Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and there
Among the bushes half leafless, and dry;
The stars look very cold about the sky,
And I have many miles on foot to fare.
Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air,
Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily,
Or of those silver lamps that burn on high,
Or of the distance from home's pleasant lair:
For I am brimfull of the friendliness
That in a little cottage I have found;
Of fair-hair'd Milton's eloquent distress,
And all his love for gentle Lycid drown'd;
Of lovely Laura in her light green dress,
And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown'd.

Heat beats down upon the street
Birds too hot to fly,
Blistered sand you cannot stand
Drenched with sweat am I.
Cows collect in shadow deep
Panting sheep hang head,
Goshawk flies in cobalt skies
Hills of grass stand dead.

Whisp of smoke, a puff of breeze
Sirens scream in air,
Running men in squads of ten
Emerge from everywhere.
Now the rising wind takes charge
Runs with leaping flame
Into crown of eucalypts
To rage across the plain.

Too late the tenders hoses pour,
Too late the fireman’s shout
Inferno hot has run amok
And all control a rout.
Generating mighty winds
The fire charges forth
Spiralling in furnace air
To incinerate for sport.

Vanquished men exhausted stand
Watch with useless eyes,
As raging flames consume their truck,
Inside a good mate dies.
A live thing in the burnished night
It writhes and spirals high
Across the flaring treetops
Hot, red smoke fills the sky.

As sudden as it starts, it stops
A wind change in the air.
Ravaged forest stark and black
Hot ashes everywhere.
Hills of cinders smoking now
Stock in death’s repair,
Homesteads rendered charcoal like
Farmers in despair.

A silence in the ravaged hills
Birdless in the sky,
Bushfire horror, death and smoke
Enough to make you cry.

Marshalg
In support of my Australian brethren and their torched nation.
30 January 2013

Warm whisp'ring through the slender olive leaves
Came to me a gentle sound,
Whis'pring of a secret found
In the clear sunshine 'mid the golden sheaves:

Said it was sleeping for me in the morn,
Called it gladness, called it joy,
Drew me on 'Come hither, boy.'
To where the blue wings rested on the corn.

I thought the gentle sound had whispered true
Thought the little heaven mine,
Leaned to clutch the thing divine,
And saw the blue wings melt within the blue!

Eternity is closed !
- come back another day with
flower smears for eyes and sincere
passion on your
palms          (weathered)

I need another Russian Doll -
Princess to frequent curtains
fashioned from fire & lead
equaling out to crimson folds
which mysteriously call to
the mystical hierarchies of
imagination

Silent requirements signal beneath the steps
which welcome
one (a stranger/
an Ibis-Beak cane & dark coat
stamped with August rain)

They arrive unexpectedly, as if to play the game
of cliches, they carry promises fashioned in foreign ports
tapping my knee
instead of my shoulder
having only known or recognized
entombment
                               (there is no hyperbole which lacks within
                                Nature's haunted heavens)

My strange visitor leaves / glass umbrella
in hand / to privacy / our brief interaction begins & ends with simple eager undertakings implemented
in the afterword  

What is in another's contemplation of me?
whiling in manifest Theosophy -

- Thought form -
Primal child-rage / whisp of violet smoke &
inksplotches abolished, mutually panting.
Our decorated
four-legged hunter
has arisen and impatiently
craves for the Earth to partner at last with
the Sun

..The Sun a blazing dime
I can smell crispness
in the air

May your dreams
W
       H
I
         S
P
You away.

May the sun
Always

S h
Ine.
For you today .

May the darkness go away

And the clouds burst open for you.

May amor
Be your guide stone.
Because amor is true.

I'm caught in a forest
My glass frame is jagged and shattered
I give in to a distant call to rest
And I search for somewhere to lay my head
The forest is quiet
A whisp broke me and left
And I'm alone to care for a grove
I am broken, I am scared, I am upset
Something ahead of me
Trapped in the overgrowth
It can't be!
My armor, my friend, my beautiful cog!
Oh! What have I done to you?
I check it's inner workings
Gears clogged with vines and branches
Iron rusted through
Until I wander deep enough
And I find the source of my distant whisper
My hearth
Once a great and burning flame
To move my cog so powerfully
So patiently
Subserviently
I climb in
And flames long dead begin to burn once more
It melts my glass
And smooths me out
And I lay my head to rest
I close my eyes
When I open them again
I see through the juggernaut's eyes
And I burn so hot from my pain
The overgrowth burns away
Rusted parts shatter away
A plume of smoke billows from me
I am a cog once more
I feel so heavy
So tired
But oh so powerful
A great machine finds me in this grove
And offers me a place in it's inner workings
Other cogs inside, made of shining steel greet me
We grind and toil away
And I feel so at home
After harming and being harmed by a beautiful whisp
Who I now understand never truly understood me
Nor did I understand them
They fled from me
Left me so alone
But I am strong once more
I am so tired
I feel safe and complacent
So I will rest and let my body fall into routine
I will sleep
I will obey my new machine
I will dream

~

fowl flock to a gathering,
exactly why? no one knows.
an unkindness of ravens,
a ****** of crows;
a siege of blue heron,
gather geese in a horde;
seem to come in their sadness,
but stay for the show.
see swan sail in wedges,
jay scoff in their scold;
assembly, their strength,
nom de plume from of old.

ask me why do they gather?
could it be they’re unhappy?
might we also feel slighted,
a disservice agreed;
if our strength were declared
our insufficiency?
why do finches and
hummingbirds meet in a charm?
penguins, get to huddle,
and in happiness, those larks?

the cranes come in dances,
in company those parrots;
to parliaments owls,
in wisdom who-hoo-ing;
flamingoes to stand,
for an eagle’s convocation?
no, a nye’s not unpleasant,
for a pheasant you see;
and benign is a bevy,
quail flush neath a tree.

but, ’tis a bit scary,
lurking turkey in gangs,
hawk’s shadowy cast;
and warblers in confusion,
with buzzards in wake;
a wisp full of snipe,
whisp’ring, “good night”;
yet glorious are pelicans,
a squadron in flight;

and nothing so stirring, as
a starling’s constellation,
while an asylum’s
assembly for loons,
and a quarrel of sparrows,
are entirely drowned out,
by a drumming of peckers,
the wood kind, that is!

while sticks and stones,
may break all one’s bones;
those labels and words, do
leave a sting and a hurt;
all human, one race,
can unkindness defer,
diffusing by choosing,
our union assert!
but slinging maligning,
and kicking of dirt,
by abusers and losers,
let's leave for the birds!

