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Posted: March 18th, 2005, 6:27 pm
by panta rhei
there's wind in the bushes
steam on the moon
and in a hot tub full of daisies
i sing my tune

Posted: March 18th, 2005, 6:28 pm
by Marksman45
Two birds on a branch
filled my head with watercolour memories
... but I'm miles from my flowers,
from the birds of my feather

Posted: March 18th, 2005, 6:28 pm
by Sierra
It is raining on the desert today.
Tears streaming from the sky out of
swollen clouds of misery
falling from the eye of God
to feed plants dying in despair.

Thunder races across the land
as lightening streaks
illuminating the desolation.


Spring comes slowly.

Flowers blossom to soften cactus thorns
and as arroyos fill with water,
an oasis is formed
in the mountains of the desert.

Peace in Wylde Storms
in the eye of the hurricane,
liquid rain is falling
to feed the cacti of existence
of Sierra's deserts
creating an oasis
that would not
otherwise be.


Posted: March 18th, 2005, 6:28 pm
by wylde
mothers apply
on wednesday nights
in front of leaking orbs

while larks beaks
melt melded
middling sticky notes

to the endless wail
of fridge motors
begging their hollow
orifices to be filled

Posted: March 18th, 2005, 6:29 pm
by bennie




marksman, I fucking love those photographs. the third on eis incredible but they're all beautiful. I've been drinking red wine all night but I don't think that's it. These are just really gorgeous images. you have a beautiful soul to take these images.

Posted: March 18th, 2005, 6:29 pm
by Sierra
in winter orifices are often hollow.

in spring they've been filled
and are burgeoning
with progeny!!

: )

Posted: March 18th, 2005, 6:30 pm
by Lightning Rod
will I edit the equinox?
make the day a little longer
or the night?

It's a fright to be a poet
and have complete control of the universe.
Spring comes at my decree.

Posted: March 18th, 2005, 6:31 pm
by Sierra
star flowers are lovely.

the pictures are beautiful.

Posted: March 18th, 2005, 6:33 pm
by Sierra
the equinox is a deciding number
sort of splitting the two in twain
or is that the twain in too?

spring grows in green grass.

time to cut the grass, charlie.

or you could just let it grow, hang glass ornaments on it and tell everyone you forgot to take down the Xmas decorations!!!

: )

Posted: March 18th, 2005, 6:33 pm
by panta rhei
i will now
greet spring in my moonlit dreams -

good night to wylde winds
and sierra cacti of existence
to naked bennie salads
semen sleeping in mud and clay
and marlsman photgraphs


Posted: March 18th, 2005, 6:35 pm
by Sierra
This has been such a lovely jam! We have to sign off here in Dark AFrica (kids getting us up early).

I miss you guys.

Will try to check in more often.

Happy Spring!

Sierra (and Wylde)

Posted: March 18th, 2005, 6:42 pm
by Lightning Rod
my hot tub is a blender full of daisies
it smells of camphor and the rectums of the earth
and for all my morbid lucidity
it's all for naught in the Spring
The Orthodoxy of Life prevails
there's nothing I can do about it.

Posted: March 18th, 2005, 6:49 pm
by Marksman45
Bennie, Panta, Sierra - thanks! I'm really proud of those photographs
(That first one has made me interested in photographing the ground more often; I had never really thought of it before)

Posted: March 18th, 2005, 8:30 pm
by hester_prynne
Spring is
hope's eternal.
The garden path,
a flat spot,
on the wheel
of everything,
cuz it's all
yes it is.

Spring is
crow conversations.
In the yard,
raucous discussions,
in the background
of everywhere,
cuz it's all
yes it is.

Spring is
the fool in me.
In my heart,
a daffydil planted,
in the forever
of everyone,
cuz it's all
yes, it is.

Posted: March 18th, 2005, 9:52 pm
by Doreen Peri

I am late,
like Spring,
my branches draped
with March snowcover.
Icicles drip from downspouts
near my roots. I am an ancient oak,
independent of tardy seasons.
Saw me in two to count my rings.
I have seen Spring arrive in arrears
more years than not. Seasons do not
own me yet I invest in sapling energy
since I must. Disease eats my sprigs.
Leaves will leave well enough alone,
insistent on non-appearance.
I am certain they will not show.
I am late, like Spring.
I yearn for equinox.
I desire chlorophyl-
filled fields, green,
envious like a painted
sky. I yield
to the equinox,
await my blossom,
anticipate my flush,
languish my flower.

I am late,
like Spring
is late, the hour,
my prime, not yet mine.