Our Planet's Syndrome

A/N: See Animal Planet's The Blue Planet:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mrSu65Bb9X4

Our Planet's Syndrome ~

The blue syndrome . . .

the racing wild,

that moves within,

a slice in our planet.

One where the wildfire crackles,

the sun blazes on the dead grass,

and the plankton drift aimless,

while the blue sheet shines overhead.

The animals here run wild at midnight,

and the owls swoop down for prey,

but the tandem of the wildlife,

is an interacting marvel.

The tiny crab does not understand,

its scheme in the heart of things,

but there are trees that give shelter,

to the bird that eats its shell.

There are fires,

there are places in which creatures can go,

in order to escape the sun's heat.

The danger of dehydration for grazers. . .

 are obliterated by the whale's home.

They all give life to each other,

and when the eagle eats the fish it knows . . .

that the fish could not survive without the brutal kill,

the plankton could not survive without the heat,

which provide dry spells.

It is a syndrome of pale blue beauty,

of fires that cause the mammals to run,

and yet . . . in spite of the planet's splendor,

it seems that life is brutal to its counterpart,

yet without the death, fatal weather,

there would be no syndrome,

 of blue beauty,

for even though it is a syndrome,

the Earth is infinitely beautiful.

Mad Steed- Tribute to Marie Antoinette Tune

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LiFda75oX3w

Mad Steed ~

My blood is furiously racing,

running crackles fire electric,

raving horses mad, that drive me through pillars,

crashing me through buildings, and forced-

squeezing me through a crazed vacuum,

forced, pushed, horribly squashed through a path,

over a drift-

I am flying over the hills at a mad pace,

and cannot seem to find my life,

my desire is hanging in limbo ahead,

in some world that I can't see . . .

I am riding, I am quickly driving

away on the back of a quick horse,

that cannot seem to stop for patience-

it is a furious steed,

that takes my heart away,

so that I no longer recognize it.

Clomp, clomp, clomp, clomp.

Bitter Musing/Dark Poetry

Bitter Musing ~

 

The bitter taste,

the bitter taste of sour tea

I did not take the mean black, poignant gleam,

that shimmered in a whirring-circled, roiling stir,

and left me musing over its moor,

to take me back again where I love best,

where my heart can sing in sweet rapture,

where the birds glow and flit and cry,

their cadences, and I gently rest, with my hands splayed,

before the dynamics of them . . .

 

take me away from the sour taste,

the cold anchoring of my hands, upon-

it cruel distaste,

and burn me not, while I sit here and deeply ponder over its,

shimmering boil, hatred filled heat,

and the blackened tornado,

when the birds flit out of my minds eye,

and I become aware of my mooring, 'gain,

sitting and gently resting with the

seeing them in my minds eye,

as I listen to the cadences,

of a places that passes above me,

somewhere in my brain within me,

somewhere, somewhere I cannot see,

and the sounds finally fade,

filling me with nothing but this dark taste,

the flows along my tongue now burning,

trembling with the sour thought-

and deep distaste . . .

Why You Should Visit A Rural Town- Humor

Why You Should Visit a Rural Town ~

 

            You cannot drive very far in a rural town because of the fact that there are no actual houses. Therefore, as much as you continue to drive, the town will always appear to look much the same. The remnants of what are deemed to be houses are actually rags of clothing which are revered due to their masterfully patterned, brown dresses. The houses are flowing in the wind with the most languid ease, because their long clothing is easily swept up by the air, and this makes the patterned calicos creak delightfully. These houses wear a wide range of brown to black coloring which is so spectral that they have the innate grace of the taste of a grandmother, who once understood the grace of impeccable clothing- riddled with holes, cuts, and bruises in the most natural, elegant textiles- and best of all, no one bothers them, because they are now provide such a vast impression.

            They make the grand appearance of age-old Roman emperors, who face the city after a massive war. They are so highly respected that, entrepreunuers run wildly, and flee the city before ever creating more than one Save-A-Lot. They are so highly esteemed that, in short, no one would ever dare step foot within fify miles of them. And, best of all, because they give the majority of their time to the cows, the animals benefit from them by living within the fruitful grazing and constant sunlight. These contented animals languidly roll within the long, steadily rising tendrils of blue, smoky plants all day, while gazing up  at their black counterparts, as though they have become comforting mothers to embrace. Thus, with the endless miles of rural imagery, you will always see the same image, and it will be more delightful than you would ever have dreamed, because, who wouldn't want to go where the cows graze?

Agonizing Love- Poetry

Note: Is it always so difficult to love someone who has an uncertain past? How capable is the human body of loving, in spite of a conditional circumstance?

