ON THIS ROAD
On this road
That never shows
Direction signs
But overgrowth
Pavement cracked
This weathered track
Years of rain
And winter's snow
So death has come
Spread his wings
Forever dark
With dying things
They can't be named
For they have changed
What they are
Is what remains
They slither through
The underbrush
They dig their holes
The eath's dry crust
Creep and cry
In shadows lie
To lick their wounds
Of blistered puss
They run and hide
Weeds grown high
In watch, in wait
A passerby
Eyes betray
What words wont say
They've grown to hate
Their self disgust
i dwell within
underlying overgrowth
hiding from the world
The hot sun of summer sets loose our passion
and once more our thoughts turn to love
seeking the same warmth from a lover
filling us with joy as our cups overflow.
Making this beautiful world shout
coming to life with dainty colour
the shades set our hearts wildly beating
as we thrill with passionate feeling.
Hark listen to nature's cries of cooing birds
the sound of animals crashing through overgrowth
as they beat a path to the one they desire
blazing with a mass of passionate senses.
Once more our hot passions rule our heads
we step forth without the usual caution
all in the desire to replicate ourselves
to bring forth to life a new generation.
# My eight hundred Koalas, emblematic and
Innocent.'
Slaughterd..Reason being.? A bushfire.'
Because of.? Overgrowth.' How many times before has this occoured.? Never.!
Because.? Farmers used to graze the forest.' Thereby keeping undergrowth as just that.' And
manageble.' Why did they
Stop.? Sy-op.? Probably.? You see climactic disasters fuel the false climate
Doom management tale..To allow over control on all life aspects.' Here it enanbled
Enviro-mentalists.? To charter a chopper so the eight hundred victims could be slaughtered, because the bushfire had taken the leaf supply..therby presenting the
Possibility.? Of my Koalas
suffering starvation,.' All because of interference in generationly viable land management..By professional
Farmers.' No experts were involved ( or harmed) in the
Creation of this write.'
Marley Manor Mansion has a reputation that is not good
Most of us avoid it, though we are tough; we live in the hood
It is down a long driveway, with overgrowth not often seen.
We avoid it like a pandemic, especially on Halloween.
One old lady got lost last year and had a horror story to tell.
The ghostly entities there looked like they crawled out of hell
Her relatives figured she had dementia and put her into a home
But today I drove by and saw seven prowling ghouls on the roam.
I stumble towards the sunrise
dragging ghosts that flow through my fingers
clenched fists not enough to maintain a grip,
yet they keep their grip on me.
Staring blankly at the living.
A thousand eyes speak curses
I was never meant to hear.
Where am I to drink,
to quench this thirst
and dwell amongst them?
I divide and merge
with the hands of a broken clock
each thought ticking, creeping
towards time’s end.
As the shadows surround me
I withdraw into myself
there, beneath the overgrowth,
I hear my spirit speak:
Where am I to turn
when nothing makes sense?
I linger along the river,
chasing hope around the bend.
The wind speaks in whispers.
The night crucifies.
Sister moon, forgive me
hold me close in your holy hands.
Keep me from the echo
of all I can’t withstand.
Father, could you save me?
Is this all that I could be?
Through the gaps of dying trees
I hear my mother scream for me
and I wake.
The childhood oak outside my window
sways in the morning wind.
Light pierces through the branches.
Mist glistens like constellations.
And yet
I cannot tell
if I have found my way home
or only dreamed it so.
Obscenity in action, with trusted land managment out of
Action..The la la la landers.' With blisterless hands.' Set
Overgrowth conditions.' It could not be worse if planned.'
After bushfires have raveged.' They decide 'to kill' at least
Seven hundred Koalas..It gives me the chills.' Riding in
Helicopters.' Clinical and cold.' The result of a green plan
That is now overly bold.' Things must change.' And for the
Better.' Get local farmers involved their 'lore not of the letter' yet drawn from the love of that place where i have
Walked.' From generational learning.' Listen as we aught.'
Yet there is focus on new buildings and unesco rules..
These Koalas now the sacrifice.' For no doubt 'convid era
Initiatve leading fools.!!
