Unappreciated Works Feature #29 and #30

This feature is for both June and July.

Quippers-United

Full Hazmat
A simple hill,
covered in dandelions.
A small brown dog
chases nothing in particular.
Beyond the crest of the hill,
the sun reflects off a white spot.
The spot becomes a man’s head.
The man’s head becomes a man,
becomes eight men,
all in white hazmat suits.
They gently strode across the field,
one foot at a time,
as if they’re on the moon.
They are careful not to disturb the flowers.
The dog stops to watch the men,
and one of the men stops
to scratch the dog behind the ears.
The dog does not respond.
The men in full hazmat
leave the hill,
still on their way. Freedom
Be careful when you exit,
the door frame is a little too low for your head.
If you should find yourself sweating,
go to the bathroom and
wash your face with lukewarm water.
Do not use the sink at the end,
it doesn’t work.
When you drive home,
do not take the highway.
Take the back roads and enjoy the scenery.
Also be sure to avoid the jogger crossing the street
at Port Diven Road and Elm.
When you get home,
turn the doorknob to your home,
but don’t open it.
Take a moment of clarity to realize
there is nothing waiting for you inside
that you want to see at the moment.
Instead think about visiting a relative
or one of your closer, more successful friends,
but not Peter,
he doesn’t work.
Finally, just sit on the swing in your backyard,
idly wondering if it can support your weight,
and for once in your life,
try to enjoy the breeze.
It’s free. Echo
Art is not about subject, but perception. It can be interpreted as anything by any individual, but a strong artist has the ability to relay his perception to others better than anyone else. His vision exists not within characters or events, but in his very soul. It is through the soul by which all art is given meaning. Unfortunately, such a thing does not exist in any tangible medium, and any attempts to replicate it are inherently flawed. People who are less able to communicate, or at least less willing to do so, often become frustrated with this intangibility, and as a consequence grasp to any physical manifestations they can find and pretend that they are the true Gospel. Their observations are surface deep only, and their judgment is crippled by their own lack of sight. Ultimately, the true Gospel resides in the soul, and the word of God is silent but echoes through our perceptions. The Professional Man
You’ll find the rules have changed.
This is where you become the exception,
and law of man becomes a hindrance,
rather than a necessity.
You will see the line where following the rules
meets the banality of evil.
There is no more comfort.
People don’t want to see comfort.
They want to see how their misery fits on you.
And they will use all their power to do it.
All assets will be liquidated.
Your clothes.
Your facial features.
Your personality.
Your inner peace.
All will be placed on a scale
and sold at market value.
Others won’t see it happening.
They will pass it off as a necessity of life.
The only way to stop it
is to shake yourself and others out of their haze.
It is a battle without victory,
and you will surely die on the field,
but it is a battle you lose if you don’t fight it.
You lie in the path of the wind,
destined never to settle down
with the dust around you.
Look around, and you will find yourself
falling through the crack in the universe. Dust Night
Moonlight settles like a dust on the grass.
It coats each blade, giving a slight florescence,
breathing the slightest bit of life,
as though the ground beneath were its child.
This dust settles almost everywhere,
but I can only feel it here,
as it travels through my open window
on the chilled breeze.
It is a soft dust,
it brings its softness to the world,
and if you breathe it in slowly,
you can feel your heart fluoresce.

:devmalintrashadowmoon:

Wolf TrailA pair of eyes
glow yellow
in the darkness
of the night.
He has taken
the trail
through the forest.
Hidden
in the thicket
and under cover of the trees,
he sneaks up.
He persists ...
attentive -
cautious -
hidden -
undiscovered.
He is
very beautiful,
but rarely
does someone catch sight
of him.
Why has he
left his pack?
Why does he sneak
alone
through the forests?
His eyes
glisten ...
They tell of times
when he
was chased.
He was weak -
at that time,
too weak to hunt,
too weak to protect.
The pack
did not
need him.
The weak are
an obstacle.
So, he was
bitten -
kicked -
chased.
Since then,
he has been passing alone
through the forests,
has been observing
in
silent nights
from afar
and
has been dreaming ...
His eyes
shimmer wet.
Quickly,
he turns away,
disappearing
in the darkness
of the forest.
On the ground,
a pearl
remains behind ...
glittering -
sparkling -
bright -
illuminated
by the moonlight ...
The tear of the wolf.
 