~

*post script.

numerous fellow poets far more skilled than i, have posted a variety of well-written pieces using fowl flocking terminology. this is intended to be an assembly of the sometimes-silly, often-absurd and mostly-always-humorous assignments of those flocking terms, used in an imagined treatise about the hurtful labels we humans use to judge one another; labels that vilify, rather than unify.  for would not a battle that hasn’t any "winner" be far better fought hand-in-hand, than hand-to-hand?

terms for flocking fowl in order of use
(a few fowl have two flocking terms, and some flocking terms are claimed by two fowls)

an unkindness (ravens)
a ****** (crows)
a siege (herons)
a horde (geese)
a wedge (swans)
a scold (jays)
a charm (hummingbird, finches)
a huddle (penguins)
a happiness (larks)
a dance (cranes)
a company (parrots)
a parliament (owls)
a stand (flamingos)
a convocation (eagles)
a nye (pheasants)
a bevy (quail)
a flush (also quail)
a cast (hawks)
a gang (turkeys)
a wisp (snipes)
a squadron (pelicans)
a confusion (warblers)
a wake (buzzards)
an asylum (loons)
a constellation (starlings)
a quarrel (sparrows)
a drumming (woodpeckers)

oh yes, there are many more.  i'd love to see your favorite(s) left in the comments.
Steve (:

soft tendrils of light,
dashed blue and white,
flash their glory in my sight,
across the dark sky of night,

a wolf howl stops me in my track,
force me swiftly to turn back,
and find ye fleeing pretty beast,
ive not given up chase, not in the least.

the maze's twisted path eludes me,
the darkness, shadows do include me,
hides that which i do wish to see,
a maze this is, what a night this will be.

a fox's call carries me away,
i cant tell, to go or stay,
a ****** awful game to play,
a flaming lunar keep-away.

the moon doth shine upon the wolf,
its white blue light it does engulf.
to the fox it casts a ray,
what a painful game to play.

the winding path's taunt my heart,
keeps me, the wolf, and fox apart,
at the final edge of my last desire,
hope attempts to raise me higher.

there is another, right by my side,
he has no reason which to hide,
a spirit wolf, runs next to me,
with brothers' blood and loyalty.

he howls for his own lost one,
hopes the bad can come undone,

Taking his steps, one by one,
he will not stop until its done.

a time a go i thought i might,
have seen the moon's shining light,
but this maze keeps me from its sight.
the spirit wolf, "itll be all right."

there was a time when i was young,
when a different song was sung,
a song of passion, joy and love,
but now i howl to moon's above.

Dark wolf woken, back in the maze,
dreams of the path, though all were a haze,
stands to his feet, been walking for days,
he keeps hunting, searching for ways.

round a bend he sees her, hears her howl,
he runs but is stopped by another's growl.
out steps a purple wolf, devious eyes,
steps in his path and smothers his cries.

as he falls he sees her waiting,
for him? knows not, he's still debating.
the spirit wolf comes to his side,
and the wolf knows he can confide.

the wolf lies there, head in the grass,
lying and waiting, for this night to pass.
the spirit wolf sits and hears,
of the wolf's wonders and all of his fears.

russian water, **** with spice,
ah how that would make things nice,
if only just a little, just to forget.
the wolf lies there waiting, suffering yet.

the wolf yet awakens, hearing a call,
its again the howling, echoing all,
of past and longing, of things done wrong
she sings a tune to a still different song.

He hears a warning from his friend,
theres more than these two in the end.
they stood and kept walking,
never stopping, ever stalking.

they walked a bit, til faint blue whisp,
flitted toward them, feeling crisp.
it was a distraction, a strong desire,
lifting more than their hearts a bit higher.

each of them on different trails,
thoughts of their flames carved details,
the passion drove them to their minds,
a white escape, the release unwinds.

once the wolves had ceased their panting,
imaginations tipped to slanting,
they shook the wet drops from their fur,
it wouldnt be long for this again to occur.

they turned their heads, both aware,
of soft dead felines, lying there.
they walked on past, aware of the ****,
but love and passion, do what they will.

they kept on wandring twisted trails,
blue whisps fast behind their tails.
they kept on searching hearing howls,
stopped not once by anothers growls.

The wolves still hunted elusive catch,
but insanity threatened be their match.
The blue whisps whisper that they stay,
but they couldnt bear another day.

there was a howl, but different here,
and the wolf knew who as she drew near,
a fiery she-wolf with bushy tail,
supple curves in lush detail.

the wolf then turned his head away,
his heart shattered by her one day.
the spirit wolf sought escape,
from the blue whisps, insanity's cape.

she foxily welcomed his inner burning,
cast her affections to his heart yearning.
they howled together, to regions yon,
but the wolf in black had long since gone.

the spirit wolf sought to find him,
found him panting at blue whisps whim.
"i long for my heart, wish it entrance,
by another heart, so we may dance."

the spirit wolf knew the pain inside his brother,
longing pain, want of aching burn of another.
the dark wolf sighed and began to go,
dragging tail and head held low.
The spirit wolf wished that he could ease,
the dull throbbing pain, not caused by fleas.
he listened to the dark wolf's cry,
mourning howl, shouted to the sky.

O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung
   By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,
And pardon that thy secrets should be sung
   Even into thine own soft-conched ear:
Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see
   The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes?
I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly,
   And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,
Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side
   In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof
   Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran
       A brooklet, scarce espied:

Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed,
   Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian,
They lay calm-breathing, on the bedded grass;
   Their arms embraced, and their pinions too;
   Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu,
As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber,
And ready still past kisses to outnumber
   At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love:
       The winged boy I knew;
But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?
       His Psyche true!

O latest born and loveliest vision far
   Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy!
Fairer than Ph{oe}be's sapphire-region'd star,
   Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky;
Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,
       Nor altar heap'd with flowers;
Nor ******-choir to make delicious moan
       Upon the midnight hours;
No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet
   From chain-swung censer teeming;
No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat
   Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.

O brightest! though too late for antique vows,
   Too, too late for the fond believing lyre,
When holy were the haunted forest boughs,
   Holy the air, the water, and the fire;
Yet even in these days so far retir'd
   From happy pieties, thy lucent fans,
   Fluttering among the faint Olympians,
I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspir'd.
So let me be thy choir, and make a moan
       Upon the midnight hours;
Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet
   From swinged censer teeming;
Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat
   Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.

Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane
   In some untrodden region of my mind,
Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain,
   Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:
Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees
   Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep;
And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,
   The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep;
And in the midst of this wide quietness
A rosy sanctuary will I dress
With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain,
   With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,
With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign,
   Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same:
And there shall be for thee all soft delight
   That shadowy thought can win,
A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,
   To let the warm Love in!

Lo! where the rosy-bosomed Hours,
Fair Venus’ train, appear,
Disclose the long-expecting flowers,
And wake the purple year!
The Attic warbler pours her throat,
Responsive to the cuckoo’s note,
The untaught harmony of spring:
While, whisp’ring pleasure as they fly,
Cool Zephyrs thro’ the clear blue sky
Their gathered fragrance fling.

Where’er the oak’s thick branches stretch
A broader browner shade,
Where’er the rude and moss-grown beech
O’er-canopies the glade,
Beside some water’s rushy brink
With me the Muse shall sit, and think
(At ease reclined in rustic state)
How vain the ardour of the Crowd,
How low, how little are the Proud,
How indigent the Great!

Still is the toiling hand of Care;
The panting herds repose:
Yet hark, how through the peopled air
The busy murmur glows!
The insect-youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honied spring
And float amid the liquid noon:
Some lightly o’er the current skim,
Some show their gayly-gilded trim
Quick-glancing to the sun.

