Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Amare Leslie Sep 2018
Tip toeing in puddles up the roadside hill.
A gentle kiss of raindrops trickled down her rose cheeks in the dawn of morning.
Drowning all vegetation around her as a bus arrived.
King Panda Mar 2016
I laid an anemone
on the mask of a crying girl
the young mother
the crouching woman
I am beautiful
says the sirens
says the ever-youthful vegetation
of God

I mixed my blood and nectar
on the mask of a dying man
the decay of kiss
the resurrection
I am beautiful
says the anemone
says Adonis in his grave

I burned their leaf-stems
on the mask of an artist
the eternal springtime
the life-death-rebirth deity
I am beautiful
says the martyr
says girl as she wakes
to the sirens

I am beautiful
says the head on the platter
I am beautiful

and the woman descends
the bronze invading
the bronze high-handed
the bronze opening
to the gates of hell
Sam Hawkins Mar 2016
Carefree in leisure time, one blasé tourist,
almost happy, I once had collected a complicated stone;
after the sunny hours had ended and last opportunity
for keepsakes began.

In my hand the stone had kept all of its mouths sewn shut,
holding its amalgamated story, and likewise in the car,
on the plane, through US Customs where it was not
in the least suspected.

A thumbnail identity I now should guess at, marking an old date,
and fixing it to, with reasonable estimate, a map location:
Plot No. 243, East end of the island, slave sugar plantation,
the stone from the corner of a ruined sugarmill stair—
broken free by my criminal hand.

The stone like a bleached out mini-monolith,
square rectangular, could be stood on end;
was swollen at its center like a pulled cork.

What could have moved this sequestered world to opening?
That was not for me to exactly discover,
except what came on Christmas Day,
two days after my returning.

Slave watercourses, the sight of innumerable Dutch ships,
ballasted with human flesh and hewn rock
for sugar works buildings.

The drop at-arms-swish of the Driver’s bullwhip.
Flecks of spirit splayed on vegetation.

A mongrel dog barked beyond the windless wall of sugarcane
in centipede and mosquito heat.

Seaside, beautiful seaside impressions;
distant coral light shadows, etched deep azure;
snowy colored breakers that pencil-marked the sea.
The staid, vibrant, mocking power
of visual symphony backdrop.

So little of aid for the slaves, but for those dangerous secrets,
un-housed in the fallen coolness of the night:
demonstratively crystalline heaven of stars;
a ragged moon, clouds scudding eastward toward Africa.
And there -- Orion’s Belt, mid-sky, illustrious bright,
with its three centering star points in rational line,
as if Hope could have flung its anchor onto Life
engendering sanctified resistance.

Christmas morning, 5 a.m.
I had awakened from a stuck place, shapeless and dark,
half in dreaming and half knowing I was in no dream.

I was sobbing, yet strangely, because there were no tears.
I had only put the stone inside my pajama top onto my heart.
a story of what happened...a feeling and vision I had, in 2008. written then. the stone is piece of mortar...
I want to build your high horse a stable
let it rest a while
let it lay down with mine.

I want to mill that hot air
see it put to use
turning wheels
blowing glass
warming the soil after a frost.

We'll skip stones across still ponds which once were cast in judgement.

See all that manure bring forth lush vegetation
so that winged beasts may perch and call to the spring.
Carter Ginter Nov 2017
Fresh baked bread
Layered in death and vegetation
My insides burn with withdrawal
It's been almost 24 hours now
How much longer will it take?
To either cave in unwillingly
Or to die painfully slow?

