Zachary Dilks is a poet and writer currently residing outside of Austin, TX. A lover of nature and the contradictions of life, his passion for such can be found in most of his writing. He aims to upset the apple art, delve into each and every one like a hungry worm, compare them to oranges and somehow make lemonade. "A Small Little Piece Of One" (Monotetra poetry form) I've given myself to the row Bleak lines from repetitive shows Just tell me whatever I know Where oft we go, where oft we go I've taken my permanent seat Admitted myself in defeat I hum and I drum to the beat And stomp our feet, and stomp our feet "Just the Gist" It's just the moon And just the stars Just a brand new house and car Just the things you've wanted most in all your wildest dreams It's just the sun And just the sea Is justice just a word to thee? Oh, love and hate and life and death; we're just the in between "Daisy Petals" I thought I saw you there before Beside the daisies Always daisies You were picking off the petals, saying "loves me, loves me not" And I knew the thoughts you wore How all these maybes Drive you crazy But these questions that you ask can make a field an empty lot And I watched you for some hours But it's weird It felt like years Then you left a trail behind you as you're always known to do So I picked up every flower Shred of fear And shed of tear And I wrote on every one of them "I'll always love you too" "Moments" All the jewels and all the gold and all the fame of legends told and all the knowledge eons old couldn't compare to a moment. And moments they were of me and her and her and I and, idly by, I'd wish the time to pass, alas the fool beholds the stolen Taken, ripped and shaken grips. I'm apt to sip from metal barrels. Sterile as could be, I'm setting free to ride to lands of golden All the laughs and all the cries and all my nervous butterflies and all the times your mother's eyes befell you, oh I can't tell you the feeling it was and the reeling sensation, compelling my racing and constantly aching heart to feel and believe in a moment And moments they were "Better Days" We live in a world where Expectations aren't real And segregation is still relevant Hate selling it Calm a whole nation with pills And the combination Of domination and sex appeal Only leads to beliefs that something you want is something you steal And then we scream peace Murder in the name of a god And judge others because he said if it's different it's odd So gays can't get married And soldiers can't get buried without people picketing We don't know, but we know it's scary And if you're athletically skilled You'll me gifted a mil Even though the people who need it will die with medical bills We idolize what we see on screens and magazines Rule of thumb Cool is dumb We're following that scene Politicians aren't loyal On a mission for oil We live in a jungle paved with concrete over the soil We let the earth toil And water supplies boil away Because our greed won't affect us today We are the blind Led by a single mind And though you're free to disagree If you do you'll be left behind But if we got to rewind and start anew We could make for a better tomorrow starting with you
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Mark J. Mitchell studied writing at UC Santa Cruz under Raymond Carver, George Hitchcock and Barbara Hull.The Magic War is his latest novel (Loose Leaves Publishing). His work has appeared in the anthologies Good Poems, American Places,Hunger Enough, Retail Woes and Line Drives. He is the author of three full-length collections, Lent 1999 (Leaf Garden Press) and Soren Kierkegaard Witnesses an Execution (Local Gems) and San Francisco: The Guide Dreams (Icarus Books) as well as three chapbooks, Detective Movie (Fermata Publishing), Three Visitors (Negative Capability Press) and Artifacts and Relics, (Folded Word). His novel, Knight Prisoner, is available from Vagabondage Press. He lives in San Francisco with his wife, the documentarian and activist Joan Juster and makes his living pointing out pretty things. Mark J. Mitchell studied writing at UC Santa Cruz under Raymond Carver, George Hitchcock and Barbara Hull.The Magic War is his latest novel (Loose Leaves Publishing). His work has appeared in the anthologies Good Poems, American Places,Hunger Enough, Retail Woes and Line Drives. He is the author of three full-length collections, Lent 1999 (Leaf Garden Press) and Soren Kierkegaard Witnesses an Execution (Local Gems) and San Francisco: