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Hal Loyd Denton Apr 2012
Even to think about such sharp devils stabs your mind somewhat they are plants defense system on the
“Great Saguaro cactus they have been shown to record changes in local rainfall and can be used to

Reconstruct climate and plant ecophsiology over the plant’s lifetime Acanthochronology thorns grow in
Timed sequence” and so doe’s human character beat back held in check this is refining at its tortuous

Best a couple of quotes if you want to be refreshed look up this great man’s quotes here are a couple
All the resources we need are in the mind. Americans learn only from catastrophe and not from experience.

– Theodore Roosevelt a fertile mind aerated by coarseness is the procurement for a fine point
Put to your life the most worthless arrogant person is one who has never struggled for the prize
That is a life lived well no matter what the circumstances they face to bow is not to suffer

Indignity but you present yourself as selfless and deserve the crown of nobility that person
Will have once worn clothes that were torn and tattered by thorns otherwise it is like uncultivated

Land its wildness pleases and feeds the eye it can roll out grand vistas spill and dip hills of
Splendor but nothing to appease physical hunger the warrior must willingly sacrifice his blood

Not a pin ***** but all that it takes to route evil and restore peace that the weak share with the
Strong the United States used these necessary building blocks where nations insert the rich and

Powerful they build with rot that will be their undoing the great story Two Years before the Mast  
tells of Richard Henry Dana JR while an undergraduate at Harvard College he had an attack of

Measles which created problems with his vision he took the action of enlisting as a common
****** feeling it could help his vision he shipped out on the brig pilgrim for a trip around the

Horn to California the initial thorn of measles started a chain of events yes the man already had
Potential but without the thorn he wouldn’t have ending up writing an American sea classic

And also from his experience with the plight of the sailors it instilled in him a deep sympathy for
The lower classes he became a prominent anti slavery activist not to many thorns that big and

He helped found the free soil party and he is credited with giving America one of its greatest
Historical record of early California he has a city named after him Dana Point and several  

Southern California schools are named for him he was on the fast track to becoming a lawyer
Then through encountering the thorns he found out life’s secret the way to unexpected

Achievement is along a path that at first only seems to hold dread but to persevere in hardship
Will lead to commanding heights not of pride and presumptuous arrogance but real humility

That is the fruited fields spoken of in America the beautiful you only rise through your
Willingness to accept abasement it is said God will resist the proud but give grace to the humble

So next time you’re faced with thorns see them as sentinels that bar the insincere but to the
faithful They show a sure path to rich fulfillment
Hal Loyd Denton Apr 2013
Thorns


Even to think about such sharp devils stabs your mind somewhat they are plants defense system on the
“Great Saguaro cactus they have been shown to record changes in local rainfall and can be used to

Reconstruct climate and plant ecophsiology over the plant’s lifetime Acanthochronology thorns grow in
Timed sequence” and so doe’s human character beat back held in check this is refining at its tortuous

Best a couple of quotes if you want to be refreshed look up this great man’s quotes here are a couple
All the resources we need are in the mind. Americans learn only from catastrophe and not from experience.

– Theodore Roosevelt a fertile mind aerated by coarseness is the procurement for a fine point
Put to your life the most worthless arrogant person is one who has never struggled for the prize
That is a life lived well no matter what the circumstances they face to bow is not to suffer

Indignity but you present yourself as selfless and deserve the crown of nobility that person
Will have once worn clothes that were torn and tattered by thorns otherwise it is like uncultivated

Land its wildness pleases and feeds the eye it can roll out grand vistas spill and dip hills of
Splendor but nothing to appease physical hunger the warrior must willingly sacrifice his blood

Not a pin ***** but all that it takes to route evil and restore peace that the weak share with the
Strong the United States used these necessary building blocks where nations insert the rich and

Powerful they build with rot that will be their undoing the great story Two Years before the Mast  
tells of Richard Henry Dana JR while an undergraduate at Harvard College he had an attack of

Measles which created problems with his vision he took the action of enlisting as a common
****** feeling it could help his vision he shipped out on the brig pilgrim for a trip around the

Horn to California the initial thorn of measles started a chain of events yes the man already had
Potential but without the thorn he wouldn’t have ending up writing an American sea classic