If I had not forgotten my cash
I'd have given in to my survival drives
I'm happy I forgot it
Because I can't stomach the idea of food
Let alone choke down something so revolting
Only because it pulls me further away from death

Instead I flood my veins with nicotine
Desperately trying to curb these cravings
My legs threaten to give out
With each step I take
Even now, scratching this among global fem notes
Dissociated entirely from class
My hands won't stop shaking

Is it nerves?
Or physical deterioration?
Or the panic lying under the surface?
Deafening screams ricochet through my mind
As I try to drown these feelings
But they won't disappear

I've dropped significant weight
And I don't want it back
I don't feel the need to lose more
But still it falls away
And eventually leaves nothing but skin and bones
Fueled by electrifying anxiety
Megan Jones Sep 2015
“Put pressure on it, it needs more pressure”
Holding your wounds shut
That senseless force is what took you away
Pressure- to be... whilst not desiring to be
You saw the clouds moving in greyscale
I saw the hills below scattered in shades of green,
Cavernous, shadowed, cryptic, familiar-

We were advised to go as the crow flies
I cried to a nameless God that your crow’s feet
Were from insurmountable happiness, not the pressures endured
I’ve forgotten much since the storm some-178 weeks ago
Though my body remembers yours over and over again
My skin has yours imprinted, correlated
Forged into one point on the axis between here and there
You the X, I the Y

The Earth crept between the crevices, curling
Through the distance between the Right radius and ulna
Elbows breaking knuckles, blood remains to be spilt
Blood doesn’t connect, if anything it merely separates

Scarecrows don’t help much when the crops won’t grow this year
Ants crawled out of the barrel of a shotgun
Observing the process of cleaning bones after tragedy

Follow the moss to find your way North with no direction-
Sometimes on the other side it’s not greener,
It’s more terrifying than ever before
Terrain untouched, unspoiled, sacred-

Climb up the trees with me, find your quiet
We won’t carve our names but we’ll find our niche
You’ll have quills and I’ll have armor
Not even the thought of stolen arrows,
Lost time through distance,
Or perhaps a slew of chemical imbalances
Can reach us up here
I chose to glue your pieces back together with mud and straw
Taken from the fallen, the loved and now distant memories

You may be an abandoned military base offshore
What was once used by many-
Witnesses life again, life of a different kind
The vegetation will ease its way into the cracks
Constructed when the foundation began to decay
It has a beauty of its own, one of self-sustainment
An everlasting beauty that connects itself
To the surrounding extravagance, often times ignored,
Death isn’t the only way to be forged into nature, remembered

Fear doesn’t always win, nor death do us part so soon
I hope your skin and bones remember before the end
Kurt Carman Feb 2017
Its in these waters, when I was merely a Parr
Or as you might refer to me as a fry,
This wise but young Brook Trout cruised the slow water with my kinfolk fry.

Moving to and fro hiding among the biome vegetation
The sunlight supported my living space and warmed my growth rings.
I dart in and out of the oxygenated seams which help me flourish.

Some days, I had to use stealth to outwit the pine marten and warblers,
I shadowed the cattail and watched them fill their bellies with those around me.
But I felt fate had a purpose for me to be something special.

And When the time was right, I'd ****** myself above the water into the night air.
The large circle of orange light filled my eyes and the night sky was filled with luminary.
I imagined what it must be like to live outside this riffle domain.

This morning, through my refractory vision I spot some floating objects,
And through an inherited sensory recall I can see these are hatching green Drakes.
I immediately shoot to the surface and fill my stomach, then swim back to the undercut for cover.

As the years pass by and maturity abounds,  I find my self settling in behind a large boulder
Right at the tail out of the back eddy, providing me with an ample food supply.
And it's here I prefer to live my life in the slow current, content and peaceful.

And one day as I swam into the current seam, I spotted what appeared to be,
A different looking terrestrial hopper with yellow belly,  so I make my move.
He's not moving much so I decide to raise my head above the water line and sip.

As I grab the hopper I start to slide back behind the boulder,
When I feel a pinch, as if someone try's to pull me towards the surface
I fight with all my might but this force proves to be stronger than I.

It's now I realize a human reels me towards the shore line, and I'm fearful.
This one called a human, grabs my tail and places his hand on my under belly.
Pulling me from my home, he dislodges the hook from my mouth. I gasp for oxygen.