To Contemplation’s sober eye
Such is the race of Man:
And they that creep, and they that fly,
Shall end where they began.
Alike the Busy and the Gay
But flutter thro’ life’s little day,
In Fortune’s varying colours drest:
Brushed by the hand of rough Mischance,
Or chilled by Age, their airy dance
They leave, in dust to rest.

Methinks I hear, in accents low,
The sportive kind reply:
Poor moralist! and what art thou?
A solitary fly!
Thy joys no glittering female meets,
No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,
No painted plumage to display:
On hasty wings thy youth is flown;
Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone—
We frolic while ’tis May.

Arise, my soul, on wings enraptur’d, rise
To praise the monarch of the earth and skies,
Whose goodness and benificence appear
As round its centre moves the rolling year,
Or when the morning glows with rosy charms,
Or the sun slumbers in the ocean’s arms:
Of light divine be a rich portion lent
To guide my soul, and favour my intend.
Celestial muse, my arduous flight sustain
And raise my mind to a seraphic strain!
  Ador’d for ever be the God unseen,
Which round the sun revolves this vast machine,
Though to his eye its mass a point appears:
Ador’d the God that whirls surrounding spheres,
Which first ordain’d that mighty Sol should reign
The peerless monarch of th’ ethereal train:
Of miles twice forty millions is his height,
And yet his radiance dazzles mortal sight
So far beneath—from him th’ extended earth
Vigour derives, and ev’ry flow’ry birth:
Vast through her orb she moves with easy grace
Around her Phoebus in unbounded space;
True to her course th’ impetuous storm derides,
Triumphant o’er the winds, and surging tides.
  Almighty, in these wond’rous works of thine,
What Pow’r, what Wisdom, and what Goodness shine!
And are thy wonders, Lord, by men explor’d,
And yet creating glory unador’d!
  Creation smiles in various beauty gay,
While day to night, and night succeeds to day:
That Wisdom, which attends Jehovah’s ways,
Shines most conspicuous in the solar rays:
Without them, destitute of heat and light,
This world would be the reign of endless night:
In their excess how would our race complain,
Abhorring life! how hate its length’ned chain!
From air adust what num’rous ills would rise?
What dire contagion taint the burning skies?
What pestilential vapours, fraught with death,
Would rise, and overspread the lands beneath?
  Hail, smiling morn, that from the orient main
Ascending dost adorn the heav’nly plain!
So rich, so various are thy beauteous dies,
That spread through all the circuit of the skies,
That, full of thee, my soul in rapture soars,
And thy great God, the cause of all adores.
  O’er beings infinite his love extends,
His Wisdom rules them, and his Pow’r defends.
When tasks diurnal tire the human frame,
The spirits faint, and dim the vital flame,
Then too that ever active bounty shines,
Which not infinity of space confines.
The sable veil, that Night in silence draws,
Conceals effects, but shows th’ Almighty Cause,
Night seals in sleep the wide creation fair,
And all is peaceful but the brow of care.
Again, gay Phoebus, as the day before,
Wakes ev’ry eye, but what shall wake no more;
Again the face of nature is renew’d,
Which still appears harmonious, fair, and good.
May grateful strains salute the smiling morn,
Before its beams the eastern hills adorn!
  Shall day to day, and night to night conspire
To show the goodness of the Almighty Sire?
This mental voice shall man regardless hear,
And never, never raise the filial pray’r?
To-day, O hearken, nor your folly mourn
For time mispent, that never will return.
     But see the sons of vegetation rise,
And spread their leafy banners to the skies.
All-wise Almighty Providence we trace
In trees, and plants, and all the flow’ry race;
As clear as in the nobler frame of man,
All lovely copies of the Maker’s plan.
The pow’r the same that forms a ray of light,
That call d creation from eternal night.
“Let there be light,” he said: from his profound
Old Chaos heard, and trembled at the sound:
Swift as the word, inspir’d by pow’r divine,
Behold the light around its Maker shine,
The first fair product of th’ omnific God,
And now through all his works diffus’d abroad.
     As reason’s pow’rs by day our God disclose,
So we may trace him in the night’s repose:
Say what is sleep? and dreams how passing strange!
When action ceases, and ideas range
Licentious and unbounded o’er the plains,
Where Fancy’s queen in giddy triumph reigns.
Hear in soft strains the dreaming lover sigh
To a kind fair, or rave in jealousy;
On pleasure now, and now on vengeance bent,
The lab’ring passions struggle for a vent.
What pow’r, O man! thy reason then restores,
So long suspended in nocturnal hours?
What secret hand returns the mental train,
And gives improv’d thine active pow’rs again?
From thee, O man, what gratitude should rise!
And, when from balmy sleep thou op’st thine eyes,
Let thy first thoughts be praises to the skies.
How merciful our God who thus imparts
O’erflowing tides of joy to human hearts,
When wants and woes might be our righteous lot,
Our God forgetting, by our God forgot!
  Among the mental pow’rs a question rose,
“What most the image of th’ Eternal shows?”
When thus to Reason (so let Fancy rove)
Her great companion spoke immortal Love.
  “Say, mighty pow’r, how long shall strife prevail,
“And with its murmurs load the whisp’ring gale?
“Refer the cause to Recollection’s shrine,
“Who loud proclaims my origin divine,
“The cause whence heav’n and earth began to be,
“And is not man immortaliz’d by me?
“Reason let this most causeless strife subside.”
Thus Love pronounc’d, and Reason thus reply’d.
  “Thy birth, coelestial queen! ’tis mine to own,
“In thee resplendent is the Godhead shown;
“Thy words persuade, my soul enraptur’d feels
“Resistless beauty which thy smile reveals.”
Ardent she spoke, and, kindling at her charms,
She clasp’d the blooming goddess in her arms.
  Infinite Love where’er we turn our eyes
Appears: this ev’ry creature’s wants supplies;
This most is heard in Nature’s constant voice,
This makes the morn, and this the eve rejoice;
This bids the fost’ring rains and dews descend
To nourish all, to serve one gen’ral end,
The good of man: yet man ungrateful pays
But little homage, and but little praise.
To him, whose works arry’d with mercy shine,
What songs should rise, how constant, how divine!

the lapping water drifting to the sand,
the smugglers hurry o'er the silver wave,
a rose-moon blushing where the waters lave
and moonlight glistens on the breezy strand.
the oars are steady, gliding to the land
the stroke of midnight near a watery cave,
their whisp'ring feet run silent as a grave                                              
to its dark reach to hide the contraband.
the waves roll mistily with honeyed breath
the sky, a vault of iron, weeps a tear,
the sweeping waters break and start to veer,
a gold tooth glints, the night as black as death,
a dreadful shout, the watch is drawing near,
how suddenly their faces pall with fear!

On the table , over there by the woven chair,
a box of prize possesions still line up there.
Left unattended, as if in a rush...
something is now missing...something he used to touch.

