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effie ebbtide Mar 2020
children of march warmth -- the
dust hovers over the parking lot

a winter ghost. faded coca cola logo
affixed to the concrete slab of a building.

here:

french fries are expensive
all the patrons are old men
the lanes are smooth
a lonely party balloon hovers by a scoreboard
the shoes are too tight
rubber duck claw machine

re
enter

exit

diet coke can
knocks over
with the wind

that's the tree's whisper.
John McCafferty Feb 2020
Black blankets above cover the plane
Not much to see
apart from the rain
Lights in the landscape
vary in height
Specks in the sky
as we travel at night

Circles and signs surround from afar
Cats eyes sparkle below in the tar
Stay in your lane as the lights travel past
Red and white blurs
We're moving so fast
(@PoeticTetra - instagram/twitter)
Alex Z Feb 2020
Two tall, spotlessly white pillars stand in front of me,
looking through, blue sky and white clouds come into view.
Sitting on a wooden bench with faded paint,
Thinking, dazing, confusing.
Looking up, the dazzling sunshine leap to my eyes,
Reflecting the flag waving in the middle.
A few sparrows fly across the sky,
Several squirrels ran across the lawn.
Taking a deep breath,
I can taste the cold breeze.
Suddenly the calm was broken by the rumble,
Looking down, turned out to be a car passing by.
These remind me of something,
That spring is far away,
Deep and unforgettable.
Memories will not fade,
Stories don't get old.
Alex Z Jan 2020
A cat jumps around in the moonlight,
Scared a little sparrow.
A peony flower opens,
her white dress blushed.
A swarm of bees came and went,
Flowers were being embroidered.
A frog is playing the music,
A white lily danced with joy.
A princess on the lake smiled,
Lotus around like knights.
Gently lying in the arms of the water,
Splash! a group of goldfish jumped out.
It's a beautiful paradise.
The moon drew a priceless picture.
nick armbrister Jan 2020
We drove down the road. I saw such wondrous things. My eyes took in the steep sided grassy valley. In the bottom was a sparkling river. Sun reflected on the water which flowed over rocks. The small river had cut the valley. No more than a stream.
It wound lazily, climbed steeply in places and was powerful in size. They said Vikings settled here. I see no evidence. The local village was set up by Danes. They named it, their legacy. Both vocal and in stone.
Looking up from the river, up the valley side, I see a tree. A huge one by the road. The base must be twenty feet thick. And two hundred high. It's a Danish tree. Transported here as a seed by soldiers. A thousand years old.
I've seen such trees in Denmark. In that tranquil little country, the highest places are trees. There are no hills or mountains there. And only one small two metre waterfall there. Nothing like this stunning one. The Danish invaders must have loved this land.
I want us to stop and sleep under the tree. To hike up the river. Our time here is so brief. We have other sites to see. Will they be magnificent like these?
Dylan Barrett Jan 2020
The sky a low ceiling.
Below a tapestry of blues, greens and greys –
Woven in shrub, stream, stone and lichen.
Mount Brandon.

Mountain spirits, dressed in wool.
Suspicious beady eyes.
Hoven feet that read silently the land.
Mount Brandon.

