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Justyn Huang Sep 2018
I came here to tell you something
But forgot what it was...

I guess I'll wait for tomorrow
and see if I remember.

Oh I do now,
and Tomorrow brings a new day.
Seán Mac Falls Sep 2018
.
So many ****** birds,
Grey, brown and black,
Suited as they sully in sun,
In feather and windy-speak
And dream, drifting to profit
Points, marring the globe,
They have so many ways
Of singing on their swings
Behind bars, murky birdies,
Gawking in the crowded fields,
Fielding, flighty questions without
Answer, winging all souls to oblivion,
Who fly, flustering, dusting with song
Twisting the air into pure falsehoods,
Curious, grounded pets for kingdoms,
For masters, fly-hoping in their cages.
.
Justyn Huang Sep 2018
Do the roots of tomorrow
ever grow in delay?
Worry not if the
Flower
Will bloom in a day
Tree metaphors
Seán Mac Falls Aug 2018
(Sonnet)

Good deer are gracing the trees,
Take communion in handed leaf,
Touch the soils with loving hoof,
In the tabernacles of the wood.

The owl cries for all souls eternal,
Deep in the shrouds of the vernal
That drape the newly born dying,
Beneath the solemn owls' crying.

And songbird has a psalm unread,
A parable in the twining branches,
Gifts of song foist lanyards of crop
Dear in old forest, this offered sup.

As blood seeping deep in the wood,
Sky washes away those who stood.
.
sunprincess Jul 2018
So I traveled to a curious shop, so quaint
At the farthest corner of the earth
Where they shop, genteel ladies that faint,
And then swoon at the drop of a hat

Upon arrival I turned the brass handle
Opened the door and peered inside
The place was well-lit by a single candle
Suddenly the door swung open wide

And yes, I was met by a charming smile
"It's a lovely day is it not, little miss?
Come my dear, shop, and stay a while"
Then whoosh! A long black cape!

Candle flickered, room became breezy
As dark shadows danced in corners
And strangely I began to feel uneasy
As I asked for Fiction and Fable
Seán Mac Falls Jun 2018
.
Adam eyed Eve looking askance,
High in rush of ancient low garden,
Tempted by sun, under all is dance,
Sensate and flesh was torn, bidden.

As stems prickled in moist of garden,
Into dark soils grew blooms of youth,
In rains set free showering new Eden,
The bodies of heaven rose let loosed.

Creation dressed up in their ripeness,
Shouting louder than slithered serpent,
Adam fell drunk under moon of silence,
As Eve laid down a star burst bleeding.
.
Seán Mac Falls May 2018
.
Lovers entered a forbidden forest bower,
And as they stalked that range, with eyes glazed,
She offered up her hind. Now, with doe eyes,
Deep as his, deep in arousal's sleep, heels fell,
As he knocked and pulled her dark honey hair
And whispered, surrender, into wanting ears,
Softly he drove his hunting command, homing
To his huntress.

Her body braced, yet bade, with heat and vibrance.
Ruthlessly, he ****** his arrow deeper and then
Once more and then again.  She bucked fiercely
And defiant, goading his prodding lance ever more
Ever longer, and parting the pink lines of her white
Rose, he was, and once again, Prince to the dark
Dominion of her quarters.

In the middle of this carnal match they paused.
And looking into the forest beyond they saw
A yearling fawn, a feral Goddess, grazing still,
Bathing in a vale, virginal, wholly unmoved
By their act of venery, lustfully playing, in the innocent
Leaves.  It was as if they were among her kin, a gentle
Doe and a noble stag. From that moment on
The human hunters did not speak.

Falling, again, rolling eyes were deep in arousal's sleep.
Her back was a crescent moon pocked and wet with dew.
He could feel her heart beating in time with his piercing
Prong, her arching back glistened in the suns spittle
As it broke through the dark and vernal ceiling wood.

In the final shot her quivering buck lowered and broke
And a sound not heard, made a scene, a sweet murmuring
Shuddered and sank onto the floor of the forest leaves
With her tale, taken and told, her breathless breath,
Her nostrils cold and her heated and lanced openings
Dripping, draining; here was a New World’s beginning.

Sated, solemn and softly quaking, his woman sweetly laid,
And now, doomed with her doe eyes, two lovers, fated, made;
She glowed, divine, like the rolling brook that mellowed
Slow, in the vine-dark and golden forest stable,
In Artemis’s wood.
.
In the classical period of Greek mythology, Artemis was often described as the daughter of Zeus and Leto, and the twin sister of Apollo. She was the Hellenic goddess of the hunt, wild animals, wilderness, childbirth, virginity and protector of young girls, bringing and relieving disease in women; she often was depicted as a huntress carrying a bow and arrows. The deer and the cypress were sacred to her.
.
Aa Harvey Apr 2018
Once upon a time


Be sit yourself upon this chair, I have a story to tell.
It is a tale I have told you before;
You have already heard it and you know it well.
But still I insist I shall tell it to you again,
So when I am gone and taken from this world,
You too shall sit someone down and begin to explain.


This story is truthfully a metaphor;
A tale to teach an image, upon which is born,
Inside a mind, not yours or mine;
But these are the words we were taught long before.


As age creeps up on us, the words may change,
But the fable and its meaning shall remain the same.
So even when we are each gone to our graves,
These images we portray shall be pictured again and again.


In winter nights when all around us is cold
And the candlelight our only protection.
We shall each of us be able to speak of this day
And the years that came before; we shall slumber with contemplation.


In dreams we shall picture the noises we have heard;
They were told to us many times, by him or by her
And as we curl up tightly in our beds at night,
We will find ourselves taken away to a new place with these words.


And when we arise in the morning light,
We will contemplate a new meaning we have gained through insight.
We shall realise the motivation to pass the torch to a new life
And the story will continue to evolve
And to grow with each passing hindsight.


With each time the story is told, it will be open to interpretation;
With each foretelling, with each piece of knowledge gained,
We are able to choose whether to tell it as fact or fiction.
The story is ours and we are all free,
To be the ones who decide if we will allow the stories ending to change.


(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Seán Mac Falls Apr 2018
.
Your face,
Tender, round and dimpled,
Framed with gilded, carved, tawny curled
Whirlpools of hair, long, lighted, and sparkling,
Your face is the face—
Of Ireland.

Your lips,
Full, moist and deathly deep,
Are wells, not well for me, not safe, taboo,
Tantric, tall told tales of brave Odysseus
Under Circe's alchemies
Of forgetfulness.

Your *****,
The zenith of blossom in fabled
Elysium, gateway to the forbidden gardens
Of sage and sinners, warrior-poets, Aphrodite's
Envy, Poseidon's drowning
And smouldering Zeus.
.
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