Let us flip the page of time, perhapes a few days back.
Count the items that were in the box, perhapes something
is a lack.
A ball of string, so carefully rolled, a coin with faded date.
A photo of a lovely girl and a flag of the United States.
A ring  and then a whisp of hair, human one would hope
and then a little soldier of tin , the hero of the show.
This tin soldier had seen the world, in the hands of the holder.
Seen him slip and fall, civilian and a soldier.
Listens to him as he thinks. Stands by as he cried.
Looked away when words were cursed, felt warm when he saw him smile.
The night was all as usual, the holder had been gone for a few days.
He entered ,sat down at the chair, all seemed normal one would say.
First came out the flag, quite moments would follow that.
Then the photo, ring and hair, normally the holder would sit back.
This time the holder knelt by the fire and the tin soldier strained to see,
the holder cried more then usual, the tin soldier wondered what could it be.
Then came a string of curses and a rush of air,
the tin soldier was caught up in the moment, quite unprepared.
As he layed to close to the flames, he felt his time draw near.....
the final moments as he left he could see the holder clear......

So now the room is empty. The table left untouched.
The holder left and never returned, he had lost all so much.
Tin soldiers they say are a dime a dozen, funny, kind of like us.
It's how we are lined up for the play, what we see or touch... the tin man melts away...we return to dust.

Yourhandsyourfingersyourpalms,
Twined, a vine, delicate and proper
-The one point of softness in you,
I swear-
Around a cigarette that whispers its
Spiral tower wisps
Before it sizzles when you bite it
By accident (you say)
Before it whimpers, and gives-
The best way to die, surely,
To die on the pad of the tip of your
Finger protruding out your
Lovely balmy palm-
Look pretty fab I think! I want
To jump into them
So you can hold me so close
And I can crawl over, unsteady
On new, shortened (further!) legs
To the point on your wrist where
Your heart throbs the most
(And set up camp there).
In other words,
Be mine.

False memories and track marks pave your arms
Sudden revolt of youth pressurised to fail
Painkillers doubled and stacked for a head to slumber
Soft heads and dead leg spasm attack pillow piddles in *****
Fictitious tesla coil blue breath mortifys mortality
And your goggles won't fog out the underwater current miscellaneous
Digital tectonic pushing ideas you brainstorm
Shadowed reluctance to consume the musk of infrared roses
This romance is one that was jealous of itself
Pre-divorced in its own certainty on incompatibility
Basin top full too top heavy to predict precarious
Living in a shaded sense of erased memory lapses continuing truth
Toward magnificent still life categorised by perdition
Forward thinking ruby gold phong shaded hatred quantum conversate Unthinkable
Nebula of gas
Face first head in hands
Euthanasia between my thighs crush my head
Choked neck
Throat
Strangle me and give me breath
I roll and the conductor pulls apart my mouth
Diseased by euphoria lips separate and teeth show
Pupils land home and iris jumps ship
Perfume gum dry bitter butterfly kiss
Head held back in place tongue falls back into the razor-front of the mouth
Caution held simultaneous irrelevant body load carries my smile
Jump knee deep into the silence of my own lungs
It's been a while
I breath vindictively in time with the respiration of the country
Somewhere out in the hexagon sun I burn candles and whisp
Hold in smoke
Die
Twitch forward in palliative peace motionless and still
Cuspids and lochs
Spread across the grass the harmony touches yours and mine
A hole and whole dream
Conscious and dead
Content
Voices rattle in unified mono-chromidity
Sadness
Carrion

You were filled with a glass-glow light when I saw you.
Radiant in the dappled night, bright in the darkest night.

*You were my deception, you were my ruin

She chases autumn leaves
As though they’re
Wild scurrying mice,
Of brown and red,
And yellow ochre.
There’s a flurry of leaves
As she pounces onto her
Imaginary foe,
Which barely escapes.
She carefully peers beneath
Her soft playful paws.
In a whisp of crisp air,
It vanishes.

Introduction
I stroll through green fields and realise I am home.
I bump against soft sandalwood: a fence –
And hang my head and weep

For Ginsberg, Whitman, and all the other cats clawing for tender acceptance
Strolling through ashen fields in rainbow night
Tugging on tender trestles of old mother crop of hair south
Casting to sky thine eye as black and white lights
Of rainbow night do fizzle and pop and – Oops!
Great incomparable fusion atom generator on the fritz
Once more the Centre of Cosmos choking and clouded with splutter.
As thine eye doth dissolve and revolve and resolve and see, from vantage point on high:
O Hell! O Eternal abyss of Chiaro-night, I am surrounded!
Thy Holy field lies cut and sliced by old tree corpses – lined up in terrible order by tender hand imbued
Thou might turn and run and screech impaled or *whisp inhaled by gasping trees, by dying trees, by dead trees who breathe.
And spat upon the lawn whence thou were born,
No matter the crop nor scenery.

I dont know if its just these pillows,
but my body doesnt want to get up.
But sweetie when you leave me,
and my side feels vacant,
I dont want too, becomes a common phrase.
I am not sure if thats good or bad.
That I want to always be with you.
I'm in love, what can I say?
and being in love means never going away.
Honey, I dont mean to tie you down,
But next time you leave,
whisp me away with you?
I want to adventure too.
I dont like sitting at home, and waiting for you to come back.
Take me next time, or else dont go.
We've spent to much time apart,
and though I want you to go and explore,
never truly depart from me.

To see another sky, another river, I
wanted to be as free as you always say that I am.
When just yesterday, a
letter stole my speech, a whisp
of the person I was moments before-- one full of
promise and expectation. I was now a
passenger whose flight was delayed. A woman
undesirably caught
between hometown comfort, and hometown purgatory in
which I couldn’t locate Hope, until you, and a
faint voice within, whispered that dreams grow with a gust,
strengthened by adversity. Of
course, the wind
still disheveled my hair, and stripped away at walls that I
built up, tactfully, for rejection. But this too will disappear,
with a greater gust, bellowing high above me, like
A robust cloud of thickening smoke.

Anna Blake




The Golden Shovel Reference

“I Try”
By the Staves


“I am a whisp of a woman, caught in a gust of wind, I disappear like smoke.”

I
--
The LORD is asking, “Do you trust Me, child?”
And surely He is worthy of all trust,
but visceral reactions oft’ seem just
in keeping soul’s anxieties well riled.
While panic, shame and dread stir doubting winds,
obsessive, tight, compulsive thoughts pour fuel
into this downward spiraling boil of gruel
where toxic interactions breed more sins.
So for relationships I feel unfit,
and now old interests die and pleasures wane,
as each new hope in Earth’s good brings fresh pain,
where dark depression’s presently my bit.
Yet in this wilderness I hear God call,
“Child, look to Me. I am your ALL in all.”

II
--
I meditate upon the word of God
to heal a mind that’s broken from the fall,
and lying in morn’s bed I now recall
the former paths of fullness I have trod.
I clear the course of tangling debris
that fogs perspective’s distance-viewing sight
and clogs the narrow way which lets in light,
so with God’s truth I’m able to agree.
I gaze toward the future that is sure,
to glory that is promised out of trial.
I push through lying voices of denial,
rememb’ring my inheritance secure.
So healing first begins by sizing scope,
for in true measure I can grasp true hope.

III
---
Long sheltered in the recesses of mind
on pedestals that overshadow truth
are lies which I have entertained since youth
like tape recordings stuck on forced rewind.    
There‘s something of appeal in misbelief,
some comforting, perverted, dressed-up face
which keeps foul strongholds rooted into place
and lets such rotten seedlings harvest grief.  
But I must choose to undermine their message,
uncovering deception’s hidden lairs
whose cultivation grounds for growing tares
leave roadblocks to integrity’s safe passage.
God’s probing, piercing words—what precious gifts!—
can excavate, expose and extract myths.

