Best Flume Poems
This gypsy soul is on the road
It leaves castles far behind
It abandons ghostly mist
which sabotages the caravan of life
It passes along the mountainside
by golden hay fields where daises bloom
by stream of waters which sweeps
a withered rose
towards the decayed lumber flume
This gypsy soul is on the road
from Edinburgh to Lochlomond
against high winds,against the rain
against aquatic monsters of pain
This gypsy soul is on the road
to the woodlands of your heart
where I would camp inside your tent
as our blissful thoughts impart
This gypsy soul within myself
and all the woman in me
would wantingly await your fingertips
to compose soft pastel fantasy
The smell of early coffee
then fills our empty cups
The song of the cicada
would echo in the shrubs
And as the chimney smoke
drift sideways in the breeze
as warm dappled light filters
through purple pansy leaves
The pressing of my lips
would leave their crimson mark
below your sun- kissed cheek
My arms would cling around
your once a muscular physique
We laze upon a hammock
strung between two old oak trees
I play on your guitar,my hundred melodies
As the incandescent half moon
rises above the dusky hue
and orange paper lanterns
float high in cobalt blue
We'd chase the opalescent glow
of a million firefly
You'd be able to touch me
before last embers die
This gypsy soul is on the road
in search to be set free
Across bridges,on a journey
your compass-my destiny.
An almost stillness came about
as she strode into my door,
like breath itself refused to move,
fearful of touching her mysterious beauty
But her obsidian eyes betrayed her.
Sharp and gleaming,
with a silver sheen
she looked at me,
and I knew…
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Molten lava spilled forth from her mouth, melting our clocks—
eighteen hundred nightmares compressed in two hours.
Long hand moving forward, as the short hand moved backward
How can memories persist in such an acrid life?
She spoke of a beast in the guise of a man,
one who ravaged innocence with the flick of a click
A coward that collected milk teeth for hardened bones
of other horny beasts with no spine
That throaty tenderness when she spoke
sprinkled crystal seeds of frustration in me
She says he loathed him, denied she loved him
but her obsidian eyes betrayed her
There she was, a bud he plucked from the nuns’ garden
He grafted then he pruned her,
spreading her pollen, wafting her scent
yet folding her petals to himself
Caterpillars feeding upon her leaves,
she lets them devour her,
yet once they are wrapped in their cocoons to sleep,
she stabs them with her thorns.
Tears then slid down from her midnight lace eyes
and it was all I could do to catch them
She said she was weary of curtailing butterflies,
of tearing their wings before they can even fly
I had to ask, how many… how many winged gems?
She lifted her sleeves, and showed me her scars
One ugly mark for each innocent child plunged deep,
my heart getting slashed at least three hundred a beat.
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A certain stillness came about
as I strode into her door,
like fear itself refused to move,
letting breath touch her mysterious beauty for the last time....
Her obsidian eyes had betrayed her.
Sharp and gleaming,
with a silver sheen
I looked at the knife beside her.
Maroon-mapped sheets, a stunted womb.
Strains of Bon Iver’s “Flume”
flit past the sighing air like a butterfly,
and I knew…
08112014
Rising on island,
Mountain, with peaks of possibility,
Valley lush and green.
When my knees collapse, lightning and thunder -
Call it butterflies.
The palms warmed and cooled us, warned us, fooled us.
Explosive, our love -
Once conjoined, often drifting in the sea,
Eyes leaping with fire.
Hot Lava, Lover,
Have we been here before? You’re smoking hot!
Hearts of stone, lifting upwards, tears running,
Drifting on riffraff.
Outbreak of chortling might redirect winds.
La la…ooh…la la.
Sips of berries and pineapple; we share
Icy tropical
Attempts to cool things down; steam underfoot.
Ebb and flow of raft,
Seeking to poke embers - attentive ears.
Hot Lava, Lover,
Have we been here before? You’re smoking hot!