Observe the rise of the virulent greens' attention demanding; with outbursts obscene' the desire to relegate
All humanity' a great lust to destroy; time proven means, in
A mad push to the bottom fragmentation grows; as order
Is dis-placed chaos is at full throes.' Much sacrifice to
The pagan is now behind closed doors, yet is claimed as
A virtue on legislators floors.? There is exclusion for reason
As false piety soars. Sacriledge now is as our daily bread.'
Most teaching is inverted' any balanced; is almost dead!
War is encouraged. Its seen even as holy? In fact e u
Leaders gather; 'just to thrash (the same old pony) yet the
Winning post, has by now rotted away.' There is much overgrowth and bramble.' For now rules the (no mow May)
Time hands seconds past the minute,
winter melts the sands,
sprung barter the seeds to take root,
petals leave for lands.
Abandoned juice bathes the barren,
weather soaks wet dreams,
towering outstretched limbs fashion,
cries tear up the streams.
Quartered the core green overgrowth,
sweet fester the sour,
fertile soil sources root approach,
West turn sunset lour.
Stockers fatten wanting store shelves,
greens packaged refreshed,
farmers loaded like Christmas elves,
checks at counters cashed.
Shoppers and grocers swapping smiles,
carts staggering highs,
past harvested fields, endless miles,
as New Year's Eve, nigh's.
Why art
Why do some lines
Some colors
Or some lyrics
Make us feel so alive
I always believed
That artists held some unique vision
They saw the world
But thought of themselves
Thought of our humanity
They built a rose garden
First in their mind’s backyard
Then into a vibrant park
Each piece another bush
Of ethereal grace
Grown from the rainy days
Of which there were plenty it seems
Our walking path being touched
By the overgrowth
As we construct our own gardens
And stroll through one another
May we think back to the time passed
Evidenced by surrounding flowers
We’ll look back and around
At the beauty born from rough times
To find that on those stormy days
We did great
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 prose,
purple and bruised
like over-ripe fruit
teeth rottingly sugary sweet,
is now seen
day-in-and-night-out,
struggling with ease
way too much
like madness overgrown,
the dense overgrowth
of language unspoke
hides glittering gems
blushing shamefully
more exquisite than
the now daily averies
all penned in babel
that flow in glass jarring
anticipated patterns
of suffocating
paisley prose,
the simple beauty
in the plainly spoke,
never again
to be seen nor heard,
the mercurial metaphors
birdfeed scattered
to the begging migrations
of petulant bluebirds
naughty nightingales
honey trapping
wet-beaked hummingbirds
all beating hearts
with their wild wind flapping,
tossing sticks and stones
to those tongue thirsty
kiss lapping, lap dancing
love parched, gargling
swallows
Candide Diderot. ‘24
For years now, they have survived,
Through deceitful imitations.
Maneuvering within a landscape they
Support, with few limitations.
Yet recently, this crazy fox, seems to be
Running from a pack of legal hounds.
Dodging overgrowth & accountability,
Through some forested, judicial grounds.
This hunt is a lengthy one, stretching
Beyond torn fences and dominion.
As the tireless legal canines progress,
Tailing the scent of lies and opinion.
Ultimately this prey will fall to capture,
Along with its predatory nature, reduced.
While remaining livestock gains some relief,
And the appropriate people, can rule the roost.
Momma lies in the old, old cemetery --
[A space] and then her third grandchild
Stillborn after long, disappointing labor.
Now largely neglected, I go when I can
Seldom seeing a living soul thereabout,
I put money in a caretaker’s wooden box
Hoping he’ll mow the old section clean
Of thistles, and briars, and overgrowth
Before Memorial Day.
The older generation are buried there,
Grands and greats from the old country
Come to work the mines, buy farmland,
Start afresh in the new world overseas.
Their progenies are in a new cemetery
Perpetual care, a few miles to the west
With a luxurious-looking mausoleum,
Flat stones and always well-manicured
Before Memorial Day.
Written August 9, 2022
catatonic overgrowth crept back in ~ the prince seen her hirsute chin
By
David Kavanagh
Overwhelming, onset of October
Ogling old owls
Overjoyed with orange overgrowth
Overtakes obsidian opulence.
10/1/2020
7pm PST
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