Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

#186 Nov 12, 2012
One hundred ten from acorn cup
my trunk, once slender, up and up
advanced to tickle sun and moon.
I versify. Life's afternoon
slips into eventide to sup
beside the golden buttercup,
among the joyous saplings strewn,
no longer hidden, bounty, boon.

From sunrise smile with dewdrop pearls
whose tears deck leaves as each uncurls,
from breath by photosynthesis
to death without a goodbye kiss,
from sapling which warm zephyr twirls
to gnarled old wood with outgrowth burls,
on how I live, on that and this,
my roots reflect before abyss
recycling swallows branch and twig.

I realize life's whirligig
spins rings concentric marking time
to final season's reasoned climb,
from shoot to trunk and branches big
where grunting pigs for truffles dig,
plays panorama pantomime
from small to tall productive prime.

Although deep rooted, tree to tree
transmits, receives, all share lore we
from long lost Ents once learned before
our quintessential none ignore
fixed time and place as by decree
we walked no longer. By degree
our waiting, shepherd like, restore
to earth a balance more and more
contested by Man's needless squander
from here unto the wild blue yonder.

One hundred years and ten I oak
through summer sunshine, winter cloak
bore witness to the seasons' change,
to human intercourse, exchange,
from hoarfrost leaflessness to soak
when purple, yellow, crocus poke
amid dawn's dew while worming range
both early bird and shadows strange.

'Mid shadows numberless' my shade
spreads out amid the gladding glade,
where hollyhock and lupin rise
to draw light's glory from the skies.
May life for men spread unafraid
and unpolluted, story laid
to greet with open-eyed surprise
life's weather in whatever guise.

One hundred years and ten I tree
extend my branching canopy,
while underground in silence spread
stretched roots beneath man's heedless tread.
Pride grew within, while babe one knew
to stripling, then to cemetry,
leafed out a destiny, which, read,
showed little purpose, tail or head.

Man's generations come and go,
ignoring seasons' reasoned flow,
would all control to leave a mark
or heartless heart on rugged bark.
But patient bark will overflow
this rapid race whose trace may know
no glory when their story stark
is told by ants in days now dark.

One hundred years and ten. I see
woodpeckers knock,- fragility
despite umbrella overhead,
beside the shallow riverbed.
There beech and birch accompany
pine saplings b[l]eached by destiny.
There willow waves her streaming head,
there thoughts foregather, nothing dread.
Man's generation climate change
prepares - for tree 'tis passing strange
to sense through signals in the air
ice melting round the polar bear.

This threatens tree : new insects range
from south to north, thus rearrange
established patterns everywhere,-
some species sink, jinx can't repair.
One hundred years and ten, few things
today seem stable, stay Time's stings,
like Cupid's dart, swift disarrange
the plans of mice and men, while mange
rots fur once fine, wine tart turns, strings
of cause, effect, converge, which brings
cusp watershed - yet still life streams
bark, branches, raft, recrafting dreams.

Here see the brambles' carefree play,
here too wild roses mild display
their petal banners white and pink
recorded now in online ink.

Here too find peace and balmy breeze
which laughs at man's fatuities,
while honey bees buzz through and link
Nature's cycles while we think.
One hundred years and ten my rings
record life's word, clima[c]tic swings
from summers Indian and drought
to winters harsh and frozen out.

Yet "permanence" like many things,
is only relative - Time's wings
ambitions and conventions flout,
wage war on s[t]age, deception, doubt.
Tree tale is drawing to its end
with naught to strive for, naught defend,
as neutral witness I record
what winds have borne of bed and board.

Leaf blows from branch, Time's wind may lend
one hundred years of bough and bend
until the final bow cuts cord,
leaves die a log by sunlit sward...
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

#187 Nov 12, 2012
Your hands, my hands;
twenty fingers built
a fortress of immaculate
love, godly…

My look in yours;
darkness of paths
vanished before our
eyes’ light, empyreal beacons…

Your lips sequestered
within my mouth;
adamantine kiss inflamed
our bodies biospheres,
blazing in the spirit
of togetherness…

Immortal sentiment;
silhouettes sculpted
in blood and flesh,
twin souls breast-feeding
crevices of sacredness,
oblivious to humanness…

For we are gods in our own Valhalla,
even if others see us as transient
wraiths merged into each other´s
reflections;
our very own ambrosia extract…
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

#188 Nov 12, 2012
Luminaries breathe
out light against universe´s
drapery…

Comets knit galaxies´ palettes;
sentient beings´ arabesques,
ornament the velvety
infinity´s rug…

~DeVine.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

#189 Nov 12, 2012
Barefoot, her heels make
shells in the desert sand –
in long steady strides
‘neath a crescent moon
in a wide wool cloak
knubbly and indigo.....