And also from his experience with the plight of the sailors it instilled in him a deep sympathy for
The lower classes he became a prominent anti slavery activist not to many thorns that big and

He helped found the free soil party and he is credited with giving America one of its greatest
Historical record of early California he has a city named after him Dana Point and several  

Southern California schools are named for him he was on the fast track to becoming a lawyer
Then through encountering the thorns he found out life’s secret the way to unexpected

Achievement is along a path that at first only seems to hold dread but to persevere in hardship
Will lead to commanding heights not of pride and presumptuous arrogance but real humility

That is the fruited fields spoken of in America the beautiful you only rise through your
Willingness to accept abasement it is said God will resist the proud but give grace to the humble

So next time you’re faced with thorns see them as sentinels that bar the insincere but to the
faithful They show a sure path to rich fulfillment
Clinton Arneson Jun 2014
The wildflower… bred by no one, uncultivated;
raised hard, raised rough.
No glass pane to shield you, nor tender hand revealed you,
standing all the sweeter ‘gainst the grass.
There may be some the fairer,
though none so brave to dare her,
wild, wild flower in the wind.
Love poem by one of my characters, to another of my characters. His first to her. lol
Kayla May 2016
Untouched, by human hands
it grows strongly.
Uncultivated, by human means
it exists freely.  
Untainted, by human instruments
it lives purely.

To its very core,
it embodies originality.
To its deepest roots,
it remains unrestrained.
To its brightest petals,
it emanates splendor.

Untouched, by social influence,
she grows strongly.
Uncultivated, by social expectations,
she exists freely.
Untainted, by social conformity,
she lives purely.  

To her very core,
she seizes independence.
To her deepest roots,
she wanders uncontrolled.
To her brightest petals,
she radiates beauty.
It's true,
that uncultivated field
smacks of disorder
it's not looked after,
it smacks of waste
it's not exploited,
it smacks of neglect
there's no control
but I like it

it smacks of freedom.

25.9.'13
The original poem ("Il campo incolto") is in Italian.
There is no good translation for a poem.
I apologize for mine. Corrections are welcome.
As far as the sound of the poem is concerned,
please, read the original poem.
brandon nagley Oct 2015
She is not just a woman, or just some mere creation to me.

Seeith, she hast a halo, fulsome and rapturous in highest degree.

Seeith, doth thou friend; her eye's as a muffled jungle panther;

They dance the uncultivated bush, the wind here is her laughter.

Cool, it bloweth upon thine sweltered cheek's, she's unseen;

Like a dream, she is the shelter every forager desires to keep.

I'm hidden amongst the shrub, dying to taketh a peek;

I want to catch a glimpse of her, in all her amour', her taste, fine;

Her spirit is mine, one of a kind, a dining shine, whilst the moon,

In ourn room, she clutches mine anatomy, O', how I'm so happy.



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane nagley dedication ( filipino rose)
noa harriott Sep 2013
angelica fits, weaves through
my fingertips,
out my mouth sprouts
morning glories
and wormwood blooms across
my eyelashes. i’ve lost
something i never had;
nevertheless
i feel the lack in
the spaces in my chest.

perhaps some space is left
yet uncultivated,
yet unpopulated by meadowsweet or
marigold --
perhaps i could unfold
the silk-soft petals of
a crocus,
let the columbine alone
and let the moss rose grow.
(c) noa harriott
Tess Calogaras Nov 2014
I sometimes I get this feeing as though I was being forced into a meat grinder.
Urged to remove my fat only to spit out chunks of blood and bone instead.
The cracking, clicking snaps of marrow that exudes from it like wastage.
The fat engorging through the tiny weeping holes.
All I can see is the repetitive nature of damage leaking from this abstraction and I feel it in my flesh.
Crawling like tiny bugs, entrapping themselves and eroding their bodies into the hair on my skin.
Uncultivated; I have fallen into the funnel hooked up to the grinder and I feel its body churn me.
It thrusts its cold metal exterior against my lean limbs; ticking.
I try to form a response when all the while this loud heavy machine is echoing against the walls, making my voice utterly meaningless.
Like ground beef I am belched out only to be covered in a plastic film that pushes all the oxygen from it.
I am stuck in this silhouette, shaped as a slab of meat.
Mercy B Jul 2013
It is almost painful trying to fathom the reason some men take a woman's intelligence and blatantly play it down.