IV
---
I apprehend these truths in David’s psalm:
“I’m fearfully and wonderfully made,”
and all my days of life are firmly laid
within the sovereign care of God’s own palm.
And yet another voice keeps creeping out.
“You’re too unfit for blessed community,
hence from belonging full immunity
is your dim lot,” says paralyzing Doubt.
For ‘gainst the Word that says I‘m rightly hewn
rub all the bristling edges of myself,
but would one set forever on a shelf
a Bösendorfer piano out of tune?
No, value is a function of creation,
and He who made has promised restoration.

V
--
Restoration’s anchored in redemption,
and my redemption‘s grounded in God’s love.
Nowhere in far reaches man has thought of
could mind unfurl the breadth of such conception.
Sloshing, hesitating in the shallows,
I wander close to shore in Love‘s vast sea.
Then from the swell I hear a coaxing plea
to dive into the deeper wake of hallows.
What‘s this weight that pins my frame from racing
toward His unknown billows of delight?
Do I not trust that He will clasp me tight,
help me bear the fiercest waves I’m facing?
What guile of devils am I heeding here
which keeps me bound by paralyzing fear?

VI
---
Disheartened by my want for firm resolve
to swim toward agápē’s unplumbed depths
for int’macy with Him who paid my debts—
the only One from sin who can absolve,
I wander, wond‘ring what I’ve missed to see
within my comprehension of Christ‘s love
when He would vacate majesty above
and suffer cruelest death to set me free.
They stripped Him, flogged Him, spit, pulled out His beard,
then pressed a crown of thorns down on His head.
They nailed Him to rough cross to leave for dead—
Creator of the world now by it jeered.
In love this traitor by her King was served:
Christ Jesus bore God‘s wrath which I deserved!

VII
----
Considering what labors Christ performed
to buy my freedom off sin’s slav’ry block
that of His fullness, with Him, I could walk
in resurrected life (not just reformed),
can I not trust that He will see me through
each trial, tribulation, sorrow, loss
when He would not forsake me at the cross
but carried all my grief and suff‘ring too?
And just as death‘s cold grave could not contain
my Savior but gave way to watch Him rise,
whatever loss my path has to comprise
shall work for me eternal glorious gain.
So while my courage may still be in lack,
the settled thing is there’s no turning back.

VIII
-----
Wading through fresh tidal pools of mercy
along a piece of coast that‘s not too wide—
among the crags and caves where stragglers hide,
hoping to evade crowd controversy—
I know I‘ll have to move on before long.
But in the warm meanwhile of the day,
I kneel to rest; and as I start to pray,
my heart begins to open to a song—
a gentle, soothing lullaby I’ve known
sung to the tune of ‘Eventide‘ as hymn,
reminder that this life is fading, dim
but that in Christ I never walk alone.
And as I raise the words, “Abide with me…,”
here comes my Shepherd, walking by the sea.

IX
---
What now is this waylaying, sin-sick soul?
Diversional winds from cliffside descend.
Where‘s pressing fire my devotions attend?
Brain‘s robbed of sanity, sleep, self-control.
Jesus comes near numb heart in distraction
and bids me again to clean deadwood out.
Jesus, I‘m desperate, drowning in doubt!
Help me expel what‘s needing subtraction!
Discipline, prudence, wisdom, contentment
can work to restore both body and brain,
while worship will lift locked heart from restraint—
its untethering from woe’s resentment.
I won‘t, without wisdom, taste truest Love,
yet Love holds true keys to wisdom above.

X
--
Mottling mind’s hazed subconscious sockets—
bedecked by ego’s restless crave for fill—
infections grow to permeate my will,
ladening, with dross, affection‘s pockets.
Foul seepage soon coagulates to plaque,
forces clefts which weaken my foundation,
foments psyche’s stormed disintegration
till half-light’s flushing falls to midnight‘s black.
Yet amid murk‘s rotting, rank confusion
with ev‘ry faculty succumbed to rift,
My Shepherd plucks me fiercely from the cliff,
tending thorn-torn blight with Love‘s ablution.
Healing, though, requires my surrender—
all cooperation I can lend 'her.'

XI
---
Jesus asked a question at Bethesda,
the pool by which an invalid was lain,
for thirty-eight lost years left in his pain—
twisted, timed, tormenting, teared siesta.
“Do you desire to be made well?” He asked.
“I’ve none to help me!” was the plaintive cry,
then Jesus spoke miraculous reply
that to get up and walk the man was tasked.
That’s not to say all healing will be found
within this present life of ills and woes,
but still I hear Christ probing through the throes
if I am truly willing to be sound.
Or would I rather lie on crippling bed,
an invalid of spirit, heart and head?

XII
----
Shuffling through some past miscalculations
surrounding toxic breakage of the vines
that ought secure the healthy bound’ry lines  
guarding interpersonal relations—
rememb‘ring my susceptibility
to ego-shuttled, codependent err‘rs
which strain to manage others‘ own affairs
and so invert responsibility—
I ponder if I‘ll ever grow to learn
proper seeds for sowing mutual trust
with vital tools for gently sanding rust
to help stave off a bondship‘s breaking-burn.
One thing I know, that trusting in the LORD
steers love‘s impetus to carry forward.

XIII
-------
“I’m not enough and yet too much,” I've read.
Succinctly that describes my current angst,
and I can‘t justify to war against
these arguments which whirl around my head.
I’ve been told, “You’re just a little intense,”
by many people, not just one or two,
and this they voice clangs manifestly true,
as gaping holes defect my bound‘ry fence.
Voluminous in content and in force,
bestowing as prized gifts what isn‘t sought
or wanted by those for whom gifts are brought,
I falter in my need to change set course.
And where it comes to giving what‘s desired,
real competence seems found to have expired.

XIV
-----
Someone wrote, “true soul mate is a mirror“—
like limelight they‘ll reveal your unseen faults.
Where no one else delights to search your vaults,
“soul mate“ renders time to be apt hearer.
It matters not, was said, that they don‘t stay,
so long as they‘re an agent for reform—
the one who makes you desp‘rate to transform
by breaking heart and making ego fray.
Danger lies in nuanced underpinnings.
I thought I‘d found my soul mate in abuse
and used “he needs my fuel“ as excuse
to take a twisted game to extra innings.
Here I’ll grant these crazed imaginations
were at core demonic machinations.

XV
-----
Casting down romantic schoolgirl notions
that sin-drenched bonds might fashion souls complete,
I drag bewitching grails to Jesus’ feet—
spurning now to drink past guile‘s potions.
As I linger longer in His presence,
I‘m freshly bathed from marring guilt and shame,
reminded I‘m made whole in Jesus‘ Name—
partaker in the fullness of His essence.
Identified eternally with Christ,
secured by His unfailing love through grace,
one day I‘ll walk perfected face-to-face
with Him from whom true life is all-sufficed.
And as I muse, I taste true heart‘s desire—
rekindling, renewed with holy fire.