  Black Cat Amber EyeBlack coat with silken hair,
The eyes bright and young in years.
But what this glance is saying
Is as old as the world.
The eyes almost closed,
Snuggled and silent dreaming,
She lies like spilled –
Inwards restless, exuberant.
Stretched out peaceful and easy –
Gentle soul, full of happiness.
I ask myself what she might intend
By her soft glance?
Often, she lies around sleeping
And after a while, she opens
The little mouth and bends the back.
But everything without haste.
Then, when she starts to rub gently
Around my legs, purring –
It is only up to her
When she moves my heart.
When I take her in my arms
And look into her amber eyes,
How my heart warms up
And help me to believe in the good.
Black coat with silken hair,
On velvety paws slightly –
We walk together year for year
Until our journey will have come to an end.
And when once you will leave me, my purring companion,
So, I cover you tenderly with love.
And I think of you fondly what enlightens my spirit:
Re Shadows of the PastFull of verve, he came down the stairs as he perceived a motion out of the corner of his eye. Something rushed up to him and then came the pain and the darkness. He could not remember how he hit the hard and cold concrete floor.
Dark shadows. Cold. Nausea. Wave for wave he made it out of unconsciousness. Slid back and came back to consciousness in slow waves. But he was too confused to understand what had happened. Anxiety and panic spread in himself. He wanted to move but nothing happened. No flinching, nothing. Only cold and a terrible uncertainty.
Finally, he tried to open his eyes. Forced them with all his strength to face the truth. It took him ages and when he after all managed it, simply nothing changed. Still this darkness. A little more grey in this black but no light, no motion, nothing. What the hell happened? He was only just at home yet and then …, yes, there was a memory. The stairs, the pain. Someone had knocked him down. But „who“ and above all „ Fear the Child in the MoorLong time ago, in Doan Moor
There was a small town with suburbs.
Today, it could not be found any longer –
Everything turned into bog and peat.
No one was pleased with the moor,
People told tales.
I listened to so many of them.
Of one, I want to tell you.
The small suburbia was called Stoneway Cross.
Only one way lead to it.
The moor surrounded nearly all its sides.
There, never a stranger went.
Even the old had trouble
Not to get lost in the moor.
Only by day – never by night
People could be seen who passed it.
But one did not keep to it:
Old Ian McMillan,
A drunkard and veteran,
Indulged in boozing and Whiskey.
An evil guy, disliked by everyone,
Taking part in every brawl,
Who only boasted of his profit.
Besides, everything was all the same to him.
He lived near the outskirts of the suburbs.
His house rather looked like a hut.
Everybody knew him.
He was without decency, free of morals.
Squandered everything he had
In the town at night for boozing and women.
Night for nigh The Miracles of NightIt was a wonderful night.
The sun was setting in a crimson sea of colours.
In an instant, the entire sky was in flames.
Now, the day disengaged from the night.
Unravelled dark clouds covered the last purple shades.
A fireproofed blanket waved the sun "good bye".
I was part of the genesis of the universe.
Marvelled by the colour play,
I toasted to the sky with a glass of champagne:
"Welcome you nightly wonder!"
Silence lay over the suburbia.
In an adamant solemnity, moon and stars were rising.
Neither machine nor human ingenuity
Could ever create such a spectacle.
Nocturne chants of the nightingale were an
Unfaded souvenir in my mind, like an evergreen,
Reflecting the Miracles of Night.

Little-Red-Hat

:thumb527646528: :thumb523057359: :thumb504101355: :thumb527878195: :thumb528522412:

Chezzy-Am

:thumb533704781: Rub'i of the Forlorn Birdthe hastening of the leaves, of autumn forlorn
the spirits have left me, their souls are now long gone
I am left to care for myself in these lands
a wayfarer, a cracked spirit, my heart is torn

ActsofArt

LukewarmI sit with eyes glazed over,
Staring at a cup of tea that sits abandoned on the table:
Because of it's lukewarm feel.
He drifts by me, without words and shuts the door.
The Silence is an echo of past remembrances,
Without feeling.
I know he'll buy me flowers in the morning,
He will form apologetic phrases into its own poetry,
and a few days of utter romance and sweet words,
will fill my eyes to blinding.
But by next week...
This unassuming tea cup,
Will be be cracked and broken.
Bitter sweet drops of brown liquid,
Will spatter across the floor,
In a sweeping statement of revolt.
I will be the one left to wipe away the memory,
And bind the broken pieces back together...
So that I can sit at the table in remorse,
And pretend that I don't remember
That this has all happened before.

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