It's funny

How our bodies are built to oppose 

Stagnation.

When the cold creeps in,

Our skin crawls with frost

And instincts

Push us to shake away

Winter's frigid breathe.

When cold, we spasm and sputter,

Muscles refusing to give into stillness,

Deciding that chattering into

Unconsciousnes

Would be better that tranforming

Into eternal stone. 

Indeed humans were never

meant to embody 

Such sedentation, lest our minds fall prey

To the boredom

Sameness breeds.

And yet, it is a state we so long for

When things become complicated.

It's like we, as life

Are meant to perpetrator desire the 'other'

The 'better'

The 'else's.

That's what keeps us running,

Not fear, or cold or duty,

No.

We run for whatever the unreachable goal might bring,

Because we can't stand to be still. 

You sing of starkness

Yet harald the Spring,

Walk upon pins and needles across thin ice

Till you're suddenly accepted by the Earth herself,

Allowed a walkway for your prongs

Carved through her matted hairs and decorations,

A winding and obstacled path for you to easily scale

And weave through, part if her in your own way.

Indeed, she must love you if she allowed

Such a graceful animal to exist.

She feels not envy, not shame nor pity.

No, you nay be the hunted

But you are most certainly not poorly endowed,

And any gain must be forged through a trade of pain,

Such is the law of the Forest. 

And yes, you recall memories of death and decay,

The barrenness of the coming Winter --

But Winter has passed, as so too shall Spring.

You must persist on,

And so you do. 

(3000th post!!) 

a giant with a passion for landscape art

stands in rolling hills,

gazing at the hazy coastal range,

and splashes his bright colors

across a football field of a canvas.

his barrel of orange paint topples over

seeping,

dripping,

spilling,

down the hills,

and

bam

now the cattle fields are covered in bright orange fiddlenecks.

or maybe there's a colony of fairies living in the oak trees?

and they decided to expand their department store

with a whole collection of new flowers to stitch into tiny dresses?

yellow buttercups make the perfect skirt,

of course,

and the baby blue eye petals can be sewn to make a silky blouse.

or what if some higher being felt bad for the cows?

they almost always keep their heads down,

you know,

grazing until no end. 

maybe some god sprinkled stars onto their fields,

so the cows wouldn't have to look up at the night sky.

that's why the shooting star flowers are so prevalent this year.

the cows needed to make some wishes, too.

or perhaps a rainbow has died?

it swayed gently in the sky before tumbling,

down,

down,

down,

until it collapsed onto the hills.

its rotting corpse took root

and began a new life as a thousand tiny flowers.

red is the clover,

of course,

and orange the poppies.

yellow is the dandelions,

green the chickweed,

blue the lupine,

and purple the tiny filaree.

or that's how I imagine it happened.

Peppermint, I LOVE this poem! Thank you.

Admin

looking for blue again

she's forgotten who she is

drowning lungs filled not with water but with words,

hiding behind stories, artificial realities to run away to for a few minutes or hours

but then she must resurface, because she has to go to school and talk to other human beings and do the things necessary for survival in this bleak & beautiful world

she's not in any terrible pain, any deep darkness---or if she is, she hides it deep where even she doesn't notice it

she's just sort of

caught,

ensnared in an apathetic fog; someone stole her color film while she wasn't looking,

and now her world is in shades of gray and she does not love it but what does that matter, because she can't remember feeling any differently

she escapes the grayness by burying herself in books, pale glimpses of the brilliant colors she once took for granted, slightly shaky-handed copies of real life that has now fled in its rainbiw cloak and left her in this

cold gray room alone

but the stories do not last forever, and life, pressing exhausting draining colorless life feels like it will, it passes by and she goes through the motions of participating, but

her mind is still caught in the cobwebs of her created worlds, clinging to the last glimpses of color in her experience

she is not dying, but

the sky is gray and

she is not living, either

Drops overflow like tears

Spilling

Sadly

Upon the Earth.

Her breath is cold and wet

Kissing some long-lost place

Buried beneath

Ages of memories.

The hard, frigid spray of the Ocean

Grim and gloomy,

Clouds saturated

With leaden promises and lost ideas,

Whispering that there's something more

Hidden behind the beautiful forevers.

Earth Day inspired poem:

Our Future

by Palm

As hard as it is to believe

It is your fault

The cranes

Who expect ponds with plentiful fish

Instead get hard pavement

And broken bones

The cougars

Mama's cub whines and can only watch

as her mother is taken away

The polar bears

Wondering what happened to the glaciers 

Their home

The world is waiting

And yet we hesitate

Why?