Shouting out from behind me " hey ma lemmi holla at cha" I must inform you will never get this female to turn around .

I do not find your uncultivated demeanor flattering in the least, in fact it makes you somewhat insignificant, not worth a second look.

I want nothing to do with your infantile swagger in capable of sharing coherent insightful thoughts, afraid to stray from the same old play book.

A physical attraction is of some importance, but I am more enthralled when a man hears, not only listens to the words that are spoken to him.

Serenade me with your ability to articulate raw emotion thru flowing words, entice me with an intriguing mind, show me that you are a rare gem.

As for those males pretending to be men, but in reality can't even wrap their minds around the idea, don't waste your time with me, your ego will just get bruised.

If it is my attention that he seeks, a man must be confident that he can stimulate my mind, draw me in by the rhythm  of the words he has used.
I am merely putting it out there for those ridiculous guys that like to cat call at the ladies. No one really likes that come on fellas.
It faces west, and round the back and sides
High beeches, bending, hang a veil of boughs,
And sweep against the roof. Wild honeysucks
Climb on the walls, and seem to sprout a wish
(If we may fancy wish of trees and plants)
To overtop the apple trees hard-by.

Red roses, lilacs, variegated box
Are there in plenty, and such hardy flowers
As flourish best untrained. Adjoining these
Are herbs and esculents; and farther still
A field; then cottages with trees, and last
The distant hills and sky.

Behind, the scene is wilder. Heath and furze
Are everything that seems to grow and thrive
Upon the uneven ground. A stunted thorn
Stands here and there, indeed; and from a pit
An oak uprises, Springing from a seed
Dropped by some bird a hundred years ago.

In days bygone—
Long gone—my father’s mother, who is now
Blest with the blest, would take me out to walk.
At such a time I once inquired of her
How looked the spot when first she settled here.
The answer I remember. ‘Fifty years
Have passed since then, my child, and change has marked
The face of all things. Yonder garden-plots
And orchards were uncultivated slopes
O’ergrown with bramble bushes, furze and thorn:
That road a narrow path shut in by ferns,
Which, almost trees, obscured the passers-by.

Our house stood quite alone, and those tall firs
And beeches were not planted. Snakes and efts
Swarmed in the summer days, and nightly bats
Would fly about our bedrooms. Heathcroppers
Lived on the hills, and were our only friends;
So wild it was when we first settled here.’
Janette Oct 2012
I was born of your dreams..
...an eruption of your molten desires...
Once, dormant, beneath an ocean of ice,
Warmed only by the lips of the sun,..
and the eyes of the moonlight...
Your fire pierced the currents
of my dissolution,
Parted the seas of my slumbar

Your infringement into my sagacity
Ravaged salacious unleashings...
An unexpected inferno...
Of a once guarded matrimony,
Vows exchanged between a bleeding heart
And the fury of a dream, just out of reach,
into the tomb it was placed within;
by hands of whispers...
This frigid grave, where I lay in surrender...

Until.....

That moment your eyes gazed me to sway
beneath hands that strummed the rhythm of a song...
I was destined to dance, within you,
You were destined to play, within me...

Uncultivated, untamed, primitive....
The shackles of my reserve
Released by the ****** in your eyes...
Unlocking all the secrets I had ever harboured...

They were yours, now...,
As was I....

A volatile surge of your hunger
Dancing in the flames upon these seas of your dreams...
Enraptured in the warmth
of your breath....
...that set me free...
Fueled by the passion of your thirst
Unraveled by the strength of your embrace...
That unbridled the reigns
As I ascended into the realms of heaven...
Upon the wings of ecstasy
Breathed into the heart of my soul
In tender whispers of your love....


...that ravaged me again...

...and again...


...and again...


...into the stillness of sighs...

...where I was born, of your dreams....

...resurrected, in the sweat of your needs...