He looks me over from nose to tail, smiles and says how beautiful I am.
He looks me in the eye And says " This was a wonderful fight my friend, enjoy the rest of your life,
He places me back in water, gently reviving me and finally lets me swim away.

I dare to turn and look back at him for a moment and as he continues to watch me,
I hear him say " I fish, knowing everyday on this stream is a gift."
Support catch and Release
Paul Hansford Jun 2016
A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.
And the camels galled, sorefooted, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
and running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages ***** and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.

Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arriving at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you might say) satisfactory.

All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.
Rose, piercingly deep  in my mind soil
Dipping her root into into my sea
Love vegetation verdant blooming
Running river-love in violence
Uprooting thorns on my mountains
Running eruptions in love sting

Lost to love eruption boom
In lullabies of  the nights
In a very delicate fire winter
Defeating powers with the Power
Bringing uncommon glory at dawn.
ATL Aug 15
The moon gently pulling jetsam,
the cadavers of children
wading into granules of rock.

mixtures of life in vegetation,
that verdant undergrowth on the
cluttered limestone,
breaking waves.
the rakish laughter on the shore,
sweet echoes, fixed echoes,
the murderous innocence of the sea.
Pensai Aug 2018
I can taste the salt on my lips
Oxygen is pure
Vegetation is rich
The sound of the shore is a soft as a kiss
The timbre of nature in harmony and bliss
Breeze blowing calm
Gorgeous shells in my palm
And the sand is a void that you can’t miss at all
At Morning the light is so subtle yet bright
Before noon there’s no gloom, much more  vivid my sight
Some hours go by while the Sun leaves the sky
So the stars come alive in the brightest of nights
I can taste the salt on my lips...

this sport is played
at a leisurely pace
no-one playing it ever
seems to be in a race

some are good
at the short game
whilst others are better
at the long

during the tournament
strokes will be calculated
to make sure the score
isn't deflated or overrated

what stick shall
you employ
on the course's
tricky ploy

oh the ball has just landed
in the thick vegetation
it scattered the birdies
which were sitting on its plantation
Decent for dessent
That’s how it’s rhythm went
As the conflict came to rise like the spark inside a fire
Intrepid since creation
We’ve been walking many wires
Feigning fear to To try and feel
A discernment of what is real but what’s disregarded is the fact you even have to question
Ignorance is bliss? Or strength in your intention?
Thought cannot be the only thing to exist
However a zombie is a waste if it doesn’t eat
Have a little taste of a musing ride
That brings the flavor, you’ll need a guide
Clear it
Hear it and run
Takin’ a century can it be done?
The meeting as one
Secret salvation the secret is done
Are they telling in whispers and walking like drifters
They’re  tripping on papers it’s time to re gift it
explain in due time ya never could fake this
Always trying to break us
But the music is strong and it’s beat  will make us
The beings that we are
the worlds we are
The birth of the universe from another’s dying star
We are the afterlife of another existence
Brand new creation looking for witness
Billions of years  to finally have it here and now it could easily disappear
Reality is what?
Desire and emptiness?
Why’s the door shut every time I vent through this
Aging agitation
Buried vegetation
It’s time to find the faults within and bless it all with love so that the veil may fall and the world may hear it’s original name, but for now it shall be a very long game
Yenson Jun 3
What was never was made what is
in core-less apparitions seeking redemption
fanning disunity in separation as serpents fangs hiss
mired in alchemy of neon laminated Machiavellian illusions
of mice and men in yesterdays fables of core-less ****** excesses

The scripted visions of the sightless
painting portraits in indulgent surrealistic strokes
auctioning misdeeds and cruelties in  tumultuous pastels pitiless
shame clinging guilt becomes the regiments' call marching in smoke
shadow dancing to the malicious composer in lit neon feint giddiness

The Judge jury and Butchers presiding
dare ye dissent a one way verdict from the one track rail
vegetation merges with saplings from grains fermented and pulsing
banquets for the fallen and starved the ghosts holds a tiger by the tail
trials of hot air hackneyed lyrics strewn and drips tirelessly streaming
Marshal Gebbie Oct 2018
Shot a rabbit two days ago, it was a good shot taken at distance from height. The rabbit died instantly, it had been digging holes in my lawns, it had to go.

