I've always thought it strange
how sadness slips in,
smooth and silent.

There is a subtle sweetness to it
as it slides across your skin
and settles around your soul.

Sometimes the sadness seems
to stir up a similar sentiment,
a sympathetic sycophant.

Longing is the label lent to this feeling.
The languid and lurid weight of it
lures you in and lies upon your lap,

loops about your limbs and locks them
into the limited locomotion
of loathsome lethargy.

Nature's Gift By Frost Frosts Depiction

Short sweet and simple
as it comes in a farmers way
out in the wilderness
since mornings in May

as spring springs and summer comes in
lovely flowers does nature display
Frost did then say

Believe him you may
as in the country
he did stay

you in cemented forests alone
on buildings with multi floors
87 plus in
NEW EMPIRE STATE BUILDING NEW YORK

all can't reach the last floor
I knocked at the door

AFTER THE GARDEN
 
We all strive to find a special place
above all others; a unique space
that rises above the commonality
of the human race and belies mortality;
we storm the heavens in conflagration,
like fallen angels, and curse the inequity
of Creation only to live in constant anguish
not to know what we are not meant to know
for all is beyond our understanding.
our ignorance is our peace
and our salvation.
arrogance  is our Fall

changing light
shifting
a branch neglected
of winter
sits the sky
happy in its lonesome
refractions

someplace to be
hurrier she goes
orchard blush cheeks
rhythm on lean
momentum

in the wind
the history
knows
no blame
no soft spell
shame

dusk eternal
rewards
immortal kiss
rising from its
bed of sleep
through hypno trees
and river bank
slake the living
curse
the thirst

...

Well I remember yon fine day
down by the deep Loch Ness.
I cast my fly so far away
which soon caused me distress.

Instead of hooking trout out there
on mud banks thick and messy.
Stepped through flat fish floundering where
I had to battle Nessie.

I wrestled her as you have guessed
though that was not my plan.
I only wished for herring dressed
not pilchards from a can.

It took a while to free the line
that Nessie had entangled.
I found my rod, my tackle, twine
hopelessly were mangled.

You can write/type in
what ever font you want.
You can choose the size,
shape, color, anything really.
Don't mistake fantasy with
real life. Because when you
write fantasy you can choose
the font. life isn't like that. Don't
try to make it one.

The conifers are always green and never undress
And expose their naked barks and veins
At the first shortening of daylight

They do not use the ground like a toilet
For their seasonal hair loss
Adding to the primal mud that nourishes them

Rather they drop these little cones
Of sculpted wooden tears
On surrounding soft carpets
Made of the finest capellini

Some are the skyscrapers of trees
Others crawl in colors across the field
Some have hair wild as the Medusa

Conifers are the green of renaissance
I am the black the white the grey
I am in a shy meditation on how
To become one in the next life

When the stone path is full of spring moss
Or the evergreen is sprinkled with icicles
You will find me by the conifer woods
Trying to feel as only green can feel

foe to friend .jess critique.....towards the end

Standing Ovation!

May I bow in reverence as one would/may
getting a
''Coat of Arms''

My bald head is totally wet
not because it's hot
you know

dry tears roll down my hardened cheeks
lips dry like an oven
throat chokes

my heart beat palpitates
no not just as it would
it hastens its pace.

the depths of stomach churn
and
I feel pits deep down far below
see
how happy I am
reading your comment