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

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

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.

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

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)

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.

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.’

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¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿

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.

Natures timepiece resets
mental alarm clocks and
washes away the hassles
of the daily grind.
Woken up by a well blended
mixture of clamor and quietude
with various birds chirping,
running water,
crackling embers,
wombats mating
and groans made by the
chemically inconvenienced
from a site nearby.
Insects fly overhead an
unorthodox patterns
as you unzip the door
of your mesh enclosure
and step out into the
inhospitable environment.
Pressed coffee to chase
the bacon and eggs
as you gourmandize
that over the fire,
cast iron skillet
morning breakfast.  
Commence to mysterious exploits
without one second of the day to waste
down heavily wooded trails
in search for introspection
and tranquility.
Uncultivated areas where
diligent stalwarts build dams,
antlers gallop through the
pulp and sapling
while woodland creatures,
whimsical and carefree,
play and sing songs
of the jovial jungle
until the birds of the wild
pounce upon their prey
as they become a tasting menu item
for the predatory aggressors
in the vicious circle
of nature's goodness.
Sun droplets peek
behind the seedlings
and you take a breath of fresh air
as you decrease depression
and obliterate anxiety.
Compass navigates
as you hike through
the rocky regions of the greenery
where you settle down to
eat your sandwich,
sip your thermos of soup,
wild berries for dessert
and wash it down with
a refreshing drink from
the natural flowing rivers
where ducklings defecate
and fish ****.
Perched up on a rock
in the highlands,
still on this quest for
self meditation,
you survey the terrain
and observe a family tipping
an overweighted, unbalanced
canoe on the river,
rambunctious ruffians
going white water rafting
in the vast rapids and
drink firewater with the natives
until they puke from overindulgence,
a lovely couple not in sync
with their oar rowing skills
on the lake,
children burn bugs
with magnifying glasses and
sneaking smores before
healthy campfire dinners arrive.
Day breaks into dusk and
dusk into night
with vivid colors and lucid dreams.
Scowling eyes peer through
the woodsy inhabitant
with curious and suspicious
idiosyncrasies as you trekked
through the wilderness
towards the bivouac
to start the nightly campfire,
submerge in repellent
and prepare your opulent hobo banquet. Twisting the cap off the first of twelve,
vital force fills to the brim
with reflection and clarity
of existentialism.
The birds have it good.
The wombats have it good.
The stalwarts have it good.
The antlers have it good.
The predatory aggressors have it good.
The families, the ruffians, that lovely couple, the children, even the burnt bugs have it good.
But you.....
you are like the woodland creatures,
you too play and sing songs,
twisting off cap after cap
until the Monday morning
manpower surfaces to the top,
like a volcanic eruption of plutonic rock
and the predatory aggressors
of labor force swoop down
and devour you without mercy
or an ounce of hesitation.
Under the silver moonlit night,
***** of fire burn brightly
in the purple hazed skies,
through the whistling treetops,
the forest ghouls dance like
demons and politicians
(essentially the same thing),
hallucinations of shadow people
appearing and disappearing
through the flames of the fire
stare wide eyed with painted faces.
Surrounded by a midden of empty bottles, you're wet brain slips
in and out of alcohol induced comas
and a beer blanket softly nestles you in
as you hold a lit cigarette in one hand
and half a bottle of Dutch milk
in the other like teddy bear,
your eyes fall into sedation....
Jolted awake like a thunderbolt,
eyes go from closed to open immediately
and chemically inconvenienced
state of being groans in
agonizing pains
just like the ones you heard
the morning before.

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.

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..

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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