Collapse of civilization, in grass
Skirt, paradise shirt,
Atomic timing sans wearing a watch.
Heads buried in sand -
Lips meeting in molten-red, not passive,
Dirty and tender.
Swimming in sweep of lava lake, suntan-
Baked, gliding upwards,
Climactic eruption, falling with love.
Hot Lava, Lover,
Have we been here before? You’re smoking hot!
We ride the flume of volcanic weather,
Can’t raise the tall man,
Seek the insane chance of sane survival -
Valiancy in strife.
Man and wife seeking each other’s island -
Pieces fit just right.
Synchronic habitation, breathing room.
Volcano’s, how old?
In the end it shuts its mouth… a whisper
Hot Lava, Lover,
Have we been here before? You’re smoking hot!
Grumble-rumble raises hairs on my arms.
Air so crisp it crackles lightening forms.
Whoop the wind scrambles and mell pells,
the stationary earth shivers before it fells.
Scrubbed clean like a naughty, naughty, child,
the twigs and brush scatter, the cat's beguiled.
Cone flowers pink petals lap dance the lawn.
Gray chittering squirrels hide 'tween rooted forms.
Whhhhhoooooosh the gully washer's display,
the sizzling pop of the auto’s fine splay.
The gutters are gargeling spitting a flume,
and, ah the relief from heat such a boon.
Mother nature in all her majesty
has made the day just right for me!
See the impacted eyes, heavy
and the frozen heart, begging
to be released; the tongue
dry, but the cheeks like a flume.
See the round table keep things
close to their chest, lest they spill
the fragility, each glass fragment
that stabs, glues together like
a madman’s vase, complete
with a bouquet of black roses.
Indecent the descent of disheartening;
refusal to believe in uncoupling;
what a crap shoot, show, expletive.
See touch, the tangible eyedropper,
mike drop, warm shawl; a momentary
squeeze of a lemon. Lies go down the drain -
momentarily, mightily, momentously;
bubbling up as a panacea when drained
of all kith and kin; their comfort
and understanding underwhelming,
often pitiful, a pittance. what is needful
is others likewise in a sinking boat,
keeping one another just above
the water line; bailing out each
other’s pain; finding camaraderie
in the breaking; the flowers in the vase
turn dark blue and purple - deep.
See the healing begin, for some.
Some run, some squeeze the lemon,
some rely on the lies. See the death mask
tremble, then a phantom’s half;
never quite whole but jewels
replace the wizened half.
See the pain, the cuts, and crimson eyes.
Don’t become a master of disguise.
See the help, the forest through the trees,
remember your honeybees
given to eternity; find them in the honeycomb.
Your waters cleanse
my red-stained night,
my dredged thoughts,
rich petals drenched
between crystal and lace.
Do not pretend to dry of earth
or lips or veins.
Do not speak
without a moistened tongue
of love or spring in bloom.
My softest buds shall wilt,
brittle without your flume
flowing free in streams of rouge.
My reddest rose shall close,
alone to wither, brittle and brown.
For now, deepen in your sleep.
My love's rebirth shall lift your dreams
before they drift away
in June's tides, and I shall
float like moon beams
over your rising waves.
This gypsy soul is on the road
It leaves castles far behind
It abandons ghostly mist
which sabotages the caravan of life.
It passes along the mountainside
by golden hay fields where daises bloom
By streams of waters which sweep
all withered leaves towards
the decayed lumber flume.
This gypsy soul is on the road
from Edinburgh to Lochlomond
against high winds,against the rain
against aquatic monsters of pain.
This gypsy soul is on the road
to the woodlands of your heart
where I would camp inside your tent
as our blissful thoughts impart.
This gypsy soul within myself
and all the woman in me
would wantingly await your fingertips
to compose a guitar's melody.
