Last night the leopard roamed through my dreams.  I felt the thrill of the hunt, teeth sinking into flesh and I'm not repelled. This is life and the leopard too must eat and yet she only kills to feed her hunger, she's not vindictive and for some reason she grounds me.  To survive one must be strong.  In light of moon she urges me on stilling frantic thoughts and giving me purpose.

essense of fleetness
necessity is living
surviving through pain

As a child I remember the zoo rides on the elephant. What a gorgeous creature she was. A special saddle was set atop her back and little children were placed in a row to ride upon this gentle giant.  I loved to feel her rough hide, and the touch of her inquisitive trunk. Yet even as I felt dwarfed in her presence I saw something so powerfully wondrous in her eyes, a strength of character and wisdom as if life had taught her so much and she wanted someone to understand.  
When I rode atop her I felt light as if I had wings, there was no mistrust or any frightening vibes, just a glorious feeling akin to euphoria.  Once she was sad and I saw tears in her eyes.  I didn't ride her that day just being near her was enough.

mountain of wisdom
the earth quakes beneath your feet
and yet you shed tears
OC Jul 2018
Soon I will forget
and soon after
I will forget even remembering
For the world is several
times my size
imprinting its pieces in me
as fading images
The raindrops that pool to a puddle
forget how they once were an ocean
and the tree trunk loses sight of
its humble stem origin
Just like those
I’ll forget in a while
what was once
where I head
who am I
piece by piece
past and future break from the
now
oblivious
knowing nothing but grief
and not knowing
for what
Sorry for the lame translation. Proper English just could not capture what I was aiming for.
Stephen E Yocum Sep 2013
There are times in life
when a man needs change,
And I don't mean,
dimes and quarters.

Remember when you
were just sixteen,
Driving all alone, solo,
in your old man's Buick?
All the windows down,
radio music blaring,
Your bare arm draped
out over the side of the door.
to better exhibit your bicep.

Hell mister, no doubt,
you were ten feet tall,
the king of the road.
Ever wish you had,
that feeling back again?

Cars were always my thing.
I owned some Detroit
Muscle, Full blown Chevy,
Firebird 400, Chrysler Hemi.
Smoked some tires and
went to Court a time or two.
Of course all that was long
ago in my fitter youth.

When I became a Yuppie
I acquired a Poodle Puppy,
a Porsche and a MGB.

But the ***** does turn.
and so then, did I,
And my road got,
a little bumpy.

Along came marriage,
then a baby carriage.
And a big house
In the Burbs.

Then came a progression
Of Volvo Station Wagons,
to Soccer Dad Mini Vans,
to large SUV's.
All for hauling,
any number of things.
Kids and dogs, strollers,
bikes, kites and scooters,
Fellow car poolers,

And less we forget,
"Pulling" things too.
Boats, RV's, Utility trailers,
and all nature of landscape,
gardening, and general
shopping paraphernalia.
Little League Teams,
Drooling big dogs,
Papier Mache Volcanos.
Home Coming Floats,
Once even a Goat
You name it, I hauled it,
Or pulled it!

Years rolled by,
eventually the Kids
flew the nest, got married.
And low and behold,
The wife and I split,
Each going our separate way.
No one's fault, just grew apart.
The thinly veiled allegorical
Previous Patriarchal
arrangement became,
A whole new start,
A workable self allegiance
to just one.

Soon once more, I was the MAN.
I ran out, bought a **** boat
But not having the kids around,
Soon sold it, having found out,
that alone, I was not a water sport.

I caroused around, dated women,
got my pockets picked,
learned a few lessons.
Fell in love, fell out again,
Took a few pretty good blows,
Right on the chin,
Even some down lower.

Round about then,
An Epiphany kicked in.
Remembered my most,
ennobling, happy events,
behind the wheel,
driving Dad's Buick.

As I stepped on the lot.
There was never doubt,
There was only one choice,
I just had to have that,
Little VW Bug Red Racer.

Nothing like your Mother's
Beetle, the engine's up front,
Not stuck in the trunk,
And man it produces over,
200 Big Time Horsepower
Not to mention,
Lays rubber in three,
Of six gears.
Getting all the while,
33 miles per gallon.

Receiving additional help,
from a sweet Turbo Booster,
Just like a big, Indy Track Bruiser.

There's 19 inch racing
tires and alloy wheels,
They look so cool,
Spinning in motion.

Dual stainless steel exhausts,
And best of all,
a cool collapsible,
Convertible top.

Rack and Pinion steering,
Handles like a sports car,
Yet still offers a backseat
To take my Grandkids,
out for a spin.

Dude, it's got,
All the bows
and whistles!

Top Down Driving is such a thrill,
Makes me feel sixteen again.
The open road, the sky above,
The wind blowing thru my hair,
what there is of it.

Perhaps the only thing that
Could possibly make this
Driving experience greater,
Would be to speed down,
The road, going eighty,
Behind the wheel of my
Little Red Racer,
Completely **** naked,
And of course all the while,
Feel the wind in my hair.

I don't know, I'm too old,
To call this a mid life crisis.
But on the other hand,
Maybe the acquiring of
This little red sporty car,
Has something to do with,
Those Testosterone shots I'm taking.
I'm even thinking, of dying my hair,
naw, lets not get crazy!
All birds fly towards the north
When the weather goes to be hot
And fly towards the south
When the cold spreads the wings
And destroys all nests

Except my birds
They fly towards your heart
Asking, screaming and shouting
You are the worst spy
When they meet your birds
They sing a deathless song
Making every poor land converted to be kind
And the loosing mind returning his mind
The old trunk gets strong
Branches covering with colored and smart
Roses

The bees put their honey
Making me taste it as your honey
Love, that makes me in happy
All the world gets funny
And the birds dance with harmony
The fishes swim in circles
Making the water spreads atoms
All over the world, that makes the flies tends
Once the left and the right at once

The important my birds get wide
Not distance, but from my sight
And I will whisper at your beauty ear
I hate my birds as they go to yours
That is obvious for all viewers
But I wish to be with them by yours
the love changes every look and make one forgives all worst from his love. if the love governs the world the beauty will spread
Yenson Aug 2018
So it came to pass at last and sad to know a Timber has fallen
It stood in strength tall and strong for over seven decades
Resplendently toned it spread an uncompromising foliage
Masterly in domain magical in reach attaining untold grades
Humble in origins yet grew with endeavour and knowledge
Distinguishably it cut sway in tundra and in lush green glades

Son of sons of the Land held roots countenancing no crawling
It reached for the stars and danced reasons with every shades
Ran with the sun and sat with owls and vipers for tutelage
Sweeping the very highs and the lows in communal trades
In the jungle of sharks and vipers it be known who's in Charge
A Timber has fallen while the rains falls and blue clouds fades

There's now a mighty hole in the earth and rivers are swollen
Leaves scatter and branches beckon hundreds of onward bridges
Leaving best Princess, flowers and saplings for love and largesse
A notable trunk laid supine free to roam without worldly cages
Odes will enter dancing in guises and tears flow without finesse
A Timber has fallen and dirges will ring out for a man of all ages

Yemessia bows and says Adieu My Senior, we will meet again.....


[email protected]
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