Rare blue butterfly wings flickering, between
our little girl's elegant cornflower gloved hands, her
husky colored eyes greet the ocean's tide.
Cardinals singing their morning chorus, with
your Tsailes' soft melodies filling the woods, where
bubbling brooks groan in the foreground.
Butterscotch melting on my burning lips, your kiss
Honeycomb sweetness embracing my tongue, you entwine
Hot, soothing peach tea sliding down my throat, you slide.
Intimate fingers through buffalo hair, your chest
Reckless abandon grasped within your kisses, my breast
Breathless confessions as our hips join as one.
You're a constant volcano of rock and ash,
With my lava continually erupting inside you.
Your colors and mine fuse into precious jewels.
FirefliesGoldenrodFireflies2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
fireflies erratically sign their names
inside a jar that once held pickled beets.
On a Georgian night,
katydids screech chamber music
Mozart forgot to write
on his five staffed bars.
The music reminds me of the tart
taste of grapefruit seeping slowly into
my mouth, and I swallow it with delight.
But the world becomes a jar
into which I scribble my name,
as if writing it will somehow
make me free.
WordsmithsHow long did you thinkWordsmiths2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
we could pound our vocabulary with hammers
before it fell flat?
writer's blockstranded on an island scantilywriter's block1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
dressed in moonlight, you stare
at roiling water resembling a
horizon of interweaving words
but when you lift your right hand,
spirals of silence shackle
the weightless sounds
wrists that roarmama sayswrists that roar2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
pull down your sleeves
they'll see, they'll see
but no-one's even looking
i say mama
tigers are proud and strong
and tigers show their stripes
so today i'm a tiger
and who says
i can't be a tiger
when razors made me fierce
and secrets kept me lonely
i can't tiger-roar
when everything unsaid
ripped my throat raw
i made my stripes
with tiger-claws and tiger-teeth
so damned if i'm not a tiger
and damned if i won't roar
mama, i'm a tiger
mama, hear me roar
Without chainsi. Nightmares fall from my eyes like a thousand tiny stars, glittering like silver doves at four-in-the-morning, when everyone should be asleep and yet no one really is, and there's nothing I can do to stop their fallWithout chains3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
there's nothing I can do to stop your fall
ii. In the darkness, I can hear you breathe.
"Just close your eyes," you whisper, "and everything's going to be all right."
The nightmares keep falling, crashing on the sheets like the lies from your lips.
You loved lying more than you loved me.
Blind Bruised are myBlind3 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
eyes that squint on with
BlackberriesNo one asks where I am from.Blackberries3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I make up to seven coffee runs a day
for up to eleven different people.
I cannot afford the Prada pumps,
nor walk in them, for that matter.
But Dad's old brown loafers,
with the stitching coming undone
along the sides,
are good enough for me.
No one can speak my name.
If they did, they wouldn't be able
to pronounce it anyway.
I know four languages,
none of them American.
When spoken to, I answer in strained English,
the sharp sounds tripping over my tongue.
What they say must be true;
I am meant only to carry a clipboard,
to fetch papers
spitting viciously out of a machine,
to correct other people's mistakes
on Documents of Importance
being sent up to the Big Guy.
The Blackberries buzz,
a hive of bees
in three-pieces and pencil skirts.
No one knows that when Connor Carpenter told me
to hold his Blackberry while he went
to the copier room with Sydney Applebaum,
"in case my wife calls,"
I e-mailed the entire department
(plus his wife),
telling them just what
Sticky FingersShamrock-painted nailsSticky Fingers2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
scrape the bottom of the barrel,
mint chocolate chip ice cream
dripping from sticky fingers
like the final notes
of a tragic romance.
Lying heavy on her tongue:
the bitter aftertaste
of a lesson learned too late.
Rubbing salt across the open wound,
she bites down on her spoon
and wishes for relief,
but she's always had a jealous bone
and she knows him well enough by now
to know that when his sister calls,
he doesn't turn the bedroom lights off
and lock the door.
The Glass BeesWatching kids going down the long slideThe Glass Bees3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
to happiness on the spines of literary classics,
fortified with university degrees
and an eye for semantics;
I think of a beehive populated with glass bees,
buzzing endlessly in pollen thoughts
of a priori logic and feminist criticisms.
This hive is transparent, a reflection of nature in glass;
Better for the machine, and more efficient too.
But transparency is a complaint
Saved for children who can't hide their class.
Instead with these kids; he's reading Salinger
And she's reading Woolf;
And they're pushing prams off the backs of broken bank-cheques.
The bees never tire of their toil
Because the streets grow bottles of Bacardi,
And like everything fantastic
Become a Saturday night habit-
Filling their glass frames with yellows,
Reds and Blues: dewy pollen drops or
The early signs of alcoholism.
So kids grew tired of trivial pursuit in twenty ten,
With the internet pandemic and hockey sex scandal,
And I instead thought of beehives thrivin
Three WindowpanesI.Three Windowpanes3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The city smokes in mirrors on an autumn day,
sewing sky patches. A dying leaf baking veins on
fire blocks and chimneys hashing wire over
the river. Old dyer staining all her clothes;
sunset braids and rust on roofs. The day
packs itself up, like powder.
