Best Overgrowth Poems

It's styles of a nameless brand pristine day
an exclusive star-sheathed shadow after 
overwhelming luminous glare fainted
a somewhat true-to-life footpath in
a back of structured quaintness

Encountering myself at a passionate spring
oozing its life gliding o'er its rocky bosom
chasms sufficed with furtherance laden
gifts of living courses tunneling down
from...

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A cocooned cacophony of crickets serenades  overgrown fields,  
drowning out the creaking of rusted cars long since abandoned.  
Maroon and sable tents blot the dilapidated ground—  
bloated and weathered,  
strips of fabric flapping in the harsh elements.  
Legends of...

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Beyond an overgrowth of weeds, I see
a house with faded paint. It beckons me.
Victorian, its windows are like eyes
that hypnotize, and soon I find myself
there at its door. I tentatively knock.
Though knowing nobody will come to it,
to my surprise, I turn the door knob and
just...

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In the moldering courtyard I linger awhile
Among ancient arches, in the old Spanish style
Revealed are sad stories...these etched stones hide
Ring out wild bells to the wild sky!

The marble fountain would murmur here
Above the doorway, vines withered and bare
Aloft from the tower, are the four watchful...

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It twas dark, a hen's night 
stillness abandoned the fright 
knocks echoed freely 
and here her presence was felt 

Chimera fragments an innate realm 
unbeknownst reasons dare overwhelm 

A shoulder-companion gone lain 
unearthed my being hath slain 
seams seared and baked 
rivers red hot, unadultered...

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From bright colors even the brightest blond turns grey.
Grown men now stand.
Were once young children did play.

 The once new cover.
Is now tattered and torn.
time has all but erased the oaths  once proud men had sworn.

The field now overgrown  still haunts memories of...

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A cocooned cacophony of crickets serenades overgrown fields,  
drowning out the creaking of rusted cars long since abandoned.  
Maroon and sable tents blot the dilapidated ground—  
bloated and weathered,  
strips of fabric flapping in the harsh elements.  
Legends of wraiths...

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With women the heart argues, not the mind.
MATTHEW ARNOLD, Merope

1. The stand of old growth Melalucas,  graces the lowlands of our farm.
For over fifty years,  accumulations of leaves have formed small soft islands.

“With selective clearing,” my husband says, "larger areas of grassland will...

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"There was a Great Silence"


There was a great silence in that place, a kind of peace,
you sensed them, the unseen removed, all around you,
yet, all the cacophony in the noise from that Other place
the unexpected turmoil those Others brought into the ruination 
of an external...

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That one lost their tongue
somewhere along the way
long ago, the sound,
doesn’t come out the same
anymore, so they roll it up 
like a carpet containing 
a nakedly dead body
of blunt words 
like unplucked violins
untuned to how it all 
really works 
begging to be heard,
and the flowery...

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We forage for humanity,
hidden fruits quench our thirst.

Our hunting grounds, old overgrowth forest
just off the rail-line, down the hill to the

river, was a hobo camp long ago. Broken
pottery, tin plates and old bottles half

buried, speak of life's struggle. An attempt
at a foundation, now crumbling, imagines

hope...

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Now, unlike my usually trenchant literary librettos, i regale the unknown (tum me) reader for savoir faire articulation, elocution, and indomitable tour de force proffered by spectrum of bounteous expropriated hegemony rightful to Mother Nature. 
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A Place Revisited Within The Mind
(an illusory escape during dead...

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Watching live go by through a telescope
A mere voyeur on the other side
I see a world I no longer feel apart of
From down in the gutter
Where I reside.

Life going by so fast
Trapped and haunted by my past
Mt feet stuck in concrete
I can no longer move...

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It was promising to be a cloudy grey day if things held up' still what can you expect in England in Janruary Tom reasoned, he was already considering how far behind he might be in the days tasks at 9'45 in the morning! Oh well...

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I chanced upon a spinny overgrowth, in which a sole rose had born,
her supple blossom shone like balefire, even against her thorns.

“Come to me” she beckoned, yet the bracken warned with wicked teeth.
The lone hint of ruby in a palette of sepia, ashened against her...

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