The Guide Dreams (Icarus Books) as well as three chapbooks, Detective Movie (Fermata Publishing), Three Visitors (Negative Capability Press) and Artifacts and Relics, (Folded Word). His novel, Knight Prisoner, is available from Vagabondage Press. He lives in San Francisco with his wife, the documentarian and activist Joan Juster and makes his living pointing out pretty things. PUBLIC TRANSPORT FUGUE A woman on the bus licks her glass lips. They taste slightly of her husband. Anything else would be a sin. The glass windows rattle. The bus slides past retail sins to tempt her lips. Winterspring fog keeps her cool and firm. The cord slightly tickles her finger. A bell sounds like broken glass. She hides her sins behind a fixed smile. She has no choice. None. THE LAST PHOTO STUDIO For Suzanne O. He rolls up his fading backdrops and waits for the truck to come, remembering high-pitched cries of babies, soldier’s stone faces, bride’s smiles. His hands adjust invisible f-stops, missing the sharp smell of developer and fixatives. That iron gray developer didn’t care about that. He licked his lips, dropped a card. He knew he couldn’t be stopped and ordered the wreckers to come that day. They were all callouses and smiles. He was stoic. His wife cried the same way she would cry when the kids married. That developer promised wealth, but all those times he said “Smile” will vanish like today’s raindrops. Time slides on. He knew this would come. Technology can never be stopped. So his exposure knowledge and f-stop lore will fade. No point in crying. Their life had been good. The one to come-- well, that would just develop like a picture with a new backdrop. He knew how to hold onto a smile. He’d paste it on his face. He’d smile for her. He’d try hard to stop her tears and they slipped and dropped to the naked floor. He seldom cried these days. He’d watch what developed, wait for the latent image to come. Those scavengers were due to come back. He’d fix his face, his professional smile like a proof sheet he’d develop. Nobody—even if they tried—could stop this. Babies would still cry and old men and old tasks would be dropped off the earth. That backdrop would come apart. All those cries, all those smiles well, they’d just stop, undeveloped. GRADE SCHOOL APPARITION When water tastes like the first day of school and the woman on the bus smells like clay, you pull the cord, step off, let traffic duel around you. Clues mean to lead you astray. You follow, willing, today, to be fooled back to childhood—The hard voices and nun’s footless habits. Long linoleum halls unspool out of memory. The words you once prayed come echoing back as a car horn bites the air. Jump back to the curb. Breathe and check your pockets. Keys. Phone. There. Still you recite Latin words that click like cards from a lost deck-- a tarot that held meaning, today needs none. You wait for words, for that taste, for the light. FEVER, CHICAGO, 1957 A strange bed—broad as a field-- white knots in the bedspread catch your tiny fists. Four posts, lithe as trees, rise to the ceiling. Everything is outlined in blue-- Furniture heavy as the air, dark, black, crackling with light around the edges—gold man on a brown cross. You’re wrapped in an odor of lavender and your lungs fight for air, screaming at nothing. White hair. A blue dress that crinkles as she bends over you—a hot, scented hand on your forehead—her head is enormous-- Lips purse. Her white halo shakes. A thin blanket drops on your hot body. —Your favorite, she says. Sleep, she says. You scream until you can’t breathe. Sobs slip into whimpers. A door closes, air is lighter but still hot. You roll across the bedspread kicking away your blanket and breathe into sleep. TO AN OLD TUNE He forgave your forgiving him with his last smile—sweetbitter, hard as his lost tooth. Time called you both and both answered, agile, abrupt. You knew that he knew what comes now. You pardon his past. This present still stings—long silence and short stays here. Hopeless hospital. Now it keeps—unsaid. All your unfound lore lost. Like love. Like his last breath. Ruth Z. Deming, winner of a Leeway Grant for Women Artists, has had her work published in lit mags including Hektoen International, Creative Nonfiction, Haggard and Halloo, and Literary Yard. A psychotherapist and mental health advocate, she runs New Directions Support Group for people with depression, bipolar disorder, and their loved ones. Viewwww.newdirectionssupport.org. She runs a weekly