XVI
-----
Attitude is prime, determinant hinge
on which the door of restoration swings—
deciding what response subconscious brings
and on which morsels mind should bestly binge.
Plenty is dependent on perspective.
Mountain, plain or valley alter sight 
and size by which is measured present, plight.
Simply switching lens can be corrective.
In Christ, Ephesians tells me, I‘ve been raised,
seated with Him in the heavenly realm—
positioned by the One who steers the helm
that Father, Son and Spirit would be praised!
Worship, like a rudder, sets the outlook
to keep me highly grounded in God‘s Book.

XVII
------
Why should I to the worship of false gods
surrender my outlook frivolously?
Idols grab first gaze notoriously,
rob joy as will‘s defenses yield heart‘s nods.
What then? Can I suppose I might steal back
a measure of exuberance through more
skewed genuflecting to gilt calf before—
itself beleaguered, plagued by woeful lack?
Now heed, wayfaring soul of mine, what‘s true:
Creation‘s bounty-goods will make you slave
and with sweet Siren‘s flutes your mind deprave
when to them you lend focus Christ is due.
Lay firm your eyes on Him—pure, restful bed,
cover, fuel, completer, Fountainhead.

XVIII
-------
Wandering down some cobbled, crowded street,
I‘m nowhere headed, rapt in mindless thought,  
and as I saunter south I happ‘ly spot
a friend long-lost but fiercely longed to meet.
Just up ahead, he’s mixed well in the throng
but might be caught if I push through and race!
Heartbeat quickens. Oh, to see his face,
this one with whom I’m sure I must belong!
Yet when I actually seize him and he turns,
I’m devastated, sunk. It isn’t him.
Then moping northbound—dazed, dejected whim—
I stumble on the One for whom heart burns!
How strange, as I had grappled, chased and shoved,
that I’d been running from the One I loved!

XIX
-----
He‘s reservoir for which parched spirit begs,
familial feast cast heart longs to attend,  
elixir fractured psyche craves, to mend,
secure foundation ‘neath soul‘s skittish legs.
Jesus is hearth fire, garden blooming,
joy‘s kiss that welcomes prodigals with tears,
arms’ tender brawn consoling weak ones‘ fears,
shelt‘ring lullaby as nightstorm‘s looming.
Who else can scatter stars, strew mountain snow,
to whet beloved‘s taste for pristine grace?
What other love’s like this, that He‘d embrace
excruciating death to grace bestow?
And best, most faithful lovers of this earth?—
dull pennies next to Christ‘s resplendent worth!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

VOLUME II:
(** — XXXII) [Edited in 9/27-29/21]

**
----
Closing the door on chaining obsessions
requires some short-circuiting of thought
previously allowed to flow uncaught
and forge ever-deepening depressions.
Pathways in my brain can be rerouted
by changing interactions with my world,
observing what’s most easily unfurled—
presently what’s to five senses suited.
‘Mindfulness’ can be a Christian practice
and doesn’t have to rest on Buddha’s shelf—
“awak’ning non-existence of the self”—
or from unseen, eternal things distract us.
True mindfulness is found in gratitude—
joyful, eucharisteo attitude.

XXI
-----
A biblical version of ‘mindfulness‘
is found in 1 Thessalonians 5,
revealing as God’s will that saints should strive
for ever-prayerful joy and thankfulness.
Pond‘rous gratitude staves off resentment,
greed and pride. As was taught to Timothy,
what‘s created and giv‘n by God should be
received in sacred thanks with contentment.
Creation reflects God‘s bounteous glory
and demonstrates His loving grace and care,
so in same grace and glory we can share
each time we recognize Him in our story.
Ten thousand tiny gifts write each day‘s page,
and he who welcomes most is most like sage.

XXII
------
In restoration, elasticity
of mind is a factor to celebrate.
So please don‘t ever underestimate
the wonders of neuroplasticity.
New brainpaths form and old channels falter,
depending on what choices I might make.
Fresh experience of which I partake
will physically help my brain to alter.
Here‘s one great hope I must now remember:
What’s hardwired today can still be displaced,
and thoughts might soon flow on paths greenly graced,
as I feast my soul’s eyes on brain’s Mender.
Bent mindfulness toward Giver and His gifts
best brings joy‘s healing for my mental rifts.

XXIII
-------
Realizations that some obsessions
are desires to vicariously ride
the mindfulness of others who don‘t hide
their own keener sensory possessions,
aptly are aiding to turn my focus
from curiosity to understand
their thoughts, which often‘s led my heart-demand—
want to consume their minds‘ crops like locusts.
What I‘ve perceived as love, concern to know,
empathy for others‘ worlds internal,
might be more escape from mine external—
attempts to hide from life‘s real, present show.
Avoidance wears all sorts of vibrant masks
to keep me blinded to here-moments‘ tasks.

XXIV
-------
Viewing secondhand eviscerations,
as others spill their innards on the page,
may seem the safest way to heart engage—
surrogated life participation.
Substituting others‘ honed perceptions
where I ought learn observance of my own
will keep childlike experience ungrown,
smother creativity’s conceptions.
Social media’s pitfalls lie therein,
along with greater dangers lurking large.
Despite its many goods, there’s needed charge
that gorging on a good thing leads to sin.
Shutting website windows is like trailhead,
opening mountain path to higher tread.

XXV
------
I‘m learning to sit with anxiety
raised by self-denial of habit’s fix,
mindful how my heart solicits tricks  
to alternate for true society.
Discomfort speaks in volumes to soul’s ear
like smoke alarm alerting to a fire.
It tells me, “Quick, investigate! Inquire!
Please find the source of inner burning fear!”
Nervousness as friend might offer insight
if I can hear and listen to its warning,
objectively without the shame-filled scorning
that tends to follow panic-stricken plight.
Practice putting tension in glass cage
to monitor its undercurrent’s rage.

XXVI
-------
It’s time to preach a sermon to myself,
for fears are overtaking me in waves;
and spirit must combat what habit craves—
flesh seeking consolation in false pelf.
Scrutinize what’s underneath such worry.
Do I believe the LORD is still in charge
of details of my life and world at large?
Look to Him. Don’t yield to anxious hurry.
Do I believe He’s with me and He’s good,
a faithful Shepherd tending to each need?
Then look to Him. Don’t drown in fretting’s greed.
Christ’s sheep don’t have to look elsewhere for food.
Each wait is opportunity to grow,
for God has holy riches to bestow.

XXVII
--------
God’s character and sovereign wisdom hem
my life, as His responsibility.
No wrong will steal my true identity,
whatever slips or schemes might spill from men.
Christ’s Ruler over all, but do I let
Him fully reign as Master in my heart?
Do I acknowledge I’m His work of art
and purpose for His hammers, chisels get?
Intimacy and glory are the friends
to which His sanctifying lessons point
and meld together as love’s dovetail joint
whenever I surrender to these ends.
Soul, set your hope on grace to be revealed.
Entrust to God strain’s mysteries still sealed.