Fog boils over the mountain –
A breath that makes night of day
And ghosts and spectres of those who dare.
Mount Brandon.
Simon Oct 2019
What’s happened! A voice remarked. Why are my puzzle pieces scattered in a wasteland? Another voice spoke up, sounding distant. That’s what I’d like to know! Then more followed. Sounding like a choir of different voices were in effect. Except none of the voices sounded cheery in their perfect chorus on cue. A shriek followed. A wasteland full of shrieks rumbled the ground. Ejecting lots of dust. Blinding visibility across a wide landscape! A landscape full of sand. Governing a deadly waste scouring a dryness accumulating pieces of voices not to far off from one another. Dust from the shrieks rumbling the ground, finally clear. Settling a glimpse at what has been shrieking with such volumes of obscure reasoning. Puzzle…PIECES! Huh? Who said that…? The voice asked, completely taken off guard. What instrument are we trying to provide here? Not sure I’m exactly wondering what your trying to offer by the term (instrument)? Having instruments aren’t folly you know. Another voice interrupting the other voices conversing nonsense. You guys do realize non of what your saying is making any practical sense? Like…at ALL! Huh? One voice replied. Another joining in. Well if your so clever…why don’t you entertain us with how things should really be voiced? Gladly! The more logical voice commented. The voice acting snobbish made a sound. Showcasing it didn’t like being told what it knew and what it didn’t know. The dust has settled. The two voices conversing said on cue. Your point…? No logic, until you display your horizons onto the landscape which shows what we are. One voice replied confused. Logic? Another responded. Horizons? Then on cue again. Landscape??!! The logical voice continued. Just looking around the landscape, which introduces the horizon of who, what, and where you are. Making the logical assessment that, well…everything…is what should have been since the very beginning. Panting for just a single moment. Without claim or focus…the end! The two conversing voices completely dumbfounded, sighed very harshly! Finally deciding to take the more logical one’s words more seriously. Other voices following on cue. Which made all voices look down toward there surroundings. The logical one smiled brightly! AHHH! Another shriek came. O…JEEESSSUUUSSS!!! More shrieks accumulated the wasteland. Prompting more dust to rumble. Popping all over the horizon’s visibility again! So, what did we learn about this very confusing, obscuring display? Well…easy! A voice said from no where. That it was a display of nurturing. Huh…? Really? The one sounding like the narrator drawn in by the voices interest. Ya, well… They stopped to rethink what they just offered in response. Your hesitating. The narrator’s voice sounding suspicious. Ya, well… Not sure how to express what I saw. Still remaining suspicious, the narrator continued. Anda…what is it…you exactly…saw…? The voice from no where exploded all built up energy in one gigantic spurt! There was puzzle pieces scattered in a wasteland! They had no identity to speak of. Pieces deconstructed in a sand covered landscape full of dry essence. And…and… They stopped mid-thought to catch their breath! The narrator didn’t speak a word. The dust was symbolizing ones missing grasp at not figuring out they were all apart of the same form. The same essence. Drying out claims too full of themselves through partial reasoning on potential agreements never going anywhere. Mmmmm…mhm…mmmmm… The narrator seemingly amused by this information. No identity, means no way of connecting to one another. Never to make sense of the premise one could offer. Puzzle pieces stuck in the sands of dry essence. A rut too involved to be just any coincidence. The dry essence covering up each puzzle piece. Muffling there voices forever. They tried to reach out. Trying to make sense of (what could have been). Rather then how to assort their differences into one claim. Working together wasn’t this identities strongpoint. Pieces were arguing too much. Until one seemed to be the most offering of the bunch. Thou…thou… Go on. The narrator said. No one listened to them. Following in the footsteps of one foolish puzzle piece after the other. Until there was nothing to be left, but silence. The voice from no where shrieked towards the narrator’s glaring tension toward the speaker. Laughing in disgust toward the potential risk one poses when reaching out toward its other component pieces.
Puzzle pieces will never learn if each piece doesn’t know how to direct oneself, before connecting with the bigger, more established form. Which is rendered to a mere silhouette full of details invoking a nothingness claim.
Troy Oct 2019
The battle done,

Remaining combatants one,

Gazing up to the gray cloak,

Tailored to the palace of the moon,

Threatened only by the ever-fading emissaries,

Of the ailing sun.



Each a perfect sentinel,

Of solar prowess technical.

The ceasefire teased opposite

By the lunar composite,

Of that sweeping cloak,

Choked,

Where the moon once woke.

Neither one nor other,



As if my breath could the life

Of either titan smother.
an effort to make someone feel an image
William A Poppen Sep 2019
Few recall when the earth was scraped back
Over four score ago
To show the extensive gravel waiting to be abused

Horse pulled wagons consumed bites of earth,
One shovel-full at a time
To spit and ***** their contents
So no mud holes will grow  
Along trails black with mid-west loam

These roads carried us to and from places
To get what we did not need
For we knew how to be sustainable
Long before it became a popular movement
Long before progress discovered the quantity
Beneath the outer bones of the field across the road
A childhood memory
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