writers' group in the comfy home of one of our talented writers. She lives in Willow Grove, a suburb of Philadelphia. Her blog is www.ruthzdeming.blogspot.com. WALK AT MIDNIGHT Listen to the noises of the night! Cicadas, crickets, tiny toads with their chirrup chirrup, all hidden from view like ancient tribes of Iroquois, clearing the way for the lot of us. In my striped nightgown with lacy neck like Rembrandt’s burghers, I step lightly on the sidewalk. It is night and I wish to wake no one. Half moon stares my way. Why? Why am I here? Why was I sprung forth from mama’s womb seventy-one years ago? Lonesome is the feeling lonesome as the moon darkness all around not a single shard of light pierces the darkness. Once when I attended college in Vermont, I stole someone’s bicycle and rode down the streets, far far from home, but knowing then for certain I was grown and the world awaited me. I pick a white daisy and hold it in my hand. The moonlight makes it shine. High on life am I. High on the moon. *** PAIN Every morning I would stretch, roll from bed and run like a girl to part the drapes of the new-broken day. What a sight! Sunshine splashing from behind Charlie’s tall oak And the contingent of dog walkers, greeting one another by name Oh beautiful world! Now all banned from me. Every gulp of bliss that was once mine. A pain like broken glass twisting inside my left foot. Oh Lord how have I failed you? I am strung up with an orthopedic boot that scuffs my shin. Lying in bed watching Charlie Rose the bubbles of glass strike again and again. When pain enters joy is sucked out a tree full of leaves heaped now on the barren ground. Howl! For the world’s turned to a miserable heap of dung. *** IN THE SNOWY KITCHEN Dark kitchen surrounded outside with newly fallen snow I slip through the window and tiptoe pajama-clad Underneath the maple that’s dressed in a Christ-like white shroud I worship beneath the tree, God’s in every little snow flake and in me. *** THE BLIZZARD I pace back and forth refrigerator full hummus from the Mediterranean yogurt with chocolate and raspberry so I won’t pass out from a diabetes low. I stare out the window such whiteness a fresh bridal gown laced with moon beams. Slipping on my clogs I step onto the front porch. At midnight an otherworldly glow bathes my skin a milky white. Listen! Does snow sound as it falls? Do it click or tap or make melancholy sound? Its tiny arrows fall from the sky, piercing the peach fuzz on my warm cheeks with a cold ouch! Barely protected beneath my polka-dot PJs I land in Siberia where the cold killed the right arm, yes, the frost did it, to a newly anointed painter name of Stankowski, not young, His brilliant reds, the oranges, the Rothko blacks, slashed with poetry, reach out to embrace me. I’d like to have his work hanging on my wall. There tis: a painting Huge – squares of white white and more white feathery white Hands on canvas I take a deep yogi breath, the paint smells like snow as I walk right in I will stay awhile If I sleep, do not disturb. Wake me when it’s over a live mummy with frosty- white hair and a body that glows. The Attack of the Old Chatty Duck
The Old Chatty Duck emerged from the pond, and he wondered whose nerves he could get on. People walked by and gave him a glance, but the quaking of the duck could not escape Lance. The Old Chatty Duck he quaked so loud. There was no peace for Lance. No head in the clouds. Lance stopped and he pondered. Did he do everything, right? He wondered. Off again he trekked on his journey, determined everything would be perfect. That’s why he left extra early. Quickly he ran back to check the door knob. He hoped checking the lock would not make him late for his job. He sat at his desk and tried to focus. His thoughts were jumbled and buzzing like a thousand locust. And the quaking grew louder and louder. Poor Lance’s happy mood turned sour. At his desk, he typed and he typed. Constantly checking to make sure his words were just right. Lance closed his eyes and breathed in and out. He was determined to tune the Old Chatty Duck out. The Old Chatty Duck decided to give it a rest. He would return another day to create a new mess. Lance got on with his day, and he was even able to smile. He silently hoped he wouldn’t see the Old Chatty Duck for a while. The Old Chatty Duck awoke Leon from his sleep. He grabbed his journal because his thoughts were too deep. Leon became upset and started to shout. He wanted the ducks quaking to stop. He