It is time to make a stand

There is no planet B

Adults,

It's time to listen to the kids

We have ideas too

We have futures too

Our kids have furtures too

Please help us

Before our furture is gone. 

What a beautiful poem, Palm. It brings tears to my eyes. Thank you!

Admin

Paper towns

Built of the backs of trees

Conquered in the name of exploration,

Feather downs

Stripped from the birds

We so yearn for, named hope. 

Cloaks woven

From what we've stolen 

Sheered and snatched for own own.

We are such greedy creatures,

Us humans.

Why not give back for a change?

A Girl

A girl like the sun

Casting golden shafts

Through the leaves

A girl like the scent of the sea

and the salty waves 

Slapping against the shimmering sand

A girl like a rainbow of flowers 

Blooming in brilliant tints

and shades, sweet-smelling

A girl like the drizzling rain

Pitter-pattering on the window pane

Making the summer air fresh and clean

A girl like a star

Twinkling like a fairy,

Glowing throughout the night

A girl like cups of paint

Rich, luscious, saturated colors

Catching your eye with delight

A girl like rows of colorful candies

Sweet, wonderful, desirable

Almost unimaginable

A girl like an orchestra

Many components that are pretty by themselves

But together, a gorgeous masterpiece

A girl who is herself

Beautiful in everyday

Exactly how she is

A girl that I love.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

Hope y'all like it? Also if y'all have any contructive critisim/suggestions, I'd love to hear them.  Also (wow that was my 3rd try writing also there) thanks for reading my poem

Things fall apart so easily,

You know.

Entropy is the way of the Universe,

Chaos her one rule. 

Funny how we crave adventure and spontaneity

But are tethered by our so-called logic

And bound to the rigid motions of routine.

We quite literally fall apart without it,

And yet we are so desperate to break from it,

Intent upon shattering the mold,

Of being "new" and "real" and "better."

We simultaneously bleed for simplicity

Whilst thirsting for a deeper truth;

Baffle ourselves with the inner complexities

And pride ourselves for it. 

What a foolish race we are,

And what little sense we make. 

I used to be so afraid of the Dark

When I was young.

If real-world monsters and evil

Could lurk about by Day,

What worse abominations

Cloaked themselves in the Night? 

What fearsome beasts

And ruthless tyrants could brew

In the unseen and unknown?

But fear

Doesn't mean the same thing to everyone, 

No most people do not embrace 

What they fear most.

Most people likely do not

Drown 

Until they can breath the thick

Inky water that spells disaster

Or swallow moonlight until

She has disappeared;

With the knowledge that 

All the stars in the world

Could never rebuild the fallen sun

Shattered beneath your feet

Hanging loosely overhead, like a threat.

No, most people dare not

Dance into the twilit shadows,

Fingertips snatching wisps of darkness

And tearing  traces of pale tears from the sky,

With broad strokes, weaving them

Into a grand tapestry that dipicts themself

In what comes closest to

All of their fascinating nuance and depth,

Filled with motion and feelings.

Most people will overcome a great fear someday,

Many will succeed and stand atop the fallen 

Form of that eldritch horror,

Some will not. 

I cannot tell if I have overcome what I fear,

Indeed, can someone truly fear oneself?

Last Poem I’m Ever Going to Write About You

I’ve written an embarrassing number of poems about you

But this is the last one.

This is the last time I’m going to tell you how you’ve mesmerized me but also hurt me

(Hurt me one too many times)

And this is the last time I’m going to complain about all the things you’ve said that aren’t okay

This is the last day I wait around for you to change instead of making a change by myself.

I can be happy.

I don’t need you to do that for me.

I don’t need your makeshift friendship,

Don’t need your love.

I don’t need your validation.

I’m my own friend.

I love myself.

I already know I’m valid.

I’m not going to wait for you to see that anymore -

I’m just going to look at the people who already do.

So goodbye.

You were good and I know that, but now you’re not.

And just know I’m not doing this for you.

Words

I stand alone,

Encased in a swirling sphere of words.

They aren’t hateful words, 

Flung at me with malicious intent.

No.

They are my own words, 

A shield to protect me from people.

A veil of fakeness,

A mask of calmness,

The personality of someone else.

Each casual sentence,

Each friendly poke,

Every carefree laugh,

Every “I’m fine.”

Every “It’s okay.”

They pile up.

In layers and layers and layers

They appear more and more,

Each day that passes,

Adds layers and layers

Now they’re so thick

No one can see through.

Not even I know who I am

I am a fake person now

A character in the miserable story of life.

And I stand alone in my armor of words

Encased in a shell made of someone else

And I drift away,

Until all that’s left

Is words.