The smell of early coffee
would fill our empty cups
The song of the cicada
echoes in the shrubs
And as the chimney-smoke
drifts side-ways in the breeze
As warm dappled light filters
through purple pansy leaves
The pressed rose of my lips
would leave its crimson mark
below your sun-kissed cheek
My arms would cling around
your once a muscular physique
We'd laze upon a hammock
strung between two old oak trees
I play upon your strings my hundred fantasies.
As the incandescent half moon
rises above the dusky hue
and orange paper-lanterns
float high in cobalt-blue
We'd chase the opalescent glow
Of a million firefly
You'll be able to touch me
before last embers die.
This gypsy soul is on the road
in search to be set free
Across each bridge,on every journey
Your compass is my destiny.
A revised repost .
"What does light have to do with darkness!?...."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Like mixing champagne miscreants
Within a simile laced frosted glass
Of crystalline stones mingling these
Crowned guises....
Fatidities of peremptory phantasms
Oracular silhouettes of the predisposed?!
Rising in unison unto a collective toast
Toward deceptives destiny; their very own
Whisperings billowing within ceramic tones....
These phantoms of the Pharoahs final call
Unto finalities masquerading opera
Respondez, s'il vous plait!?
Where on a blackened tie adorns this omnibus
The guest of honour with such, hollowed eyes
Smiling, as pressage greets them all....
Raising this metaphoric flume; a symbolic vessel
To these midnight mass miscreants of soporifics
Fatiditized oraculary made realities; fasicles
Standing before phelonians robes of fallacy?!
While as fantasias final chords begin their
Beckoning from afar; this preemptive echoing
Personifications, blood red rose....
Calling, afore this latter days gatherings of
Soon to be forevers, predisposed; ex parte
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
....The final toast!?
Note: ~ A resurrecting moment from Halloween 2008....
~ "'Love' & Warmth, Always," John!:) ~ "Hebrews 12."
Smile ~ "Its 'A Beautiful Day,' So Don't Let It Get
Away!?":) ~
Form:
I sit here poised and ready, slip the thong off of my gun;
I saw him when he walked in, No good son of a gun;
Half the men here recognize him, when he strode through the door;
The room is taught with anger; we’re fixing to mop the floor;
He ordered up a tall one and threw a glance around the room;
I remember my good buddy, he sent on up the flume;
Tombstone was where it happened, that drifter came to town;
Johnny was loud mouthing, when the drifter shot him down;
Now Johnny was a hard case, but he had him lots of friends;
And most of us in this here bar were there when he met his end;
I toss a glance off to my left and drop my hand down to my colt;
He was staring down my barrel when the drifter tried to bolt;
I hit the ground a running and I pulled that hammer back;
Today ended in bloody revenge, that was the end of Zack…
breast cancer runs rampant within me late mother side
whar moost every female diagnosed with emotional ride
into the depths of despair where metastatic cells pried
their way into the appendages whar din o suckling provide
did initial sustenance prior to malignant growth lied
Innocuously within fleshy tissue til oncologist could not hide
Truth from females that birthed and availed motherly guide
among most ever Harris heiress, whence treatment fried
will power to live (I can only imagine) as rogue growth did elide
as nemesis to body politick where no boxes of tissues dried
the river of tears when such news shell shocked me – I cried
for indiscriminate injustice whence fate snatched me father’s bride
shunting any trivial tit for tat resentments re: grudges aside.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
no other priority but being alive matters when surgeon knife
for malignant curse forces impending mortals to value life
purposeless double mastectomy performed when invisible mass rife
with errant duty to destroy sense and sensibility commanding strife
whether circumstance involved me eldest sister (still alive) or the late wife.
me octogenarian widower father summoned breastworks when last breath
o me long deceased mother – vehemently opposed being sentenced to death
no matter visualization practiced – such as furiously swapping with broom
who truthfully cursed with ovarian cancer, which spelt her actual doom
an unstoppable toxic brew within her being that coursed as meandering flume
Time elapsed, yet still difficult to espy wedding pictures with handsome groom
that would be my 20 plus year old father unbeknownst ill fate would loom
occupying cellular wall street where awry growth jostled for room
a harbinger of lifelessness, whereby she chose creation versus burial in a tomb
many fifty odd decades after my youngest sister exited the womb!