who knows from where
who knows how long
she has walked this way,
steady and straight -
then, pushing on her knee
with the heel of one hand
at every other step until
she’s reached the top
and there she lifts and
leans the ladder and up she
climbs and then with her teeth –

is it possible - then with her
hands tensed like claws,
and teeth aching in her jaw
she will pull out the nails
and with now bloody fingers
untie the ropes and swing the
limp body over her frail
shoulder, backtrack the rungs
‘til she has lain him gently
in her body-warmed cloak
of indigo wool on the damp
hard ground and swaddled
him like an innocent –

which is only the truth
who is this
green-eyed arab, this ancient
child come so far and across
the dunes to undo
at least some
of the evil...
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

#190 Nov 13, 2012
I was in a world where colors were blur
Is it roses that were red all over the floor
Or is it blood, that I am not sure
Chaos in silence this has no cure
No one can help me, I'm so insecure
All those footsteps and knocking on the door
So afraid of nothing I am growing paranoid
Doesn't want to suffer, no pain, no hurt
The mind has power, the feeling I'll neglect
Still I suffer, maybe 'til the very end
I just wanted to walk in that falling rain
Until all the pain and hurt be ease
Maybe there is something that might help
Tell me everything that is in your mind
You never speak of what you truly meant
I always have to read between the lines
Just tell me that unspoken truth you bear
A blessing or curse, it is so unclear
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

#191 Nov 14, 2012
I envy you. Every moment

You can leave me.



I cannot

leave myself.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

#192 Nov 14, 2012
Folks, I’m telling you
Birthing I'm told, is hard
and dying is mean -
so get yourself
a little loving
in between.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

#193 Nov 14, 2012
When I smile the wise can tell
I've long flirted with songs

that kick your teeth in. Lap-steel,

steel-toe locked in head,
and my head down

unto gutter, unto track.

I've whispered: Hither,
knuckle. Hither, brick and rail.

Hither, darling e-chord grind,

metallic tongue
slugging in a clenched jaw.

The world is palsied.
I ask for tender hands,

tender mouth, to lay

where lyrics quit, dissolve
soul-like. And like a soul,

one more time, never born again.
lend me some new teeth.

Let me cut them on the purest thing.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

#194 Nov 14, 2012
We don’t know if tomorrow has green pastures
in mind for us to lie down in beside
the ever-youthful patter of fresh water
or if it means to plant us in some arid
outback ugly valley of the shadow
where dayspring’s lost for good, interred beneath
a lifetime of mistakes.

We’ll maybe wake up in foreign cities where the sun’s a ghost, a figment of itself and angular
starched consonants braid the tongue at its root
so all sense of who we are is lost to words,
and nothing that we know can be unravelled.

Even then, some vestige of the sea, its plosive tide, its fretwork crests will surge
inside our syllables, bronze like the chant of bees.

However far we’ve stumbled from the source
a trace of the sea’s voice will lodge in us
as the sunlight somehow still abides in
faded tufts that cling to bricks and kerbstones
on half-cleared slums or bomb-sites left unbuilt.

Then out of nowhere after years of silence
the words we used, our unobstructed accents,
will well up from the dark of childhood,
and once more on our lips we’ll taste Greek salt.

“Always Nagging! ”

Level 4

Since: Apr 09

Location hidden

#195 Nov 14, 2012
A little more kindness and a little less greed;
A little more giving and a little less need;
A little more smile and a little less frown;
A little less kicking a man when he's down;
A little more "we" and a little less "I";
A littl more laughs and a little less cry;
A little more flowers on a pathway of life;
And fewer on graves at the end of the strife.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

#196 Nov 14, 2012
I never was attached to that great sect,

Whose doctrine is, that each one should select

Out of the crowd a mistress or a friend,

And all the rest, though fair and wise, commend

To cold oblivion, though it is the code

Of modern morals, and the beaten road

Which those poor slaves with weary footsteps tread,

By the broad highway of the world, and so

With one chained friend, perhaps a jealous foe,

The dreariest and the longest journey go.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

#197 Nov 14, 2012
Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art—

Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,

And watching, with eternal lids apart,

Like Nature’s patient sleepless Eremite,

The moving waters at their priestlike task

Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,

Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask

Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—

No—yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,

Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,

To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,

Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,

And so live ever—or else swoon to death.

By John Keats.....

Footnote: John Keats (31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821) was an English Romantic poet. He was one of the main figures of the second generation of romantic poets along with Lord Byron and Percy Bysshe Shelley, despite his work only having been in publication for four years before his death.

