See The Woman The Man Painted In The Pine Forest Poem by Lovita Morang

See the woman, that the man painted in the pine forest

Still, I told you stomping, on turf of pregnable prehension,
Standstill, beneath each tree, there is a poetry barked up;
Buck up! Sparks of spangled Spanish fly, slow take, bon ton,
Flights sparest, in wishes of firefly,
In will-of-the-wisp, in wild stampede I rush to stand by.

I seek perennial charms in the forest path,
I shied away from each mocking men, with a fragrant holy bath;
What testaments conceal ghetto-mind meld in melancholy not yet free?
Scarecrows made of foliage, find packs in canopy of leaves, flutter in fields yet bask in glee.
Guardian of gotham plays nine lives. O fasting girl,
what magic you saw in Brooklyn enigma
Yet, go gentle, go, die why?
Like cold air feeding the inferno,
everything into question like a prerevolutionary pilgrim;
Unmarked route, ensued a bone dry dream;
grimy grips foul occasion, desire despotic, it seem,
Everything may not show the lay of the land, forest stream;
Amative in its native, sheltered; treble in tresses of shielded born,
my fair-haired beloved adorned, emotive autonomous own,
I know it is this solace, gaeties row, in this caged gridiron.

I mouthed here an odes, grit teeth on rag pulp, griffonage,
Portrait of a silhouetted splendour, assuage;
I buried my sole earnings, lustre morn, yells of yearnings,
beneath where taps of footsteps, tract trance-inducing;
screeching night's tender mercies slumber,
Scorching sky blaze of sombre, love of life;
Where trees flower, tress unfurl, wait a bit furthur,
Let me sip this life, fairer;
Each bloom maketh grass glow brighter,
Sun-kissed lake, water of love, gulp thirst tastier;
It is this woman pinned in the pine forest,
jewels of firefly glow, in painting crest
Pretty poetry a poem, red blood proem impregnated;
It is the woman, the man painted.

Then I saw the mountain man,
Happy on hilly terrain, he calls himself
I am from Yumthang valley,
belly full thinning out of alpine altitude,
Sipping rain water, in desert scrub of tundra
pour down to grazing pasture in valley of flowers
Why the need to tow down,
In waking spirit to the town
to find temple of Pakhangba
With that timber, in the heart of holy,
To gather moon beauty;
Birthing in her freckled face,
Like an apologist in cheerful moment,
Laments of unconditional belongs, finery of tyrant.

Sweatheart! A hearty meal for supper,
Rest, just for a song to hum, forget few journeys and the timer;
remind the rest, them of sweetness of life, and its remains,
The temporary talks like the dirge of deep forest mourning,
dripping dews from the frosty sun
Continually recurring is this deceiving sweetness,
of wintry morning.

Only in these rays, seem virtuos cope,
that radiates from dawning hopes;
down to where the roads never ends,
In each curves of mountains,
The agreeing communicability to succumb,
to concealed silences of well-ordered great man
Let me find the songbird's throaty gains in ghastly veneration
leaves rustling, melting moments, suffocating my sympathy
As if sun seeking roots beneath each blades of grass,
deeper roots of forest finds water,
sipping from the seeping colours of rainbow,
What a lie it does to my trust, but it employs cure
O time translator
Unrecognizable may be the strangely worshipped demure
In every shades of colour, life finds it's flavour,
Every time pangs of pity lulling, grasped in it's owned galiot of golden hour.
In this time, man from the alpine climbed down, to rest,
See the woman the man painted in the pine forest.

- Lovita J R Morang

#MoodsOftheForest