~sigh~
'

"In the world of mortals there's no greater perfection than music."
~ Impeccable Space Poetess

'

Divine music beats
bombard my being
as non-rippened ripples

The surface of my ear drums aches
without perfectly harmonious
sounds
complementing

Roses blossom in a quiet garden,
some lavish quietudes here, where
I've got enough peace and not
the right space for a siren's songs
enthralling enchantment

Searching at the random pace
for the most peculiar music ~
thunders in my thoughts!

Those undiscovered waves
appear as lustrous song lenghts,
as limbs of a sound corpus slumbering
in the solace of silence and rhythm

Deep bits bite my emptiness
and this wanton yearning  
forces me to reflect upon
this uncultivated
wilderness
and
what's there to miss at all means

'

lovable etudes
classical chello drifts
bansuri flutes


'
*In the world of mortals perfection does not exist!?*

Auuughhhhhh......... still searching for the perfect music!!!!
..........at this stage of my life. Please, please! If you have your most beloved music, post it as a link here. Thank you from the depths of my yearning heart!
Sometimes
You make me want to scream
(You make me late for everything)
Out loud
(Too proud)
Like a beast howling with rage and uncultivated fear
(Just the same **** arguments year after year)
You make me ashamed to want attention
(You argue with anything I mention)
That isnt fought for or coerced
(Plans made with you are cursed)
And I just want to make you see
(All the things that you do to me)
That things could be different
(You never take things as they're meant)
Better or worse
(You cut me down first)
And I could still be here in a couple of years
(You dont understand the depth of my tears)
Or maybe not
(You forget what you forgot?)
And I love you
(There's nothing more true)
But loving you hurts
(And sometimes you're just a ****)
Skills developed from scholars who studied KABALA.

This testimony is lonely.  

As I let loose of this nonlinear noose.

I have pressing matters to attend to.

This all done accordingly.

LEAP years are boring to me.

The future talks to me because the present is ignoring me.

Poetry lost under a blue moon but I never left you.

I always came back with something special.

The poetry they all created was uncultivated

          thus foolish and basic


generated only to satisfy selfish cravings.

I call it Human contemplation.

In contrast to this magik.

My convoluted interaction.  

The clarity of singularity.

                            ¿¿¿¿       My WORDs will always contain a bit of insanity¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿
Francie Lynch Aug 2015
Poetry is an uncultivated field
With two gates,
And ten thousand farmers
Turning soil,
Planting seeds,
Using tons of fertilizer.
The weeding is endless,
The rows run in all directions,
Harvest is boutiful when tended.
It's environmentally friendly,
Ergo-perfect.
And there's a need
To keep the varmits out.
Let them prowl the perimeter,
Salivating.
Remember to shut the gate.
You might be wondering what the other gate is for.
Gods1son Sep 2019
Lots of great minds leading subpar lives
Becoming static or barely moving
owing to the fear of failure
Never taking chances, always taking the easy way out by chicken(ing) out
Starving everyone the fruits of their gifts, hidden within them as seeds
which they are ignoring to cultivate.
Ignoring purpose makes life less meaningful
Fulfillment is doing what one is called to do
Anything short of that opens the doors
to a life of frustration.
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2019
~for my poet friends who will understand exactly
the nature of our ailment/adventure~

it begins when once poem titled,
which, a first clue, nothing more, a mumbled prophesy,
an arrow to duration & direction home but unknown,
a one-way stop sign neatly lettered in the
smallest sized letters with the disclaimer above

you sojourn to an uncultivated land, not sown.

you travel to places “finding out what you
don’t want to know, what you don’t want to find out,”
no guide, no well trodden path, no cultural prescribed woke diktats,
you are,
taken unwilling more than you lead, where endings
surprising, unforeseen, return tickets never offered for sale

pick words, more likely,
they pick you,
the only constant your rapid metabolism,
a winter snow blow, swirling churning, even midst
the most languid, sultry southern summer day

mind the mind.
mind the ground frozen until a tiny tickle trickle verse
becomes a full-on ground melt, wet and soggy,
******* you into a
rice-rock-hard pellet-poem thriving,
you observe your own drowning in a
6 inch deep wet paddy

the bottom line,
the net net, summary judgment
you commenced with urgent hesitancy for the
risks are great now, pen dagger chest pointed,
you, ******, in crosshairs, your own graven idol image

having found out what you
don’t want to know,
having found out what you
don’t want to find out

find myself weeping,
fists holding my head,
communing with floorboards oak hardened,
groaning acknowledging,
this, this, THIS


this discovering, uncovering,
this is
why I write,
this is
why I dare not write anymore!