“Always Nagging! ”

Level 4

Since: Apr 09

Location hidden

#198 Nov 14, 2012
The ages of woman:
In her infancy she needs love and care.
In her childhood she wants fun.
In her twenties she wants romance..
In her thirties she wants admiration.
In her forties she wants sympathy.
In her fifties she wants cash....
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

#199 Nov 14, 2012
There are people who do not see a broken playground swing as a symbol of ruined childhood

and there are people who don’t interpret the behavior of a fly in a motel room as a mocking representation of their thought process.

There are people who don’t walk past an empty swimming pool and think about past pleasures unrecoverable

and then stand there blocking the sidewalk for other pedestrians.


I have read about a town where human beings
do not send their sinuous feeder roots
deep into the potting soil of others’ emotional lives

as if they were greedy six-year-olds
sucking the last half-inch of milkshake up through a noisy straw;

and other persons who can kiss without
debating the imperialist baggage of heterosexuality.

Do you see that creamy, lemon-yellow moon?

There are some people, unlike me and you,

who do not yearn after fame or love or quantities of money as unattainable as that moon;
thus, they do not later have to waste more time
defaming the object of their former ardor.

Or consequently run and crucify themselves
in some solitary midnight Starbucks Golgotha.

I have news for you—
there are people who get up in the morning and cross a room and open a window to let the sweet breeze in and let it touch them all over their faces and bodies.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

#200 Nov 14, 2012
Indelicate is he who loathes
The aspect of his fleshy clothes,—
The flying fabric stitched on bone,
The vesture of the skeleton,
The garment neither fur nor hair,
The cloak of evil and despair,
The veil long violated by
Caresses of the hand and eye.
Yet such is my unseemliness:
I hate my epidermal dress,
The savage blood’s obscenity,
The rags of my anatomy,
And willingly would I dispense
With false accouterments of sense,
To sleep immodestly, a most
Incarnadine and carnal ghost.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

#201 Nov 14, 2012
This morning
I’m tired
of the same
newspapers
and arguments.

I’m tired
of sticking
the same legs
into the same pants,
the same hands
poking out of
the same sleeves,
going west
and then east,
heating up
the same tea,
watching the
same sun
rise over
the same horizon,
the same trees
shedding
the same leaves.

Tired of
climbing the same stairs
to look out the same window
at the same street,
tired of shaking
the same hands,
opening and
closing the same doors,
dreaming the same dreams,
saying hello
good morning
happy birthday
I’m so sorry
please forgive me.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

#202 Nov 14, 2012
The days that she's autonomous,
but she needs much of your care,
don't miss to pamper her,
despite of the cold approach she bares.

She's independent,
nonetheless she's really warm in person,
she makes you feel she has it all,
like she learned all of the lessons

and when I'm near her,
It gives the feeling like I am the missing piece,
no, I am not daydreaming
but this thought really has it.

That is when I stared into her eyes,
I peeked through her beautiful soul,
that shiver it is,
this love is really getting a hold.

I want to hold her now,
if she permits to.
Kiss her every time
When she's in to.

Like we've met each other
long time ago;
like a puzzle that fits in seamlessly,
I think I'll give this a go

but that is, if we were on the same page,
yes I'm secretly hoping;
praying to make it with her,
fulfill this love that's blossoming.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

#203 Nov 14, 2012
Give me your red grapes to pluck
from the beautiful retina of
Your piercing pinkish nipples
Let me quench my thirst
by drinking the wet milk at its tips

Give me roses to be the thorn of
Your soft, sharp spicy breasts,
Let me sleep in your arms
Smiling in my day dreams

Give me apples to be the kiss of
Your blossoming tender lips
Let me bite and leak your
Poison of love and hatred
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

#204 Nov 14, 2012
She wears my shirt so well
the way it just about
covers enough
to keep me guessing
as she makes the coffee
smiling
knowing what I'm thinking
playing along
in her own way

Faining innocence...

as she reaches up for mugs
letting the soft cloth
ride a little higher but not high enough

not yet.

The innocent smile now a smirk
a wicked impish grin
for she is both my temptress
and my tormentor

bending slowly to place before me
both coffee and temptation

as top buttons left unfastened
show me pleasures
of the flesh

my eyes never leave her breasts
as she asks me
seductively

would I like honey with my coffee?

Home made and warm...

I don't need asking twice
I kiss her hard
sweeping the crockery to the floor
laying her back

my answer found within that moment

was she?

wasn't she?

???

“Always Nagging! ”

Level 4

Since: Apr 09

Location hidden

#205 Nov 15, 2012
Choose to love---rather than hate
Choose to smile---rather than frown
Choose to build---rather than destroy
Choose to persevere---rather than quit
Choose to praise---rather than gossip
Choose to heal---rather than wound
Choose to give---rather than grasp
Choose to act---rather than delay
Choose to forgive---rather than curse
Choose to pray---rather than despair

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