O'Keefe saw it, knew it

The Original

Pornography

The way she painted

pleading, begging petals

exposed, eager, yearning

to be seen by different eyes

to have their texture felt by

shifting fingertips

Strokes--

--for other strokes

Waves thrust on rock, the sun

asks seeds to burst, coaxes stem

and thirsting leaves from dirt

Precious nectars drained and

turned to gold, sticky sweet,

leaving alchemy wherever

it may fall

Spores explode, waterfalls rush

and slowly melt into gentle pools

that hide secrets in their grottos,

roots search quiet, determined for

warm, inviting earth, the clouds part

and drench the bold

The ageless coquette, she spreads

and releases, takes and gives,

dominant, yielding, known

to all, possessed by none,

Coy seductress, winking vixen,

star of The Original

Pornography

We see it, know it

Incongruities, deceptive

Unite unseen

In between

But most come out defective

Of the countless thousands and millions

Of all the trials and rigors

Running in denial with scissors

A single mote wafts into the pavilion

The lottery player Sisyphus

Still must fight uphill

To survive the right anthill

And gain purchase with the rest of us

Extinction may be forever

But there's always a face

Ready to take the place

Of someone proven less clever

There will always be another Elvis

Announced, leaving the building

Wearing caped, accoutered gilding

That cannot save, from themselves, the feckless

Everyone's in the continuum

We're all in line

One at a time

But new cheaters'll always cut in

As the world continues revolving

Some people stay on with rotation

But others fall off from negation

Life's Tetris continues evolving

So never say never in reflection

To be

Or not to be

You have no special protection

Mother Nature

is thick as fuck

heh? what?

that's not the prompt?

shoulda been, shoulda been...

Take the vegetation

we're all tangled in

the cellular jungle

she keeps us pinned

fattening the calves

for autumnal feast

in the back

of the mind

the heavy feet

of heart-attack snows

in the peak of

our Everest Eternal

with no way out

either side

of the skull

falling

and

getting up

...like i said

thick as fuck

10.17.2023

Mother Nature is Fine as Hell @TheWolfeDen

Of all the ladies who have ever graced us with their beauty none are as drop circle of life and death gorgeous, sensual, or naughty (snicker blush) as Mother Nature. Even after billions of years, multiple ice age, extinctions, and humanity trying to change her, you won't won't find a hotter mother than her.

Mother nature's hair is as amber waves of grain which dances in the wind. Her eyes are the deep blue of a quiet sea. Mother Nature is all curves and you won't find a straight line on her body (hubba hubba). Her redwood legs are long, sensuous and stretch up to the heavens. It doesn't matter that she doesn't shave. Her skin is as clear as the unblemished snow and as soft as a panda's fur. Her bosom is the envy of every woman alive and so majestic mankind has named them, The Grand Tetons.

Now, Mother Nature is a woman of quality and she doesn't tolerate anyone trying to mess up her beauty. She can also be a bit moody. Earthquakes, volcanoes, hurricanes, tornados, and storms allow her to undo the damage done by humanity and remind them that she can be one BAD MOTHER when she needs to.

Oh, Mother Nature is a wanton and lusty lass. Anything goes with her! Doggie style, cellular division, insect billionsomes, porpoise style, asexual, spawning, spore production, pollenization, and rutting in the trees, when Mother Nature wants some, she'll take it how she can get it.

Of all that is beautiful from the stars in the sky to the quiet falling snow, nothing compares to our mother. We must respect her, try to please her, but most of all, we mustn't PISS HER OFF! I don't know about you, but I can do without another ice age or caldera eruption wiping out our entire species.

How could the dirt be so full of lust? Many would see the brown crumbles and think of the nusance of how it could be messy. But many aren't in tune with the wonders of natural growth.