12/13/2019
so-me-times the compulsion is greater than the fear
dean evans Jan 2015
It’s four a.m. and once again I find I cannot sleep
Peace of mind eludes me as I chase
I cannot comprehend the many reasons that I weep
And in my mind the thoughts of love and life have been erased
The endless night where I reside, holds no remorse for me
No compunction for the one confined
While I languish for the dawn, I am found the absentee
And to the dark and empty insane thought, I am assigned

It seems I am the Watchman, forgotten, lost to light
Incubus, subsisting in confusion
Uncultivated hope, to antagonize delight
Bewilderment in sorrow, and confounded in seclusion
Imprisoned to a life unknown, existence far surreal
I find no hope, no promise of the dawn
I wonder, could the morning sunlight emanate, reveal
Solution for my restless soul, in clouds of pink chiffon

If only for a moment, there within the morning sun
I may see her face, and love again
I would feel that I have hope of heartbreak seen undone
To live in joy, unrestrained by sorrow’s cruel campaign
For once life stretched out far ahead, I was free to love a girl
Though time has seen her slip away from me
And now I watch the night alone, colorless, the world
The darkness overwhelms the radiance, that used to be

And though my restless spirit finds me not in soft repose
I stand as sentinel, imagine what may come
Though through the misty memories my heart does not disclose
The reasons love was forced, and thus compelled now, to succumb
And so I must endure the black of night, uninterrupted
I yearn only for dawns warm light above
Although I fear there is no hope for love, sadly corrupted
The lost and lonely years that I became the victim of

Its four a.m. and once again...
I cannot sleep.

Dean Evans
5-27/28-14
The mind of a psychic.


These writers are all bias

,  so who the **** gone buy this?

The average man clones some uncultivated **** you expect me to pour my heart out to this????


Solo.  As I verse Clans of weak strands.

Flat earth thinkers. When my thoughts sink in,
   they get deeper.

signal gets weaker.

You can't google up these features.

Defining the colors hues of a preacher means nothing if he's still a preacher.

Because no one cares to read em

     for those that CAN'T SEE IT  they're lost man LEAVE em..
{DESCRIPTION} ~ DIVERSITY AND TOLERANCE  prevents us from generalizing.  Sorry for the ******* WRITES
Ivan Sokac Jul 2018
I'm looking for an excuse
to hide under the sun
and protect myself
from cold birch trees of May.

I am looking to replace
a piece of bread
with the entire surface
of uncultivated fertile soil.

Seeking a drop of water on a leaf
burned by the same sun,
while not catching the reflection
of my image above the well.
Emeka Mokeme Aug 2019
Ruffled and unsettled,
pressed by the 
loneliness deep
within my being,
joy flew away
like a bird
and perched on
the window pane
of another.
Pain seeps
from the heart
into the bones
and tissues like
hot oil burning
even the marrows.
Only the birds messed
empty cage remains,
to tell the 
intricate and intriguing
stories of once 
inhabited beautiful island,
called "my heart".
How would i
tell another the
beauty and glory
of the joy
long gone,
left on a
beautiful but now
abandoned heart.
Dropped like an
old used earthenware.
But certainly it is 
still needful and
useful like an 
uncultivated farmland.
And the truth
is that this 
very thing
is really worrisome.
How would anyone
new begin to
understand the depth 
of love once shared
by this very heart.
But is it
really real love or
just another mistake,
because i couldn't
win her heart.
Can true love
really be lost.
It is a terrible
accident for it
almost consume me.
Where is this
love hiding,
whisper now to 
my ears where
your true self abides,
so my whole being 
can truly move on 
and my heart may rest.
©2019,Emeka Mokeme
Kayla Jun 2017
I let her feel infinitesimal--
for I, I couldn't feel a thing  
Like spotting the most pitiful
Termite in a colony,
From the feathered security
Of the uppermost branch
Of a towering redwood
And knowing I could flee
From the fiery grasps
Of any predator,
Any cataclysm,
While she would succumb
To extermination.