[Warning: Contains dark content. Read at your own risk]

 

 

Agonizing Love ~

 

This body which has torn and ravaged,

the blackened souls which it has touched,

a physical force with strength untrammeled,

the charcoal color in which I dipped each soul . . .  

 

I painted every semblance of their skin,

black with my physical paintbrush,

 and every portal of their minds charcoal,

watched as the gleam in each eye, blue or hazel,

darkened immediately upon my artistic choice,

darkening those thoughts of sweetness,

killing them with my black body, soul,

the fear I caused, the shivering pain,

the blood which dripped between them. . .

the charcoal which colored them,

it was all because of me.

 

My body sought among this evil,

looking for elements of pain,

they became one with my own internment,

the acts became a cage . . .

one for my own pain.

 

The guilt I live with now for it,

is comprised of sins unsaid,

My has ravaged the souls of many,

torn these virgins from precious glass orbs,

the moment that I slipped inside them, into white,

and colored them with my blackness . . .

 

though stitched them up again, to staunch the bleeding-

the best that I could manage.

 

As I laid down beside her, now thinking,

that I am not good enough for love,

that her blessed purity has killed all my feelings,

for anything save hatred and revulsion,

the terms float before my vision,

and mocks my saddened gaze,

as I wonder at what I have done to her,

this tiny flutter between my breast,

blossoming from this small stem,

that lays beneath me still, in solace,

who refuses to leave me and my poison.

 

Oh, why can I not leave the burden,

of my self-hatred,

to anyone else save for her,

why did I need to fall in love at last,

and taint her with all of my pain, myself?

Wings of Gold

 

~ Wings of Gold ~

 

Scouring wings of gold,

Gracing mysterious cries,

That ripped the black night,

Tearing in illusionary parts,

Chunks, which fell enamored,

Love-glued to lacy tendrils,

Of majestic rose and sunlit hues,

Embraced by an angel’s grace . . .

 

She sat quietly in pearl bonnets,

Of speckled sun-pressed orchids,

A Heavenly measure of braided,

Silver-tied rushes,

Within the pithy splendor.

 

A paint-brush feather,

An elaborate whistle, of silken clarinet sounds,

Lilting in a song beyond the Gates,

E’en though she would not lift,

Her blue eyes to glance upon,

The honeyed wings,

That scattered her life,

Into sweetened touches,

Licking her fair breast,

Gently, so calmly, a glaze,

It was all,

While the chipped glass majestic red,

 A creamy mist of herbs, and spices,

Heaven’s crystal-clear touch-

Mere measure-

That disavowed night,

In her favor,

Lending her just a bit,

Of its petals and scents,

The hues and delights of Our Father.

Midsummer Night's Ballet

~ Midsummer Night’s Ballet ~

Sensitive and graceful curvature,

Behind those dark lips,

A soft, enigmatic phrase,

That was upon his kiss,

Never seeking me out, and dying,

Beneath the soft pale features,

That starkly showed a contrast,

To the flames that spurred the devil-

Who had grasped him,

Tucked him within its clutches,

Sought him out, regaled him with bright touches,

That enamored the word, the art, the whole, the beautified,

Glory-path,

Bright pendant within the moon’s light-

And then the pale, sodden, wet tongue suddenly turned black,

The evil art of his own figurine body,

Yet a casted, a dancing ballerina-

In bashful loving . . .

A shard,

Of heavy glass,

Yet, one that trickled down from a sun-flecked window,

Glancing at me in the sunlight,

Through his tamed, empathetic, red-rimmed eyes . . .

That dark intertwined with the silver,

And that beautiful prose,

Who made him what he could only be-

A creative talent whisking,

Against the woods in a midsummer night’s dream,

Black as the ace of spades yet so white, so endearingly luscious,

A porcelain set upon my dresser,

And now I can only think-

That something has taken away,

The devil inside,

Yet his tongue is still two colors,

As I barely brush against his soul,

Alight with shuddering, forcefully teased pleasure,

Trembling spurted physical and spiritual strength,

And the enigmatic force,

That this person holds for me-

And the phrase is loosened,

As I finally hear him speak,

As together we chat,

In a passion,

Which never needs an ear,

For,

We never have need of talking. . .  

Dark Passion/Poetry

~ Dark Passion ~

The slipping tongue,

That shines, gleams, and glides,

Out of the mouth, the lips towards-

A better catch-

The sickly sweet, syrupy honey,

Which glistens as it falls,

In slow, glittering succession,

Of drops, onto this tongue-

Better than anything which this tongue-

Has yet poured out to touch-

In the open air,

While the gleaming of dark syrup,

And snaking tongue,

Finally become as one.

But . . .