I watched it die and I had cause to ponder the death from a religious angle, where believers say we go to another place when we die?

I know where this rabbit went, he went into my vegetable garden, buried deep with all the other varmints and critters that have crossed my path.

Over the years we, (my wife and I), have turned that patch of barren volcanic ash into a wondrous source of lettuce, potatoes, onions, rhubarb, tomatoes and adding the carbonaceous remnants of not only these creatures but of composted vegetation, seaweed and selected fertilizers. We also grow the most beautiful roses and deliahs and crysanthemums you will ever come across.

And do you the dark of night other little rabbits and bugs and things come out and nibble those very creations...unaware that they are completing the circle of being.

This is the true spirit of creation, as I see it, where deep in the garden, the motes of nutrition transmogrify beneficially from one entity to another, eventually, for the common good of all.

This is the basis of my belief. Feet on the ground...
What is....most definately is!

Taranaki NZ
Maxime Apr 2017
If all appears to be harmony and coexistence in this garden enclosure,

All that means is terrible truths have not yet suffered proper

Might you wait a little bit and watch it completely lose its

Intruding into this once peaceful garden,
digging down in the soft tissue of the mud, is absolutely
the most maniacal bug.  There he goes, he jumps he dashes, he sets devastating fires, but not the kind that leaves behind ashes.

Note that this heinous invader is white and black,
spots of red pepper this raider’s back.
Small with spiny legs ending in sharp claws,
his eager jaws ooze venom that chews and gnaws,
as he ravenously feeds on the garden’s flaws.

Faking harmlessness, you haven’t seen what lies beneath,
like a longsword hidden under its sheath.
This insect is a minion of discontent,
the harbinger of torment.

Every day he lurks there among the tangled grass,
sinking his teeth in unsuspecting plants,
to make them into his loyal sycophants,
He corrupts them farther and farther,
to the point where they even despise being watered,
because his new instruction gives them a thirst for
mutually-assured destruction.

Can you see the garden deteriorate fast, the green turns
brown and the fibers that hold everything together
cease to last?

Toxicity courses through the vegetation,
and now, plants with no evil inclination
are being swallowed up by fear, hate, and indignation.
This once beautiful botanical cultivation
has become a ******* abomination.

Every vine and leaf slowly becoming decayed and grisly.
Has excising the infestation become far too risky
because the plague has manifested and spread,
and the first wave of his victims are already dead?

Definitely people will wonder, even though he’s turned your garden over and under, how could such a little insect make you go completely insane? Well because there is no garden, he lives in my ******* brain.
acacia Sep 3
It will roll along the waves with the rest of the men whose bodies sink to the floor whilst I stand on the shore with the shell I chose to keep in admiration, anticipating for when I will make it aware of itself as I have been made. Now, as I peel the skin of a banana, I dip into a reverie of the large ship whom I gave back to my tides.
Through the toughest sea-peaks he sailed sweetly, navigating as though he’s swam these blue bodies for aeons—I’m sure he has—yet, his wear from these waters was prominent, his ejection from these seas was eminent; his sail was now weaker than my second hand linens. I do not know if he knew—maybe—but I certainly did. I also remembered this was only a short journey. A short journey to the point of where I began. And where I began is the same place where I continue to begin. It is the same place where I breathe in new air through an old nose, where I see through the smoke, where I turn other persons lyres.
'How many more sentiments on this ship can I make?' I thought to myself as we neared the land. There was no more distinction between short and long; one, two, and three; night and day—no more. There was only the ship and I. And the ship consisted of his natal awakening and his natal sleeping; and I consisted of my start and end.