Midnight knows itself deeply, an abstraction
by the streetlights sketching out people and a bridge
holding them, or a cloud? They are split by squares,
and words and the shadow on the river-skin a rippling
flag. Scaffolds knot necks between the stars and
they are bare, for only the moon to comfort.
Morning shadows the streets inverted, or perhaps
it was like that before. The sunrise is a butter-knife
smeared in marmalade: drained through roses, through
the river, and a hundred alleyways no-one sees
stitched in like eyes, breathy with the expectation
of the city weave pulling people-threads of laughter.
Open your eyesi.Open your eyes3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
He promised me that he would teach me how to see.
"Open your eyes," he told me, "open your eyes and just... just look." I did as he said, exhaling and watching the cloud of my breath ghost through the glassy, frosted sunlight.
I saw the world as he must have in that one moment, that late-November afternoon, and I felt alive.
We could have stood there until the end of time, I had thought, could have stood there and nothing would have ever changed.
We were young then.
His eyeshis eyes were like matches against my skin. It burnt slowlyskin usually burns slowlybut it was a sweet burn, warm and gentle as the beating wings of a butterfly.
I would have done anything for him, and I knew he would have done the same for me. People often asked us if we were brothers or perhaps something more intimate, but we chose to smile and shake our heads.
We cut the bud before it had a chance to blossom.
My six-word memoirBorn in a snowstorm. Still cold.My six-word memoir3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
bad timing.you sat next to me on a crowded bus. you told me you were in love with a girl three thousand miles away but she didn't love you back. you told me she could of but you had bad timing and told her you loved her too late. you were a stranger then and you are still a stranger now. i told you one time i was in love and now because of it i cant listen to certain songs and i cry myself to sleep some nights. you told me that i should find a new person to love because it eases the pain.bad timing.3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
you asked for a phone number to call me at. then you asked me to be your friend. i told you i wasn't good at that. you told me you would call me despite the fact.
you called me three days later at six oh three in the morning. my alarm clock had just gone off and i answered the phone to a voice i hardly recognized from our ten minute conversation. you said 'hi, my name is andrew and we met on a bus.' i told you that my name was stella and asked you why you were calling so early. 'i thought of something funny, a j
Call Girlshe stayedCall Girl1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
for a moment
with an arm
draped over by the shadow of a curtain
a dress folded in a half
in the crook of an elbow
one of her cheek twitches
you touch her empty mouth
tangled up beneath the covers
her lipstick gets under your skin
a nerve irritated by the shape of a lace
half an hour tops not longer
you kiss her onto the lips eventually
jamming a tongue up the tonsils
in the end a whore is just a whore
The ProtestThe ProtestThe Protest2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
A Short Story
The television was always on in the background, but neither of them ever paid much attention to it, regarding it as mostly background noise. They were both on their laptops, chatting with their friends and each other, though they were only 4 feet apart. They could sit in this stupor for hours, only pausing to get food and occasionally text a friend on the go. Their mother worked long hours with the government and they hadn't seen their father in years so this routine was set in stone. When their mother would arrive home they would only give the shortest of greetings before attaching themselves back to their technology again, preferring to chat with her once she joined in online. They never went outside except for walking to school; they lived solely in their virtual world.
The day was like any other, with time fading from meaning as they vegetated, until she heard the word "rebellion" coming from the screen. She turned from the computer, slightly intrigued, an
I am not ObsessedWatching your metamorphosis from a naïve teen into a beautiful young woman has been the greatest experience of my life. You have enlightened me, you have changed my views on life and the world, and you have brought me from the brink more times than I care to count. My dear, you are the sole reason for my very existence. Yet you will never realize just how much I love you.I am not Obsessed3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
For you are not the wife I married or the children I raised,
Nor are you the best friend on my street
Or my most beloved sibling.
That night you called the police about the man standing in your backyard marked the closest I ever came to actually stepping through your door. It was the closest I ever came to touching your soft skin or kissing your warm lips. Never again, I knew, would I have the opportunity to show you just how much I love you.
I am not just another man
I am not just another horny jerk looking for a freebee.
I am your one and true lover.
I am your caretaker.
When you made the police keep watch arou
intersectionMy father's hair is gray now.intersection2 years ago in Emotional More Like This
I'm not sure if it was the elevator
or that realization that caused
the lurch in my belly.
There's a little plastic container
on the bathroom counter, housing
blue, yellow, beige pills, designed
to slow the body's inevitable breakdown.
There are lines around my father's eyes now -
I feel his loneliness echoed in my chest,
in the mirror as I prepare for bed.
A blurry, half-remembered moment,
smudged with time, of sitting on his strong
shoulders, laughing in the sun,
so sure that he would always be able
to hold me up to touch the sky.
