Fall

A Breeze of Memory

A graveyard of dead trees

Fallen leaves of vast red and orange seas

Squirrels scurry before winter strikes

As children play while others pass on bikes

 

harmony of the trees an the wind come together and sing

As a bird chirps then stops to clean it's wing

Children shrieking and screaming as they play

Angry armies of cars roar past, then fly away

 

Memories start of when I was a kid

Only broken away by time an what it did

Sitting still only in question

Of who I am and to what is my impression

 

I laughed . . . I played here

I was happy unknown of fear

But then reality again breaks memory's connection

Only to be lost again, still unknown of my reflection

 
Like
 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

annnd, here you have yet another class assignment that I did way back.

 

Lost one

Faith is all you know.

You bestow it on me, so.

Inside, your knows-

Ten feet tall.
Slip towards the ledge.

You and I.

Push me below.

Wind took my breath.

Left me-

Laying on the floor.

 

Everything.

Is white and black-

And pain,

Keep my hands shaking.

When you talk to me.

Your faith changed and,

You're never close to me.

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Flavors

How long is it again til spring?
For now it's peppermint or pumpkin everything!
Brownies, coffees, cakes and more!
On it goes until it's time..
Once again for Valentine's!!

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-Casper-

September 12, 2013

 

1.

 

She walks a strange peculiar walk,

sunglasses mask her piercing stare,

and yet the masses stop to gawk,

and whispers fill the Autumn air.

 

I know not why she walks this path,

she has no story to be told,

you'll feel no hatred in her wrath,

her smile will never keep you warm.

 

But when the people look at her,

they'll see a goddess with no fault,

when sanity begins to blur,

they will succumb as she has planned.

 

And in the end I know not of,

a way to bring her from the path,

her bleak and dreary kind of love,

will satisfy them none the less.

 

So let her falsely resonate,

with empty shells she echoes best,

for it will take a twist of fate,

to bring her ghostly form to life.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Inspired by a model I happened to run into today. 

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After the Golden Age

Folder: 
Poetry

Chaos should not cease

To dominate the world.

O yes, Nyarlathotep;

Will rule!

 

No wish for harmony,

Of its Golden Age;

It was before the Fall.


 

Reveling in constant disorder,

But Yog-Sothoth prefers reason;

Giving His first allegiance

To the Daemon Sultan: Azathoth

Remembering old times of this God.


 

Cthulhu does side with Him,

But Yig supports Yog-Sothoth;

As Father Serpent of the Cosmos,

Who invented this very world...


 

Yog-Sothoth has sympathy,

As Dagon; the Deep One Lord

And not even he can say

What will happen when there remains

A Princess restored on Her throne,

A Princess on Ebony Bone.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

A poem about what happened after the Golden Age.

He teased me with purple

As I was walking through the garden 

looking for flowers, I saw him.

He was crouched down in front of plant.

 

I said, excuse me, Sir,

Do you have any poppy flowers?

As he stood up to greet me and turned around, 

he was holding a giant turnip.

 

He teased me with it,

hiding his face behind

as he answered my question.

 

Apparently, he used to have a poppy plant.

 

But there was rumor,

the authorities had gotten word of it,

and he had to destroy it.

 

He just couldn't have

that kind of trouble

around his garden,

disturbing his peace.

 

I laughed and listened as he told me detailed stories about the plant.

How he extracted opium from it once in a while and used it for medicine.

And about the fights he would get into with a neighbor

who would sometimes sneak over the fence

slice into the pod and steal the resin.

 

I told him the reason I was looking for one,

was that I wanted to paint its beautiful form

and I needed a model.

 

He then proceeded to tell me

about other flowers he was growing in his garden.

Perhaps you could paint one of them instead, he said.

 

As he guided me toward the blooming beds,

he told me about his scientific methods of farming.

Seems, he was a Biodynamic farmer.

 

Positioning's of the stars, moon and sun, guided him in the tending of his garden.

He told me about the seasons, and the daylight and night light.

And of how each aspect affected the plants.

 

I learned about the decay after harvest season,

about the death of winter,

and about the best time to plant seeds.

 

He talked about the heavy rains of spring,

and the flowers blooming

and the bees pollenating

and about the mating season.

 

It was getting late, and I had to get back home.

He invited me to come to his garden anytime to paint.

And then I proceeded to go on my way,

fully intending to come back one day.