The dirt; the beautiful, soft, rich, textured substance that covers the majority of our world is mother natures apprentice and the attractive birthing place for endless life. She gave dirt the ability to bring endless amount of glistening nature into our world; the ability to nurture fruit trees and engorge potatoes in gardens and farms, the ability to become hard and layered with sand to create pathways for those walking to a creek to get water, the ability to be scooped and carried away to make manmade creeks and homes, and the ability to remain full of nutrients that supports worms, bugs, and multiple insects that start and support the food chains billions of people rely on.

Dirt seems to be the most attractive part of nature. So I ask again, with pure wonder and curiosity filling my being: how could the dirt be so full of lust?

Running through the fog in the early evening, his head is as low as his spirits, his heart sunken down to some hidden place in his chest.

Past the train tracks, so tempting to just stop for a little while. He considers it, looking down the great abyss that stretches off into the distance. He studies the sign beside the track. Call us if you need help. The Samaritans. Does he need help? Yes, but nothing they could offer.

Would it be so bad, to jump on the track and let himself slip into oblivion?

An owl calls from the forest nearby. He raises his head, pauses, dashes over the tracks to the embrace of the trees on the other side. All his attention is on the peeping calls of the little creature. Where? Where are you hiding, dear owl?

His heart races as he spots a little oval silhouette amongst the branches above him. Its a little owl, he remembers. And with one memory comes a flood of clarity. He doesn't need to die. Not yet. Not never. Nature extends her hands and pushes him on, stumbling on his way through the forest. Back homeward.

The train whistles by behind him, but still, above the clamour, he can hear the little owl's calls, ghostly but comforting in the fog.

drinking palm blood

out of boiled glass

no label

used a 1000 times

thinking

will the sea eat tuvalu

fish fly

like megabats

like foxes

askew horseshoe angles

up and down

breaking azure

targets for marlins

before ghouls came

and erased animism

we knew travel

anyway

canoes between the dots

of our universe

an evening meal

capsicums

lime acid cooked shrimp

rice

with hands

food

family

pure sand

smiles

before sleep

i pray

when my son

runs headfirst into hell

for opportunities

he retains

his island heart.

the river runs west

she sprints to the ocean

is she blind to her wholeness?

no, she is neither ignorant nor vain

keeping the meat of her dirt

her beautiful mud-dirt

wading where she must

allowing who she may, unto her

occupied by much and by many

still offering herself west all along

no betrayal can spoil her fruit

for if you drowned, it was you

who got caught up

anyone coming near can plainly see

she may welcome you

or not

but she will always

run west

Snaking over hills,

winding through rivers.

Her hands are the things that deliver.

Death. Life. Reproach of all the emotions laid within.

She plucks on my heartstrings, making me sing with a grin.

Swallowed pride, mouth open wide, I can gaze at her whip.

The one she cracks smooth, the one with my neck at its tip.

When the jaw pried open, gaping hole and wide.

Staring down the dark hollowed center where I'd be buried inside.

Had my wits been so quick, had I not been as sharp.

I'd be swallowed deep within, another of her children's throats.

Still I wander, far and wide, with my foot pressing wide

Flat blades of green under toe.

Until I travel through her wintery snow,

Ever captured, ever lost in her wintery frost.

Lived another sweltered moon,

cold and white, dusted in blue,

To a warm Spring and Summer where life begins anew.

Nature please, love me so, but be more gentle when you come and go.

I am frail, I am weak when I feel I've lost my peak.

I am human, I need much, but I fear to partake in the hunt that you revel,

The one you force us all to indulge fate.

Where the strong live on satiated and the weak are a plenty.

More of food, more to eat, but I am not as meek.

I am human, and I wall off your creativity so to eat,

in my warm hovel home on the now leveled slope.

No more bears, no more lions. Just my old trusty rifle.

Soup in hand, spoon to mouth, no more hard winter travels.

Nature speaks and she keeps knocking on my porch,

breath so shallow.

Waiting here, peaking there in my frosting up windows.

She can have me when I'm old, she can have me when I'm ill,

but I will not partake in her hunting games to give her a thrill.