We live this half-baked life now,
circling each other, moments intersecting,
brief, our real lives hours away, with our
other families, and his silver hair,
little pills, sad eyes make me terrified
that we missed our chance, started
too late, and I will never be
daddy's little girl again.
dust-centred bones she can'tdust-centred bones2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
say she holds
the world on her
drags her down
like nothing else:
until she thinks
Cutthroat KidI learned the word first from a song; my English teacher later defined it unintentionally in a lesson. And the word consumed me. I wrote it on the bathroom walls of my godforsaken school. I whispered it into the darkness of my room while I laid in bed, plagued with insomnia. I carved it into my windowsill on a particularly dry and chilled Sunday morning. And I remembered how good it felt...to write it and speak it and carve it. Somehow I felt more alive afterward.Cutthroat Kid2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
To anyone else, just a simple word. But to me...this word in a sense kept me sane. Because it was me. And until this word, I didn't know who the fuck I was. I don't think I could've survived high school without it. The word gave me a sense of power, perhaps even entitlement. And above all, it gave me a reason.
I bought a switchblade.
I didn't set out to buy one; it wasn't my intention. My eyes just kind've settled on it, and everything around me sort of got tuned out. And then there it was, in my hand. And I was ha
Creativity's CreatureCrack open the spines,Creativity's Creature2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Let the lifeblood of literature
Run warm on your hands,
Stain your eyes with its inky
Spilling soul, tumbling words
Over words into worlds.
Use your finger as a crowbar
To prise paragraphs from pages.
Be aware of rustling parchment, whispering words:
The sound and the light conspire
To damn you to sleep.
Escape: paper rushing by like a train's view
Drain the last dregs, as grounds
From a well-brewed mug of coffee;
The sweet settling leaves you achingly alone,
Wishing once more for the feel of creativity's creature
At your fingertips, tainted with its inky blood,
Its bloated, papery flesh indulged by imagination.
Biology (In Defense Of Free Verse)The heart has four chambers:Biology (In Defense Of Free Verse)2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
two muscular atria and
two ventricles that alternate
between relaxing and
throughout the body.
This is one of many processes
that occur whether you
want it to or not.
I can sense your flesh and
when I breathe you in like pollen
or particles of smoke.
You are a part of my lungs
before tiny capillaries carry you
sleeping or intoxicated
to my heart.
Then it seizes up-
pumping little bits of you
through my veins like nerve endings
and I feel you
from my waist to my lips and
inside my brain.
The primary cause of love
is the chemical phenethylamine
that is released by eating
chocolate; or more importantly,
by feeling you against me
and nobody else.
Proteins are given purpose
through tender shaping
into a perfected form.
This can be observed
on a larger scale
It is said
during academic dissections,
that structure and form
But try and tell me
that this freedom before you
The Trouble with a Love PoemEver since that first cave man told the woman of his fancy, "Looking at you makes me want to say something where all the words end with the same sound," and then clubbed her and dragged her off to his cave to show her his etchings, most people's first poetic efforts have been expressions of fondness and desire.The Trouble with a Love Poem6 years ago in Academic Essays More Like This
And no matter how bad the poem is, when the feeling is mutual, the response is going to be very reinforcing. "You wrote me a POEM?! Oh, it's BEAUTIFUL! That's so SWEET!" Et cetera, et cetera, with kisses.
At this point, the love poem is perfect. It communicated the desired message, and it had the desired effect. But then, with the beloved's ecstatic acclamations ringing in his ears, our fledgling poet takes the next logical step in his literary career: he joins deviantART and uploads.
Back in the good old days, when we had to walk 5 miles uphill through the snow to get to the Internet, (borrowed that line from Zits), young lovers only inflicted such embarrassments on their frien
The Great FrancusSee, now, a house. Its a typical house, two storeys, one-car garage. A small front lawn stretches out to the curb, with a ditch at the end, and a mid-sized maple tree in the middle. Its spring, so the leaves are coming back, the lawns looking fairly green.The Great Francus6 years ago in Humor More Like This
Take a closer look at the house, past the red bricks and Leave It To Beaver near-perfection of the design. Go further. A living room with a 32-inch television and a couple of gaming systems; no blu-ray player yet, but give them time, its in the budget. Theres a kitchen, with a rarely used breakfast bar, an impeccably clean white tiled floor, and a small table with that mornings paper opened to the comics, an empty coffee cup beside it. A dining room with a nice chandelier thats there mainly for show, and candelabras on the long dining room table for a bit of class. Theres a drawing room, too, with ni
A Pinpoint Viewlook, they saidA Pinpoint View3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
what do you see
you can only have a pinpoint view
I turned the lenses upside down, sometimes it is good to look at things askew :
I saw crumpled paper hanging by a girl's head, she lay on earth suspended, looking
down upon the pages she was tearing from a book ..
Those Other Pages
time sometimes hangs
here we are again, reliving old transcripts
of who said what;
and then there are those 'other conversations'
which run in our heads--
who was justified or stupid - sometimes flipping
to the alternate ending,
where just for a moment
we enact the truth of ourselves.
it seems, we can never quite bring ourselves
to throw the transcripts aw