I do wonder, how this bodily function,

Has enwrapped such lust, as this . . .

Because the blissful, caressing warmth,

Of this still unbelievable, true, gently tickling, cold, appendage-

Has taken inside . . .

All of my tender, womanly passion,

The sweet and most dear yet unnamed,

Desire,

The courses, throughout my blood,

And finally-

Drips,

Inside of your loving folds forever.

Truth Ventricle

~ Truth Ventricle ~

What we knew,

And what we never saw . . .

Is crying in deep red blood,

Yet, while the shining, glittering tear rolls down the woman’s face,

I caress it carefully,

And my finger-

Comes away red.

Yet my heart is wrenching, jerking in a cantankerous way that,

I would never be able to comprehend, if,

I was unable to rest my hand,

Upon her swine colored, pinkly flushed, slowly dying  face-

And something begins at that moment to cry in my own breast,

In wrenching gasps as I-

Fall forward,

Spiraling towards a dab of a hardened blotch,

That has crusted up and dried,

On my hand . . .

I open my palm gently,

And the vision of a tear-like drop, of blood,

Has fallen there to rest . . .

I look up at the midnight blue stars,

And feel my heart swell,

As I lay down to rest,

In the cold, dampened meadow . . .

Never really understanding,

How her tears turned into blood-

And I keep sobbing,

My hair, finally cascading in a gentle arc-

Around my shoulders,

And finally, finally- I lay her down,

And cover her up with a blanket,

While truth pumps through my own veins,

Pumping, coursing-

Now I see everything so clearly . . .

If only she had told me-

If only I had known, the truth . . .

I breathe a deep sigh to myself,

And lay down to rest, beside her . . .

Force That Gently Wanders (Poetry)

~ Force That Gently Wanders ~

 

 

Entwined with imaginary traces,

Of silver mysteries,

An inertia bred within black fire,

Beneath the raging water,

Of death.

 

Entwined with silver tendrils,

The pearlescent skin,

Of a death-defying,

Stoic woman bearing a strait carriage,

Tall and proud is she, while-

She quietly and cleverly,

Yet unobtrusively and gently,

Wards off the weak ones, with eyes of blue stalactites,

So that . . .

The water’s rage subsides,

And the trees stop swaying,

While the wind finally dies,

But-

Who is she?

 

No one could fathom,

Yet we are always kept wondering . . .

Fluffy Pink Cats- Poetry

~ Fluffy Pink Cats ~

 

Swoop downward out of the blue with-

Fluff,

And then they merge-

No one ever seems to find a miscreant,

When they enter into our minds like glue

They stick to our brains like hot wax,

Never leaving lone thought behind . . .

 

I really do like these fuzzy pink cats,

And mysterious leagues that,

Put them all on display-

Yet, with all of these

Leagues of cats in my brain,

I never even thought that,

They would try to demonstrate,

Bejeweled emerald eyes,

That rest upon my dresser,

In the form of porcelains . . .

Because, in my mind they begin glowing,

Never saving themselves anytime to,

Rest like the solid, dignified porcelains,

Sit with a high esteem . . .

Because they are,

No longer my treasured entities,

From my grandmother and aunts,

But sporadically flying

Fireworks of-

Pink!

Pink!

Lovely pink,

Fuzzy paperwork creations!

Heart-shaped designs,

How I love these,

Fuzzy pink fantasies,

 

 Sublime.

Crude Dancing

 ~ Crude Dancing ~

{A War}

Crude, abominable something,

A rare necessity,

Painful rub,

An ominous grunt,

A share of trickling water,

Flowing seamlessly, through the air . . .

A silent stream, that begged for mercy,

Yet no one listened or cared.

The world was dying,

And-

Through the rush,

We left something,

A grunt and a rub,

Whatever it had meant,

Then,

Could not have been stated,

Because in a dark alley,

A man lay dying.

In the musical distance,

Jazz players lighted up their faces,

With a congealed red flame,

That centered only on their eyes . . .

No one saw or cared,

What this man did,

What became of him-

For he lay dying!

He would never seen the trickling rush,

Of the water the flowed,

About his body,

A silent, unseen river-

A blood-bath.

The dancers sang, and jazz-like, they tuned their instruments,

Yet the air within the alley,

Was silent,

Dead,

And cold.

He was a part of all this-

This merciless killing flow,

Of screams for mercy,

Yet no one stopped,

And knew of his plight . . .

The dancers-

They basked, in their bloody light,

Creating this twisted river,

As the life,

Was suddenly extinguished-

And we never,

Saw again,

What he meant to say . . .

Because,

The men continued to create death,

And if he whispered then,

His last words,

People will still dance,

In the blood-bath,

Of war.