wrote down his actions in a hurry, and the quaking of the duck began to get blurry. He breathed out deeply and slow. Leon could feel it was almost time for the duck to go. Leon looked for the duck, but he was done with his attack. He knew just what to do if that duck ever came back. The Old Chatty Duck is a menace and a pest. He stops special people from being their best. Those that fight will see him less and less. And when they do they’ll put his excessive quaking to rest. 58 y/o Poet originally raised on the Pacific Ocean Beaches of Oregon in the 70's now enjoys his life with his wife and two rescue cats in the desert of Boise ID. A poet who loves to humor or to take his readers on a very soul searching journey exploring life's experiences and the old fashioned not-so-technical world that surrounds him. This wretched weather They curse the creation of this living hell. Mid summer they burn. Mid winter they freeze. Damn Him, they shout, for this torment, for this lack of water. When does it end, or when do You end it. The guns Valley Freeway, pass me by, let me roll on toward Avocado's on high. Bear me a southern California Sunday. Let me run, and run and run, far, far away, north of the gangster's gun. Fire Fight Sun up over sage brush hill. Redness to the sky eastward. Flames quiet, crews toil, pulling down fuels, exposing bare earth, doing all they can- to prevent fire's further fury. Battle aligned spirits It's crazy how people pop into our lives. Mysterious at best, foretold at least. A second passing from an earlier time, same place, unmeant spirits now realigned. War Camouflaged covering, bullet burned threads show, blood trickles, begins to form scabs, exposed flesh stings, burns, shock, in and out of consciousness. To survive; This is the real war, the result of combat. Surbhi Anand lives in India. She has published a book in Hindi and English. “You are my dust”
Oh! me locked, Male have key Can't use my brain Male magnet shrunk as nails His name is my gate O! blunt bloke, You forgotten that You are layer on my gem It's real me ! ©®surbhi anand. “Coastline “ People says She's too ambitious (negatively), Why me, not you ? Ooo! You are in man sleeve so…. But sorry, Me have perceptions for all nearly, So used to be resolve, Now to be.. And have been mushroom-growth ! ©®surbhi anand. “A splash” You know, Here is much smile, Giving me teasly wine And awkward tips… That, yes you are girl ! Ridiculous… . Am I coin the pockets of men? He is in hot pursuit For my wall Seeing… . Thenfore,my lopsided smile Given a splash What happened? Why are you in red ! ©®surbhi anand. “Choose your name” Wash your lime, peel yourself Be blue gem Never be in hot pursuit O blunt! Lopsided smile Your spirit has muster for yourself So, make a bid Sow your peace seed Then you will sound By your fruit name Set out…..!! ©®surbhi anand. Mark G. Pennington lives and writes in Kendal, UK and has poems in TL;DR and is soon to appear in Poetry Pacific and The Oddville Press. Previous publications are under the name J. Rose, including a first book published independently in 2012 titled Lithium Clockwork. Sapphire diamond thoughts A tune of misery and pretence, Kitten and bauble in deep snow, Belle-lettres, Until the sea runs dry, Flapping madly, I am the seaweed, The night’s pliers, The knackered phone, Nobody calls. Karst processes, River flowing beneath Andrea, Wherever her voice calls, The snowman glistens. Will there be birds in heaven? Will the trees burst into song? Flavours of the bleating heart, Smelled like tulips in the rain, Belief goes a long way in this life, A musician ruminates, She was there now in searching And it would seem forever, Stream and ripples of her, Could not help but follow, Skies swallow birds Whole and spits them Out at the seaside, For eternity and beyond. The young will know To the envy of the old, The young will forget to The encouragement of the old, When the dove sails, Salient on the wind, She has practiced and Knows how to be free, Angel in the dogfights, Wings on wild doves, Smiles as countless lovers Have often worn in such melodramas. Vignette I cleaned the bathroom, I edited seven pages of Balthazar for charity, I got a haircut, I went shopping, I ate lunch, I walked to my childhood home, I returned to my flat, I took a bath and washed my hair, I visited my mother and father, I left feeling assured, I listened to the radio, I drank some beer, I ate beef bourguignon pie and green beans, I washed the dishes, I cleaned