Once I’ve gotten towards sea firth, close enough to pink sand, I immediately climbed down the twine ladder zealous to bring vegetation to the rest of the land; bring a comma (never a period, it could never be a period, not materially or spiritually) to the question marks. I splashed and ran, rocks lifting from beneath my feet, droplets forming back into drops forming back into pools forming back into bodies.
I looked back to wave good-bye to the ship, then I noticed he remained a question mark. He kept his anchor close to the shores, wading in the pool, but I put a hyphen to this reverie. I put a hyphen to this reverie because he is still here. I am not getting back onto the ship. I must swim on my own, on our own, with the quests I embark with my shell, with the fragrant seeking I find when I lift the palm leaf. My shell has to see the journey I see, my shell needs to be in the drifting wings of the open conundrum. Use all senses. It is all I could need.
My reverie frees itself, my reality frees itself. My shell is harkened. The ship is harkened. I am harkened. You are watching our reflections sway in the water. I am reflecting in the water-sway.
I wear my shell on a chain. A yoga of my(Our)(I) one Soul. Marriage in the highest octave. I drift seemingly further from the ship, but I are not moving, the ship is not moving. 'Get closer to me,' Twinkles say. I are not moving.
aThe ship is separate, the only thing separate from me. I detach from him using pronouns, using things to emphasize the ships tear. I suggest everyone ride the ship, please. Once I learn to be accept the ship with my shell, with myself (and you all) then I think I will move towards the ship.

In this temporal realm I can only row one paddle at a time.
Harriet Cleve Jul 11
Three rockets achieved lift off from the Moon.
Each had seperate trajectories and destinations.

One of the rockets, Star Searcher, contained six people.
A two generation family. Two of them in particular chosen for their intelligence, resourcefulness, gene pool critical analysis and the hope they could begin a second Genesis on Earth.

Adam, his wife Eve, young sons Cain and Abel and their wives looked out from their craft at the dying Moon. Three quarters of the surface had lost any trace of vegetation, flora and fauna. The river beds dried and irrecoverable. The athmosphere no longer breathable.

The second rocket, Planet Hunter, contained an elderly man and his son. Two of the greatest scientists the Moon ever produced. A distinguished man who was a genius in DNA and gene pool studies, and his equally brilliant son. This man, code name God, and his son Jesus had first spotted the accelerating decay of the Moons surface and brought it to the attention of the inhabitants of Moon.

The third rocket, Destroyer, contained one man only. A rogue astronaut who had infiltrated the Space Agency under the alias code name Satan.
Another brilliant mind, it was his intellect that challenged the proposition that Moon was in danger. So great was his rhetoric that no one believed God and his Son. Yet it was this man who surreptitiously had sown the seeds for the demise of Moon.

All three looked out from their seperate craft.

Adam, God, Satan. All looked at the sudden flash and the cloud of star debris that followed. Eventually it would disperse and a new, smaller Moon would emerge over time. Never again would it sustain life.

Earth was the new hope. God would land his craft elsewhere in the solar system. Satan set his own course. His destination known only to himself.

A waiting Earth, ignorant of these events, turned on its axis and night followed day. A Neanderthal looked up to the skies and saw a strange object in the sky. It was the Star Searcher.

Frightened, the creature ran to his cave and hid.

Earth was about to change. Change utterly.

God looked at his instrumentation panel.

'Jesus' he said.

'Yes Father?'

'Reset the coordinates to Stellar Star 19'

'We have a tough road ahead of us'.
Phi Kenzie Aug 2018
When cereal is being made
and someone fumbles a batch
but doesn’t dispose of it
it can end up in your bowl

Not something to panic over
though you will
as it can turn the face red upon consumption

Not like leaving the gym
more of a tomato with a fever

Vegetation subsiding over time
left paralyzed in confusion
but still with a stomach quite full
liv Aug 5
Tip toeing in puddles up the rough roadside.
A gentle kiss of raindrops trickled down her rosy cheeks in the early dawn.
Drowning all vegetation around her as a bus arrived.

— The End —