XXVIII
---------
LORD, HELP! Why is my mind so distracted?
And why then, letting it be drawn away
for half an hour, am I now okay
to let my compulsions be retracted?
Give in to let go feels like solution,
but know it only deepens the desire
for later curiosity‘s inquire—
grants no satisfying resolution.
Those thirty minutes mindfulness was lost,
yet could it be empowered by the fall,
as I look closer inside to recall
that giving way to habit bears great cost?
I won‘t grow discouraged by the setback
but seek to further understand self‘s lack.

XXIX
-------
Low-pitched, humming anxiousness was sitting
all day inside my torso‘s cavity.
Mindful sensing lent no gravity
to coax the stubborn squatter through outwitting.
Head was tired from too little sleeping,
so frankly seemed to coast and just make do.
Soul felt no fresh excitement by woods‘ view
and lacked bright energy for much guard keeping.
One moral of this story is night‘s rest
must become priority for healing.
Otherwise this shaky default feeling
will grow into another panicked crest.
Though it‘s no excuse to say I‘m tired,
it‘s clear reformed sleep habits are required.

***
------
Changing what’s practical opens a door
to transforming what’s spiritual, mental
and emotionally experiential.
Habit alterations might well restore
enough equilibrium of body,
restfulness, clarity, reason and time
to give me needed aid to better climb
above oppressive moods, both low and haughty.
“Early to bed, early to rise...”could be
one thing to make a world of difference
and welcome back some simple common sense,
to open up new space for setting free.
But for that discipline to take effect,
I’ll also have to curb the internet!

XXXI
-------
Every opportunity for worry
is greater opportunity to trust
that God behind the scenes is sanding rust
from parts of me where fear has made faith blurry.
Without unknowing-gusts to stir the pit
of nervousness inside my helplessness,
I might ne‘er seek my Shepherd‘s faithfulness
nor learn to wait on Him and with Him sit.
These are times of richest growing lessons
when I‘m reminded He is LORD, not me,
and that He works to draw in int‘macy
feeble souls to Him through stretching sessions.
Joy is knowing sure—head, heart and will—
He‘s ever whisp‘ring, “Child, come closer still.“

XXXII
--------
Recapping basic steps to take thus far:
Find sleep (which may mean need for melatonin
to counteract my haywire serotonin),
and overuse of internet I‘ll bar.
Then with restfulness bring mindful thinking—
keen noticing that‘s graced with gratitude
and sets a stronger skyward attitude,
buoys me up against fret‘s downward sinking.
More important still is meditation
upon the word of God‘s indicatives
which lay foundations for imperatives
to follow as prescriptive medication.
Most crucial element preventing fall
is fix my eyes on Jesus through it all!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Today, I want to sink my chest into yours.
Your heart pumping blood through my veins for a bit, mine doesn't want to anymore.
Let's trade.
I'll put my brain on ice.
Wash this skull cavity with some minty fresh chemical while my wrinkled pink mother board discovers cryogenics.
When I place it back Into my tingly, almost numb now, chemical washed head
I will still feel heavy.
I want to turn to a whisp.
Like the Night Elves in World of Warcraft.
A floating blue orb of energy
Just a spirit, weightless.
Let me live as electricity, like that spark you felt .
Like that spark they all felt.
Place me in the power lines so I can power houselights and televisions.
Let me be usefull for something again.
Don't convert my head though.
Keep that on Ice.
Better still, creamate
everything but my heart.
Let the ashes get caught
in carpets and drain pipes
Kept in little ziplock baggies,
Tucked in a wooden box,
Kept back seat of my mothers car,
So she can hold it once in awhile.
Until she parks her car in a bad part of town
And a homeless man breaks in
Doesn't steal the gps, or her wallet on the front seat,
But snorts me three hours later
Thinking he just hit the jack ***.
That's where I want to be.

In the lungs of some car burglar
Where his addiction should have been,
coughing on my ashes.

He won't get my heart though.
Keep that frozen in a white room.
Smelling of copper, by a tray of tools,
Latex gloves and paper masks.

One day, thaw it out
bring life to someone.

The silky touch of flesh against the rough texture of leather
The exotic smells of *** mingled with fresh candles

The pale *** unmarked so different
Than the well marked ***

A cane with a wicked whish falls across porcelain skin
The cries of pain, anguish, despair
Actually in reality are cries of pleasure, need, and desire

No No she cries when her body says YES! YES!
Writhing against binds that hold her
The muscles strain against the ties

Pulling against them as the cane continues to mark her fine flesh
Straining for release
But afraid to release

The Man’s firm touch demanding nothing yet everything

Whish
Whisp
Whish

Nice stripes across the ****** ***
Lovely welts of color across the thighs
Well placed marks

The girl dazed as the moisture drips from her ****
Unable to stop the bodies response to this brutality
Her mind fighting it over and over
Her body relishing it like a wonderful spa treatment

The cane firm as the girl fights

Whish
Whish
Whack

Each mark landing in that one particular spot untouched
The feelings building inside

Hotter, oh god so hot
Panting through the pain yet the immense heat exploding within
Twisting, pulling, yanking on the binds

Feeling the pressure growing moving to the edge
Eyes closing as the well placed marks continue to thrash her flesh
The cane moving to another spot

The rigid *******, then the dripping ****
Sliding the cane back and forth
Back and forth against that swollen ****

Finally submitting to the fires that burst free all at once
Screaming out as the desire bursts free

FREEDOM!!!

Body jerking with intensity of the ******
Body on fire from the stripes of the vicious cane
Crying out as spasm after spasm soars through her aching body


Tears fall from the overwhelming emotions that rage within her head
His hands smoothing the tears away as He cuts her down

Carrying her to the bed
Cradling her through the turmoil
Always there for questions
He is there for her fears
And most of all there to heal any wounds

Thank You Master for freeing me

Thank You Master for showing me just how ****** I am

Thank You Master for all that You teach me

His hands begin to explore her striped flesh
Pinching the stripes until she is once more putty in His artful hands

Crying out for more
Begging and pleading to pleasure Him
His whisper reaches her ears

My pleasure love is seeing you let go
Seeing you surrender your all to Me

Show me
Let it go
Give Me it all


And of course she did over time
then time
and time again

Written By: Niyahlove aka niyah2  All rights reserved

a silent scream in my bones
hollow harrowing thorns
acid rain cacophany
words whisp off hot sidewalks
vanishing into thin air
intentions crumbling
dried black roses

poison darts
my rice-paper heart
alert and acute
to the wrong signs
a child digging worms
for a sunny fishing day
freshly hatched baby vipers
deadly fangs felt like kisses
somehow betrayed
by youthful innocence

I can feel the winter frost
The cold breeze biting at me
I can see the cracked ground
I know its the end of me
The days are shorter
The nights are colder
The trees are dying
My bones are shrivelled
Now I'm getting weak
Dry and brittle almost gone
I'm tearing apart
Winter brings my death
And I'll be gone away
Forgotten like a whisp
Something I used to be
I don't have nine lives
But I lived to only see
A world too big for a leaf like me