I let her feel pellucid--
For I, I couldn't feel a thing
She grew uncultivated--
Bursting and blooming,
Unabated by the elements
Threatening to rip her
From her roots;
But her luster was enticing.
Euphoria crept over
My purple prickles
As I leached her warmth,
And she fell muted,
Withering away before
She'd even flowered fully.

I let her feel vacuous--
For I, I couldn't feel a thing.
As if skimming the meaningless
Scribbles of a toddler,
Searching for the signs
Of a prodigy,
And finding instead
Mediocre shapes
And miscarried notions
Of how damsels are liberated
From the holocaust
Of a tarragon--
When I know **** well
The hellion is me.

I let her feel vacant--
For I, I couldn't feel a thing.
Her inanimate corpse
Lay frigid and spiritless,
A crumpled mass of carbon
And antiquated stardust.
And for a moment,
I was buoyant and supple.
But only for a moment--
For now she, she can't feel a thing.
And like a moth,
Enslaved to the fleeting
Brilliance of that beacon,
I'm compelled to be blinded.
Jonathan Moya Mar 2020
I am a lousy gardener
that only offends
the soil on top and below.
 
No Petunias or Marigolds bloom,
only crab grass struggling with
Tennessee moss, and a small patch
of Kentucky Bluegrass the
survivor of almost fifty years
and two previous owners:
 
a general practitioner who
layered the inner sod of
the old colonial with
trip wires, alarms, sirens
and intercoms still being
discovered
 
and a Methodist preacher
who cultivated a lawn
of thin earth carpet over
the cheap yellow vinyl
and parquet in the basement—
adding two bedrooms and a shower
for any charitable cases
or needy parishioners.
 
My lawn is left to hell,
the house, gifted to heaven
and the loving attention
of my wife who fills
this abode with the aromas
of her favorite foods
cooking in the oven.
 
The inside is built
on good bones and wood—
a sturdy brick foundation
and oak floors with
a comforting squeak,
sanded and polished
to their original shine.
 
My chihuahua takes great
delight in slipping on them
when she plays fetch.
 
Outside nature riots
in unmolested happiness.
 
Twenty oaks and a few evergreens
defend the spaces of my half acre.
The most majestic one
leans like a hunchback
crying over the stump
of its dead brother below.
 
My trees are allowed to be real trees,
uncultivated, untrimmed, undominated
plus one-hundred-year-old sovereigns.
I respect my vegetable elders.
 
During the spring and summer
the lawn is mowed every other week
to keep my neighbors happy.
 
Five Chipmunk dens burrowed in the clay
provide rooting and hunting
opportunities for my chi,
as the two good boys before,
now scampering
around the rainbow bridge.
 
A black and white stray tabby
has taken up residence on my porch—
sunning in the afternoon,
snoozing in the corner column at night.
He scatters at light and first witness,
his existence a blur captured
on the Ring.
 
Just above is the nest
of our perennial swallows,
real snowbirds I have
no fondness to evict.
The Ring also captures
their welcome and farewell.
 
This dear green acre
has lasted longer
than my happiness.
 
It has the patience
to wait beyond
my grief, disease
and eventual death,
beyond the lease
of all its human tenants
to reclaim its proper heritage.
 
I am so small
to such big things.
We are so small
to such big things.
 
This verdant kingdom
will not shrink back,
wither or expurgate.
 
It will insist on being loved
and watch mine and your colors rust,
for it is beyond discrimination,
consciousness and self-reproach.
 
It will mock you and me
as our fingers dig
down hard into the clay
and grow nothing
that hasn’t existed eons before.
 
It will live alongside
mine and our
happiness and misery,
dropping seeds,
rooting, always blossoming
beyond the violent light.
Mike Adam Sep 2018
Not for us the
Neatened rows

Flower and hive.