up, I watched the soap opera, I wrote a poem, I read other people’s poetry, I researched how to cut fennel, Butternut squash, And the best method of crushing coriander seeds, I drank some whisky, I listened to the radio once more, Then I wrote this. I am living this way, With coconut and velvet; Italian olive leaf In the bedroom, I have my mantras, And in the evenings an endless rainfall Lashes at the window Like a broker’s tongue. poesy orchid gardens situated in haven of peace, frequented on glorious free afternoons where children fly kites against high passions of the sunlight, play and roam amongst vibrant colour, flowers and the vapouring scents; and it creates lost years. the blur of men and women walk side by side on grey platforms, the moving segments of life in panoramic stream endlessly against the new Shenzhen vista. café is anonymously fitted with ultra-technological communications for the flickers in Versace and the espresso corps. Baby was waiting for Santa Claus The cloakroom is based on The outside of the heavy, Transparent door Of the brightly lit classroom, And it keeps the coats With mother’s living room Perfume breathing through The ripcords of each Taupe, azure and noir Fleece and hide. They will wait until the Fifteenth hour to return To their young bodies. Through the window, A woodland scene Untouched in the Distant free world. Silent and motionless The woodland scene Is filled with branches Of serenity, and much Like the rope on the hill It is waiting for the light to change. The light changes in the Fifteenth hour. The final exodus Allotments of stagnant summer Dreams were fast becoming Long summer nights Drowned in hard liquor By the train line, And bodies swarmed Like pirate ghost from A charnel house. Intoxicated, in dishabille, And nesting like Juiced aluminium Upon a chaotic futon. Adrian Slonaker lives in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, working as a copywriter and copy editor, with interests that include vegetarian cooking, Slavic languages, Victorian horror fiction, wrestling, and 1960s pop music. Adrian's work has appeared in Better Than Starbucks, CC&D, Dodging the Rain, Amaryllis, Ginosko Literary Journal and Three Line Poetry. “Post-Burrito Confession” Why does it matter so much that your words awaken new ways of wondering? Why do I want to feel your hand holding mine, gripping my fingers, letting me lead you on our path? Yes, our path, a path I'd pave, busily battling brush and clearing away obstacles so that we might proceed peacefully. You're a melancholy mystery, a vial of vitriol and of tears, but your laughter leaps into my ears, satisfying unprecedented urges. As I contemplate the ivory whites of your eyes, your sly smile, I affirm that I can carry you through your secret storms, nurturing you at your neediest, and, as the moonlight illuminates you, against the backdrop of dreary autumn, I have a weird, weird desire To kiss your lips “Windchimes” I spied you in my thoughts I heard you in the kitchen. I tasted you in a kiss. I felt you in my soul. I missed you in a memory. “Oswald” Our hero leans nonchalantly against the cold, concrete wall Where daylight’s dimmest glimmers are only a shadowy hope. Does his mind linger on the last time he savored the dawn with his beloved? The world has drifted from technicolor into lackluster gray, the satisfying smile of a life in love replaced by neutral, sterile sojourns in nothingness, and mere memories of moments spent speeding through sleepy suburbs, banishing loneliness to the realm of impossibility- or so it seemed. Our friend takes a final pleading drag, inhaling the smoke to compensate for lost camaraderie. He turns on his booted heel and strides out the door, hit with the chilly blast of his future, strolling trough well-trod cobblestone alleys shielding unhearing interiors. Heading home, a life of routine punctuated by a hiccup of uncommon bliss, back to the work pail and the bills, and recollections of a romance, of the only man he could ever adore. “The Fairground” As violets streaked into blues as a creamy moon rose over the fairground your smile flashed in my eyes illuminated by the cheerful glow of the carousel, screams competing with calliope melodies and feet crushing peanuts and popcorn off putrid pavement. Your hand gripped mine, causing my stomach to clench with more thrills than I'd felt when flying and lurching on the roller coaster. your surreptitious breath behind the fortune teller's tent tasted of caramel