:::::::::When head wears a crown
of cumbersome thoughts... confused, in a crowd...
and heaven and earth drop clouds that shroud
followed by roaring thunder and flashes of lightning
God, they are  overwhelming---
we take moments to reflect...try hard not to panic
it won't help, to think we're depressive, or manic,
we know ourselves well...yet, when we feel the end is nigh
gasp, for precious air...try to give out a long sigh,
an Energy leads us, to persist...walk on, head up high...
there's a quiet, sacred place, our heart and soul know,
visible, or imagined quiet space, where we're heard, where blows
a whisp'ring breeze...ripples softly hum, rivers peacefully flow...
our sanctuary waits, a Voice leads us, what to do, where to go:::::
:::::::::::::::::::


Sally

Copyright July 31, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

North cornered near the glass ain't gonna' last
Cause the money is running out
It's running out fast
Nickel and dimed' burning money burning pride
With the liquor stores all closing and mother mary praying whispering
"Sarah, sarah, sarah..."
No names in these streets empty touched' defeat
The meat is getting angrier surlier burlier
The heat is getting heavier breathier and touchier
Blankets burn in the Connecticut sun mother mouths something
But I can't make it out
With these posters on these white walls falling for their own droll
Committed to the picnic that is not life at all
Putrid in these notes that sail through the air never fail
With the heart that once was held
By a women that I thought I'd take the time to know
But then the winds came with the side ways rain
All that pain that I couldn't bare or understand to stay
There was the window washing maniacs pinching pennies
Letting go of their soul for another side dish and entree of dough
Ploughing through their TV screens which falls through their skin like
Love used to do but in the blue hue there was nothing
They could bear to do
Bear man breaks open the skin flecked electro heart machine
Shocking every last one of us past the point of divinity
Already through the heart and mind and limb of man
Into the skin and the blood and the beating eye lids
Of a brother I never had, that man named CID
Jesus named me no name so I wander wherever my feet may carry
Never had no religion only long lesions through the seasons
Cut wound bleed break breakfast dinner bird
There was a glint in the sun
The way she gripped and held Her sword
Graining through pages of past history *******
Seeing visions of kaleidoscope faker ***** with their blisters
Gripping their panoramic sisters
Beauty in the eye of the hair that twists
In the mid-west chilling winds of the whisp
Forests burning boringly gripping the last hope of
Mother murdering herself just to stay alive
In a stride of elegance tides of benevolence
Roaring rewind curb side b-lines
And a mix-tape that spins and spins and spins
But plays nothing
No nothing
At all

From distant space in between
                                           spaces,
we watch plotting out the course.
The Human Race blind to its fate,
asleep controlled beyond the stars.

Through eons old and light years cold,
we came with sinister intent.
We've guided history for centuries
toward the doom of men.

We watch from the quiet spaces between
          where no mere mortal has ever gone.
We watch as we always have; still unseen
          and we've been here all along.
We watch for a moment soon to come. They
          have no clue as they drift through their days.
The Moon is full, the stars are right. We rise
          from the places where
                     we watch...

In darkened cellars of old
                            buildings
and in remote mountain woods
exist faint traces of our race;
fragments of knowledge no one should

pursue at all. When darkness falls,
some half-remember our dark names.
Cover of night hides ancient rites.
Our moment's drawing near again.

Our names leak from whisp'ring lips all quiv'ring
          spoken low beneath audible tones.
Foul symbols in air shaking hands tracing,
          memorized from profane tomes.
We wait as the ritual's unfolding
          poised to take our rightful place on top.
The stars are right, the chanting's high. We rise
          from the places where
                    we watch...

World turns through the ages and
                  we watch.

Ancient ones, our time is nigh.
                 We watch.

Don't resist. We're coming through.
               WE WATCH.

perched,
on a tendril whisp,
of a synaptic vine.
the half formed
thought,
chirped and chirked,
as it chipped away
at the ovipidal embrace of  
sleepy, slothfulness....
sublime.

it wanted freedom,
to fly and sing....
no longer,
sleeping or,
being held within...
no longer,
hiding away
from the sun.
no longer,
fearful of becoming...
undone.
influencing,
nada and no-one.

just happy to be,
a small, but clear...
clarion call.

now, standing strong
singing out it's
life embracing, life renewing
song.....
this thought, now has,
substance ....
bright coloured wings
and pride....
in the joy, it brings.
it has grace and grattitude.
a name so wonderful....
to go with,
this bright and energetic
attitude...

meet my new, paridigm...
all bursting with love.

his name..... brio

and he is the bringer
of my new zest, zing
and vivacity......

Shadowic heroic ornamental's, false breed's cometh as incense breather's betwixt lively instrumental's. Macrogram plaza's to abrahamic venue's. Caller's calleth upon themselves to saveth what is not theirs;

Morning breath, to winter's dew, hath thou been born yet? Is the baby yet due?

Constant pain's to loss taken gain's maketh brain's and vein's out of organically made flesh; becometh thine own creator, thou creed of selfishness. Anchor heavy soul dragged away by chain's of past forget-not's, wherein the ground stayeth hot to ruin moronic window's.

Maketh thy bed of silvered spring's thy own rusted medieval pillow; thou grand ol' operatic theme, thou patriarch to a dream,  Art ourn day's but a whisp of a second's last?

Thing's hath cometh to the listening one, the earth's spinning to fast; the mechanism's now begun.


©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Prison writing's

The heart that beats within me now
Was silent for a while:
Shouldering the guilt of years
And clothed in my denial.

And when, those blurry months ago,
It stirred to life again,
I tried to still my beating heart
The way it was back then.

I should have known, I should have seen
Through my soul's sad disguise;
But ev'ry time I saw the truth
I quickly closed my eyes.

The heartbeat in my shackled chest
Was loud, but I was louder.
Sticking fingers in my ears,
I hummed to quell the doubter.

"Your heart's alive! It beats again!
The fears you loved have faded."
But I felt safe behind the bars
My jailed heart had created.

So, silently, this gentle Trust
That I had never known
Came whisp'ring through to save my heart
Of flesh, and not of stone.

Trust wrapped its arms around me
And lifted up my soul
From depths of blue obscurity
And I gave up control.

I opened up my eyes that day
And though they shone with tears,
The hurting heart inside of me
Felt stronger than those fears.

Waiting around with sunken eyes and withering skin a whisp of a cape with muscles so bold though he wasn't what you thought he would be his hands gripped you too tight and his eyes were black as midnight no matter how hard you tugged you only got weaker with only a swollen tongue and worn out lips this isn't what you wanted

A whisp of smoke,
A smidgen of mist,
And a dusten of rain,
Nothing more nothing less,
No sun, no moon,
No two lovers gazing at the stars,
Just the cold empty space,
The tendrils of mist sweeping over the hills,
The smoke moving in front of the fire,
Hiding the angry red flames of hate,
The rain so desperately trying to stop,
The fire,
But it will not stop because YOU,
stoked its flames, you fed its fuel,
But then you left, left it to die,
To wither and lose its heat,
Left it to become cold as night,
But then you expect it to be there for you,
When you left,
Expect it to keep you warm,

A whisp of smoke,
A smidgen of mist,
And a dusten of rain,
All it would have taken was one word,
But you refuse to see what you did,
Refuse to see what you made,
Happen,
So I will not stop burning,
I will not stop until you,
See.

I will burn everything to the ground just to make you see me once again.