Between windy seed
And errant sunshine

Unconscious rainfall
And here, there,

Nooked and crannied,
Brave leaves may,

Uncultivated

Emerge
Gods1son Jul 2019
The land of dreams
is inhabited by scarecrows.
We often believe things as they seem
Without reaching to see what it really is.
This has left the land uncultivated for years
The only barrier to the land being our fears
We sow our seeds in the land of excuses
Watering them each and every day
It's time to till the land of our dreams
Failure to try is equivalent to
0% chance of success
With hardwork, commitment and patience
The land of our dreams will be our playing field.
Whit Howland Dec 2021
Meaning

of a wild
uncultivated plant
or the plant bearing it

meaning

some said you were
ill-mannered of bad upbringing
and undisciplined

but I hope you know now
I never listened
because it was

that pure
white blossom
I picked

with such relish
An abstract word painting. An original.
Cuz while ya steel got
moxie, don't nix chance if only a dot
before death finds
     flesh rotting alot.

A self-actualized fringe benefit
     as I racked up
     orbitz round sun -
     with increased measured,
     (albeit neglected) ragged, and
     shot thru tattered (turn shroud) -
     regarding chronological yardage
brought to my dimming wattage -

sputtering third eye blind, sans
     hindsight surveying extensive
     emotionally frenzied groveling with
     a lifetime penitential wreckage,
whence urgent critical (update)
     foisted upon formerly entrenched
     hermetically sealed voyage -
sequestered self wrought fallout,

     viz long stretches of
     time irretrievably gone with the wind
     found me averse toward
     commingling with village -
peopled within sin king
     precincts of Lake Woebegone
     joyus kneaded livingsocial
     natives, now visa

     vis (nee this past
     and present atheist)
     discovered the healing power
     of powder milk biscuits,
     when accommodated within Norwegian
     bachelor farmer vicarage),
qua pained obligation now
     imposed kickstarted mandate

     to pay dying wage
clearly written along,
     the sub weighted psyche walls
     (over time) easily read
     across my wrinkled visage,
where former cumulative
     years of existence
     pitched yours truly

     figuratively teetering upon
     precipice of abyss gave vantage
     written in telltale creases
     countenance spelling umbrage,
against me - asper tonnage
     schlepping psychological Matthew
     Scott Harris "baggage,"
wrought from decades

     worth of uncultivated tillage
cuz n'er did I gather rosebuds...
     during prime mortal teenage
stretch, thus present
     day agonizing suffrage
yawning chasm miserably houses
     bleak (Dickensian) testimony,
     sans recovered anorexic

     (NO...NOT... NEVER
     bulimic), but feebly
     endured desultory stage
punctuated quasi (moat)
     towed riddled rattle trap ship
     of state into deadly scrimmage
defies propped up
     moxie succombing unrelenting

     weathering, unforgiving savage
nasty, brutal and short sabotage,
wherein futile - short
     changed growh opportunities
     forfeited developmental stage
opportunities introverted
     vehemence doth rage.
Travis Green Sep 2022
I yearn for your tastefully enchanting hotness
To feel your burning passionate machoness
Take possession of me, caress me deeply
With your tempting treasured titillators
Fill my imagination with vivid liquid thoughts
Of your top-notch enthralling star attraction
Finesse my mind, body, and soul

Touch me beyond the physical limits of reality
Unfold my poetic and soulful emotions
Make me feel your showy explosive dopeness
Peruse the ultimate inner secrets
Of my profound magical beauty
I hanker to delight in a thousand exciting dreams
Of your seamless seducing smoothness
Unlock my soft, voluptuous vault

Ignite my strongest and wildest desires
With your flammable fragrant fieriness
Send me into a stupendous speechless daze
Enhance my sensations, make me crave
Your uncultivated and unadulterated nature
Encase me in your enamoring naked greatness
Set my inner space ablaze, navigate the unfathomably
Glassy and splashy waves of my gayness

Let your sweet peachy pink lips kiss mine
Gaze into the ebullient depths of my creation
With your playful pancake brown eyes
Arouse me everywhere, cause me to convulse
And utter absorbingly joyful noises
Stripped me of my power
Make me bow down
To your fantastically staggering attractiveness

— The End —