by: matthew scott harris
A MIGHTY WIND
without warning
a mighty gale force filled the
room
without warning
it spread Holy wildfires hot
flume
without warning
flames of spiritual tongues
consume
miraculously
different dialects spoken in
truth
miraculously
crowds gathered in awe and stood
mute
miraculously
understood as Holy Spirit bore
fruit
promises
fulfilled from the beginning of
days
promises
completing God’s merciful
way
promises
a ‘Counselor’ to help guide and
amaze
Kim van Breda—May 2014
(Inspired by Acts 2 and a sermon by Dr. Peter Watt)
The log flume
The door is always open for young hopefuls like you
An idea of paradise with cocktails and a house with a view
A Garden of Eden with oranges and apples growing are just a few
In to the night you will go looking seeking searching for that girl to subdue
In to the night you will find sexual enlightenment then one day you knew
I need someone who understands me and will want love that is totally true
The door closes behind and you are in the depths of a relationship that grew and grew
Suddenly you’re not in charge anymore because you only desire the only fruit
You are addicted to a person who you think loves you and this is a clue
A horrible truth is that you wanted everything too soon and she’s left you for a man who plays the bassoon
Now you wished you’d stayed single and you cry every time they play your tune
You will not find again you think that fruit that passed your lips like champagne in bloom
You then realize there are many doors to open and that is a wondrous colourful emotional log flume
Form:
SECOND TIME AROUND
Somewhere in the heat of night,
out of a dark and dismal gloom
she'd be there, but out of sight.
Thinking it's a beam of light,
her chariot, her witches broom,
somewhere in the heat of night
she could dream, if it was right,
and find her love and nearly groom,
she'd be there, but out of sight.
None could see her, for the blight,
nor see the glitter of her flume,
somewhere in the heat of night.
There she pans for gold, and right,
out of the fear she'll meet her doom
somewhere in the heat of night.
She'd love him again. She might.
if he could see her through the gloom,
somewhere in the heat of night,
she'd be there, but out of sight.
© Ron Wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
We were young, we were young
Forgiving and forgetting
Through all the worst circumstances
The purity of our hearts
Sparked the union of beings
But we were young
We watched ignited flumes die
A flume a mother and father tried to hold on to
We watched as they dwindled
So we tried to reignite cold hearts
But all we got were frostbites
We were young, we did not know
So we turned a blind eye to it all
We tried to forget
And for awhile we forgot
We played, we laughed, we seesawed
We watched the clouds drift
Through clear skies and gentle breezes
And for a while we saw
A tiny spark and a gentle union
Happiness engulfed adult hearts
And for many nights we dinned
At a table full of the best soul food
And a mother and father
Playing at being soul mates again
We were young, we were happy
If we had known that that wouldn't last
Well, we still would have been happy
Happy in the moment
Because nothing lasts forever
i jump to meet my mark,
it is met with arms out wide,
nothing, yet i expect a spark
so in little black book i confide.
what i ask of the masses, alot
admittedly ashamed i am not
to think, rejoice, connect the dots
to remember what we once forgot.
all i ask i that we don't assume,
they rely on ignorance to consume,
open your eyes and take full bloom,
never take an uninformed flume,
i see too much trouble ahead to ignore,
when i opened my eyes we had ten years,
i am still coming round and now we have four,
i see too much blood that will mix with my tears.
everything will mingle and change
it will all make sense once done
its just right now, its beyond our perceptive range
and to elaborate on the story no fun.
for certain synchronocities will take form
the knowledge unwraping in the implicate
it may not always be blatent, but hidden in the norm
some could term it karma, i make my own fate.