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Michelle Jun 2018
They are more starved for Nature
Then one can ever fathom;
Oh, where is that secret  
Off they go in a cabin;
that they may frequent
All the noise and pollution
It melts and floats away;
Into life's little solution.

It's back to the plough of life so rough;
They like the smithy toil day after day
Their life may be starved, very tough,
Oh, to listen to the wild loon's call.
How it haunts them each day after day;
How they stomach their bitter gall?
Taking a wooden loon back to the city.
Until that cabin is reached it is a pitty.
When the wild calls; Good-bye city.
We who are born

"We who are born
In country places
Far from cities
And shifting faces,
Have a birthright
No man can sell
And a secret joy
No man can tell"
Eiluned Lewis
Poetic T Jun 2018
Nature calved up, decapitated limbs
left in unmarked eulogies, only silence
speaks. The carcasses of the fallen now
lumber atop of each other. A mass grave
of something once tall now fallen & muted.

Within the insects of humanity now infest
this cadaver, putting what once was brethren
upon the flame. A funeral pyre of rings now
turning to ash, warming the lumbering morbidity
that has an aroma of pine cones screaming in the night.

They live within our gravestones of silence.
Nailing there memories within our husks.
Yet they abandon us like we were momentary
needs, for we are lifetimes in their finite moments.
                     And we decay from where we came from.
My take on a cabin as nature would see it..
nick armbrister Feb 2018
Thai By
This place gets under your skin. Slowly creeping in like black Texas gold. I said I'd never partake in the cat house girls. Seeing them each day for eighteen months was routine. Walking past the 'venues' to my shop. Usual hi's and hello's.

Then one fine humid day, bang! I happened. I changed. Cabin fever? I walked into Suzi's Place. I put my cash on the counter and grinded the mamasan first. Then her two daughters followed by every other girl in there. It took thirteen hours.

I totalled twenty eight girls. Most were nice. I can't tell my wife. My mate could, his wife's cool. Mine isn't. I'll say I was busy inking from dawn to dusk. I'm not sure what came over me. The Thai air got under my skin. That day tattooing could wait.

Maybe I'll do it again. Invite my wife and her toy boy. Did I say that people are strange here? I fit in well...
i can't sit still
i can't lay down
i can't sleep

there is no time for rest
there is no time for play
there is no time

there is so much i must do
there is so much i must do
there is so much i must do

what i've done is not good enough
what i've done is not enough

i have to do more
i'm so tired but i have to do more

no sleeping
i'll sleep when i've done what i must do

i don't know what i must do
but i know i have to do it
whatever it is
and then i'll be content, right?
right?





right?
Andreas Simic Jan 2018
The Lone Wolf©

Exiting the cabin I instinctively look up
Maybe it is out of habit now
I spy you perched atop the distant ridge
How different are you and I

What do you see when you look down at my humble abode
Nestled amongst the trees the smoke wafting from the chimney
My home in the wilds of the woods; alone
How different are you and I

When you are not there I wonder where you are
Foraging for food, a drink by the fast flowing river,
Seeking solitude
How different are you and I

Do you see a man with a broken heart
One that has been cut so deeply it will never mend
Relegated to healing the wounds through nature
How different are you and I

Each day is a new day
One filled with wonderment
Of opportunity found or lost
How different are you and I

Time has inevitability
Someday one of us will not be there and I wonder
Will this be the last time I see your grace
How different are you and I

Andreas Simic©
I love being in nature and often think of what it would be like to live in a remote faraway cabin.
Story Oct 2017
I AM THAT HOUSE
in your recurring dreams

I AM THAT HOUSE
the one you are always running from
yet never entered

I AM THAT HOUSE
full of old-things well-loved
crooked and cursed by the neighbors

I AM THAT HOUSE
the white one rubbed grey
paint peeled away
sighing at the crossroads

I AM THAT HOUSE
my creaks and groans so familiar
you know exactly where to step
to go unnoticed

At the crossroads
I AM THAT HOUSE
Paint peeled to grey
Never entered
I AM THAT HOUSE
Always running away
Unnoticed
I AM THAT HOUSE
Of familiar steps
Crooked and cursed
I AM THAT HOUSE
Well loved by the neighbors
Ablaze
I AM THAT HOUSE
In recurring dreams

I am that house.
You're back here again.
The door is open.
Won't you come in?
Neon Robinson Sep 2017
***
***
Cabin Boy
-------------------------------------
Wondering memories of wild adolescence,
Flash before me like a mental Rolodex
Reverberating daze,
Time cannot take away.
A fifteen–year–old,
Broken neck calypso.
Gazing through the jungle-o window
Unequipped to fathom what was about to happen.