 

 

 

 

 

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The Lady With The Tragic Past

I met her in a therapy group,
The woman who had the tragic past,
She spoke with lots of knowledge
On things like 'self esteem' and 'well being',
And I thought to myself,
'Wow, she really has it all together now',
I thought, 'You would never know',
She worked for a support line in the local town,
And everyone looked up to her...

 

She often spoke of predators of a sexual kind,
Mostly when someone spoke up in the group
About a bad experience,
Like about when they were 10 and played doctor with their siblings,
Or when they touched an intimate part of their body,
With another child in their age group,
And the wise woman with the tragic past
Would always be there...to remind them of how bad
The other person was,
And this freed the group member of guilt,
And soon they would join the wise woman
With the terribly tragic past in her mission.

 

One day a member of the group spoke up
About how her parents taught her what oral sex was,
She said it confused her terribly,
And the wise woman with the tragic past stood up,
And became indignant about such awful parents,
How dare they confuse and abuse their 13 year old child
Without permission from the moral majority
And status quo of prominent psychotherapists in the town,
And the police were called immediately to arrest the predators,
And everyone felt a little sorry,
And the group member felt ashamed to have such horrid parents,
Now under the impression that they didn't really love her,
But that they just pretended to.

 

The wise lady with the tragic past would do that,
She would be there like a dear protector,
She took it on as a mission in life to get every last predator,
And with her experience and grand knowledge about abuse,
There was never a need for her to see proof about a predator,
She knew what other's intentions were without them knowing,
Because she just knew exactly what a predator was,
She didn't have to ask,
Everyone knew she knew,
And everyone trusted her judgement.

 

Once, when I was 6 I fell off my bicycle
And hit my head on a rock during a race with other kids,
I passed out and woke up on the neighbor's couch
With an ice pack on my head, and people around me,
All very happy to see me awaken and be ok,
And there were no predators that I can remember,
But there wasn't anyone like the lady with the tragic past there either,
And everything turned out ok,
I was better the next day, riding my bike down the driveway
In the same way I had the day before,
Having lots of fun like kids do,
And now I wonder if I would have ever got on the bike again
If the wise lady with the tragic past had been there.

 

Takes one to know one maybe.

 

10:22 PM 5/8/2013

Author's Notes/Comments: 

When the abused becomes predatory without even realizing it.

Cycles

Folder: 
Nature / Folder 1

Flowers and
showers in
April and May,
June and July
getting warmer
each day,
August, September,
kids go back
to school,
October, November,
now it's getting
too cool,
December and
January, we all
pay the price,
icy the sidewalk,
no boots will
suffice, February,
March, so glad
it's getting
warm, here
we are back
once more
chasing the
rainstorms!

 

 

2013 ©

Author's Notes/Comments: 

The beauty of cycles in nature.

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Blizzard - February 11, 2013

Folder: 
Chapter One

A vacant space fills our imaginations

with goals to make the best of creations.

Work is to be done, and goals are to be achieved,

and a blockade of will is hoped to be relieved.

 

Imagination is a bridge, and your goals are lost,

for in front of you is a bridge that you long to cross,

but the mist is slick, you must proceed slow.

If you don't, the void of dullness lie below.

 

You take a slow step with misty stone at your feet

that quickly turns to snow, a foe difficult to beat.

Your walk turns to a crawl, and your pace is slow.

You begin to question what you really know.

 

Snow freezes to ice in front of your eyes.

Across the bridge are eternal blank cries.

You cannot wait any more, you must rise and fight

against the blizzard, the ice, what you need inside.

 

You grasp onto the stone, onto your destiny,

and you slowly rise to your frost-burnt feet.

Your crawl to a walk, then into a run.

If you make it now, your dreams are sure to come.

 

You progress with confidence, and you're heeding the call.

The only danger possible is that you might fall.

But that is impossible, you've gone too far,

until you realize who you really are.

 

You stumble and slip, and you smash into the ice.

Your only goal was to make it to new heights,

but you're too worthless; your dreams are left untouched.

Lost are the goals to which you've so hopefully clutched.

 

Is this a nightmare? This is not in your sleep.

It's reality's awakening to why you must weep.

You never had a chance; you couldn't ever make it,

so you were forced to break down and to forfeit.

 

In the progress of your life, you'll see what you've become.

You will see that it's imagination where dreams come from.

because they're not a reality, and they'll never be true,

so you need to discover what reality means to you.

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