and mischief, your hug the perfect accompaniment to an audience of stars sparkling like drops of water on a contact lens upon the deepening night sky, which I joked was God's black velvet cape. You looked at me with such unconditional, protective love, but a car backfiring rudely through the tranquility jolted me into jejune reality. I mourned the loss of my dream but not you, for I never had you to begin with. “Ron's Anniversary” You've just spent five years with the coolest, sexiest guy ever, or so you claim. “Life is good,” you proclaim from your address on cloud nine. Congratulations and well-wishes including mine flood you today as they should. We've been given the same oft-misunderstood longing in life, yet led down starkly forked paths. You follow your muse, surrounded by companions, deeply in love deeply loved. I follow my whims surrounded by accomplishments and cherish them as my offspring. Five years from now, you'll joyfully announce another milestone in a shared life, and from my content home for one under faraway skies, I'll again extend my sincere wishes, completely unable to relate to you. Gerry Sikazwe is a young Zambian poet. He is currently studying at the University of Zambia pursuing a bachelor's degree in Adult Education. He manages a poetry page on Facebook and has a poetry blog. His peoms have been featured on sites such as Dissident Voices, AfricanWriter.com, In Between Hangovers, Mshikamano.com and Tipton Poetry Journal. -Some Things- Some things are better said, Some things are better heard. Some things are better written, Some things are better read. Some things are better drawn, Some things are better seen. Some things are better sung, Some things are better listened to. Some things are better shown, Some things are better hidden. Some things are better touched, Some things are better felt. Some things are better scented, Some things are better tasted. But all things are better experienced, Yet not all things, but some, are better lived. -I Will Listen, Do Tell- I can see it in your eyes, it reddens them, I feel it in your voice, it chokes you, I know something is vexing you, do tell. Do tell please, I will listen. I am Not My Own I am not my own, For I had nothing to do with my existence, I was merely a thought mercifully conceived in the creator’s mind. I am not my own, For I did not design nor decide what skin dark or bright to permanently wear, I was clothed in black/brown earth following the potter’s careful image. I am not my own, I am nature’s because I swing on icy strings tied around its hands, I am my land’s as my existence is the extension of its love, Not my own, never my own. -Forward, March On- When days dark as night upon you fall, When evil unfathomable you finds, Forward with whatever strength available march on, Forward with shining, burning zeal march on. When in glorious brightness of the noon Sun healthy you bask, When rain falls sufficiently, and your crops fat and green grow, Forward to greater attempts march on, Forward filled with anticipation vivid march on. In all seasons, floody or droughty, During all times, of multiple lack and greater abundance, Forward into the future unafraid piercingly march on, Forward with hope wrapped around your waist, march on. -Ask, There Is More- Question life, Seek answers to gaps not filled, Don't settle for chunks everyone else contently bags, Question life. What you know is a single star in the vast cosmos, It is not all you can be master of, You must learn more, do more, expect more, What you know is a single star on the vast cosmos. Inquire about all there is, Of course you will not get all facts, But from life you will surely milk pearls most, Inquire about all there is. Earth is merely a town alien, You are but catching a breath in it as you journey on, to a world beyond infinity, So capture as many memories, shadows to walk with, Earth is merely a town alien. Lola enjoys writing about things close to her heart. She loves to reads especially crime and psychological thrillers. Lola also loves to garden and the sound of rain on the rooftops. She enjoys spending time with her fiance and going on long walks in the woods. Wolf He stalked the forest for his next victim, Using his amazing sense of smell and hearing, Knowing where to go, Majestic wolf, King of the forest, Gray and vicious with raw instincts, His dinner would be soon, A rustle in the underbrush, Slowly stalking over, Closing in, Pounced, Dinner was served by nature. Because of You