I saw the moon in your eyes,
And knew;
You smile in the way that islands do,
And the zephyrs planned to bring your love back to me, too.

You were everything I imagined.
Sunlight on a dismal day,
The lone palm in the tropic heat,
A boyish grin that made my flowers bloom;
You were the Cabin Boy.
Realizing, all you can be at 23
is yourself.

And I am the wanderer's wandering daughter.
The pretty little minor that come hell or high water,
You broke California law for.

I waited at your f i n g e r
t
i
p
s
Just his little Pisces *******.
Who didn't exist till 1996.

An inevitable source of panic that would rise in his eyes
Every time he kissed,
Her Kona lips.
Until deciding he had to leave,
Claiming island fever, on his way out the back door.

Lost as a half-gone waning moon.  
With only the ocean’s waves continuous roar
Sun burnt, white foam, salt spray,
Condemned - to an inevitable end
Unable to prevail past the break at your soul's cliff edge.

I grab a raft to float;
In the deep waters of the heart.
Somewhere in between the no -
longer & the still -
to-come
Washed upon my soul’s sand.

Reaching out with new green shoots -
Resurrecting the chthonic biome
From deep within the molten core
Till the blocky incline fell away,
And I found myself;
On the surface of a lake of solidified lava.
To the boy that broke my heart.
Saint Audrey Sep 2017
Threading this needle through
Each element incomplete
Tied together with the roughest sinews
Slowly leaving the whole for me

Slowly life becomes whole for me

Blowing in the morning breeze
Like each blade between the weeds
Delicate reeds, unresistant
Pulled so consistently, but still unbroken

Before I know it
I'm draining the filth from the basin
Within my bones
Flowing freely through my soul
And at last away from my core

A neon glow around the only
Temporary
Sun I have

Necessity can be persuasive
In bringing out the best I have

A short walk away
Waves barely breaking
Rocks and sand might not make
For the prettiest scene up close
But from my post here
They mostly look right

Entrapped by the dying light
Enthralled as the last rays fade
As the night slowly takes
The sky away from the blazing heat
The hues fade
Blink once and nothing changes

Close your eyes and it will change

Companionship in solitude
Finding yourself alone, even as
The one you found a home with
Sits mere feet away
That's only how it seems
Longing for it to stay this way

Life and brevity
A match made once
Strike it up
And go up in smoke
The flames may warm
But warmth in cold
That's something real
If you can manage
I hope you get the picture I was trying to paint.
Kevin Mar 2017
scorning sun bursts into the aisles of graying curly waves,
punching yellow teeth and candied sweets with the
green of loving laughter that i've not heard in years.

you taught our fingers to bleed of bramble dew.
so sticky in our attempts to keep Genevieve's crystal filled but,
clear of improper pounds. collected ounces that rudely
overflow, are picked with mudded, forested feet.

consumed so clean and sweet, from thorns
between the brush, the aisles buzzed of summers paths
that only lead us where we knew.

through the scales and passed the cords
where drying life would heat our warmth,
nights would drop with echoing sounds like trains
slowly passing through our country's vacant crossing.

you voluminous sap of unaccounted ooze.
you sweet maple so never barren or dull.
you flame of northern light.

take me back to the path we passed
where cords are dried to burn
where frogs croak in Côté's creek
where my memories live and yearn
These are the memories I have of my lovely French Canadian Grandparents. My grandfather died when I was three, my only memory of him is collecting sap from maple trees and making maple syrup. The memories of my grandmother are her Crystal Candy jars always full, her yellow teeth stained from cigarettes, going blueberry and raspberry picking barefoot in the summer at our log cabin, her undeniably infectious laugh, and snoring so loud at night it could keep the dead awake.
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