Fear, Courses through her veins, He yelled, Belittled, Slam, Smack, Crash, Tears poured down her cheeks, Slap hard across the face, Suddenly it was over, She thought, Because of you I never look anyone in the eye, Hate myself, Because of you. Sign Give me a sign, My heart race when you are near, Just a look, A glance, How can I get you to notice me, A sign from you, Do you even notice me, My heart burst with hope, I want to be the only one for you, I need a sign. Took her breath away Waiting for him, Goosebumps ran over her skin, A bright glorious smile on her face, Oh the anticipation, Impatience ran through her as he crossed the room, A kiss, It took her breath away, Together finally. Runaway Train She was a runaway train, Had to get away, Escape the abuse, No one to talk to, Where to go, Streets were her only option, She would never go back to her home, Knowing nothing but the streets, Life here had to be better than home, Homeless, Street kid, No money, Spare change, But she made do, Runaway train. Depression The darkness swept over her, Nothing was positive in her head, Hopelessness, Into her bed she went, Hiding from the world, Medications did not work, Overwhelmed with thoughts racing, Cutting herself, Relieve the inner pain, Suicide, Making the numbness feel something, Darkness over took her mind, To live or die, Depression. Dying Cancer was eating him from the inside out, Terminal, In all parts of his body, Death would come soon, Facing it alone, No family or friends to be there, The voices of angels rang in his head, Slowly he took a breath, Lying there waiting for the pain to end, Knowing the end is very close, A life shortened, The Grim Reaper took the dying mans last brath, Dying slowly the man faded away, Heaven now awaits him, Dying alone. Fall in Vermont Bright bold colors surround you like a luminescent rainbow, The bright warm colors of fall, The wind blows and the colors dance on their trees, Some slowly drift down to the ground, As the crisp cool breeze blows you wonder sould it be more perfect, Breathing in that fresh exhilarating air, Feeling alive and somewhat reborn, Canopies of colors lie overhead, Engulfing the joy and magnificence of fall. Rebellious She never did what she was told, Mama didn’t make sense, Freedom called her name, To see the world, To be a vagabond, Roaming, Seeing, Learning, She packed, And did it, Out her window, Down the road, She got a ride, To follow her dreams, Never looking back. Early Morning Breathing in that fresh morning air, The morning dew glistening in the fresh sunlight, The animals slowly making their way out of their homes, Birds singing their sweet melodies, Mind clear, Taking on a new day, Enjoying that peaceful time the early morning brings. First Sight She got out of her car, He got out of his, Their eyes met, They smiled, Instantly their bodies pulsated with the chemistry they never knew, Fist sight, Talking, Laughing, Instant attraction on so many levels, The first kiss, They knew they were meant to be, Waiting their whole lives, Finally soulmates. Lake Willoughby Nestled between two majestic mountains, Lies the most beautiful lake, Crystal clear, Sparkling blue in the sunlight, Peaceful, Picnics, The most natural place to be, Sit upon her shores, Take in her peace, Meditate, Full peacefulness, The tranquilty of looking into her revenant waters, All fresh, Satifaction, Calm throughout your body, The most peaceful place in nature. Frozen Falls The chilling temperatures take over, The heart of winter, Taking it all in, As you look up at the majestic nature, As you see the frozen glistening waterfall, Breathtaking, Frozen in place, Trees on either side filled with icicles, An artistic array of frozen nature, Adding to the magic of another Vermont winter. Twilight The fog rolls in slowly covering the ground, As the sun slowly drifts away, The gray sets in, The suns bright colors slowly fade, Dragons breath covers the forest, Shadows appear, The owlsits above the breath of the dragon, Calling to those who are out there, The moon rises in the sky, Bright, The shine of the moon lights up the sky, Soon the stars appear, Making the fog shines, Glorious twilight. Predator He stalked the forest for his next victim, Using his overwhelming sense of smell and hearing, He knew where to go, Majestic wolf, Gray and vicious, Having dinner was all on hid mind, A rustle in the under growth, Slowly stalking over, Pounced, Dinner. |
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