a keener form of light
it is so easy to drift down to sleep
when the weak body lacking all defence
is at a moment when matters are tense
just eager to collapse into the deep
comfort of the dark hardest thoughts will keep
until winter sun makes some vague pretense
at warming earth but we have little sense
of whether honest hearts may make the leap
into the morning now we have some hope
that better judgment will be after night
and waking eyes will look on clearer choice
that at the least each will know how to cope
in what will be a keener form of light
and in a place where each will have a voice
as we climb the roadas we climb the road1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
let us recall the best effects of style
when those who listen know how best to hear
and do not injure those who hold most dear
the hidden blessings of the final mile
rather they wish the urgent to beguile
expecting that the best might engineer
sounds that will please the most discerning ear
and lead once drooping eyes to shine and smile
the age of wonder has no fixed return
but comes upon us as we seem to find
not a changed world but a remarked abode
the home that we have loved for which we yearn
that seemed so hidden for time out of mind
appear before us as we climb the road
Peacetime Songs or EuthanasiasI wanted a war-time melody for the aching ears of all the people who silently protest the military efforts of our time; a song to soothe, a flood of words in which to drown our battered hopes, for their mercy. So I conjured in my rib-caged eye the images of war,Peacetime Songs or Euthanasias2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the open minds of fallen soldiers, spilling New York and Los Angeles, Moscow and Baghdad onto the streets of anywhere; their mouthing wounds elevating cries into the city stench of gunpowder blackened buildings; the look on their eyes when the true meaning of damage and collateral crashes into their fleshy souls, begging in curses, wailing arms at them for a redraw of the cards: You instead, not my little boy! But every soldier is a little boy,
and as I saw them huddled beside Humvees, warding cold deserts with divine stories of mundane happenings at hometown proms, repeating to themselves this weapon is lighter than a wrench; as I saw them mourning for the friends that wouldn't recognize them, returned, victorious shells, I re
the reasons we fightthe reasons we fight8 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
history is nothing but recorded pain
our true tale is that we still endure
we've never been perfect never sure
the human story is the human stain
yet we see things straight and plain
there's no limit and no real cure
for what we are of that we're sure
we've seen it all in sun and snow and rain
yet in the story there's a golden thread
now bright now dull but always there
we haven't always made the better choice
but in the face of terror and of dread
we've stood up overcome our infant fear
and given hope and decency a voice
Last Stand"Here they come!!" The shout ringing out through the clear morning air.Last Stand9 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
For the second time this day the defenders prepared themselves for the attack. Howling and screaming their war cries the enemy came, some carrying battering rams, some ladders, and more still just running for the walls, shields raised high, swords glinting in the dull morning air.
Every day it was the same. For three days now they town had been attacked, from dawn 'till dusk they came. Slowly but surely they were winning. The townsmen were tired each day and slept only breifly. The attackers were always fresh. After each attack they would rest while a new group attacked. More arrived each day to swell the opposing ranks while the town had no hope of reinforcement.
Soon, either today or tomorrow, it would all be over. The townsmen, the last defence, gone. The town free for them to ravage and pillage. To burn their way through, loot and destroy, then leave. The troops were almost at the wall, and already the next wav
IncrediblyI. don'tIncredibly1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
Your journey has been too long,
And received little to no results,
As if you trekked:
A thousand miles only to see the same stretch of sky you have for all of your life;
Across the hills only to find that the stars haven't been lit on this part of Earth;
Through the depths of hell only to experience brimstone and sulfur as a prize.
Imagine if we were born to rule the air:
We could soar to the fiery dunes of Mars,
Sleep, dormant, in Venus's suspended vapor,
And immerse ourselves in Jupiter's crock pot
of married storms and pixie dust.
Children play as newlyweds in an elementary school marriage of Romeo and Juliet.
They don't know it ends in a tragedy, and the teacher decides not to enlighten them.
With a few strokes of a calloused hand, she effectively rewrites the lines of a dying love
into an effervescent potion of 'happily-ever-after'.
Bless her. Children don't need to know the true terrors
rising from the riverit's one of the drowned days; those that dragrising from the river2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
like hooks through a river,
turning dead things
belly-up on your shores. listen.
i am listening. to name it lover,
this ripening ache stretched
between us; to know
what it is you carry. you
are a deep silence gardened
by ghosts; hanging
from the hinges of a sprawled
elsewhere. (they are here
still, pacing the long brim
of your memory around
to the long brim of mine.)
i too have been drowning.
if not by one stone,
then another. the autumn quiet
of the body
in bed. this language named skin,
beast, temple, home. underwater,
you open your mouth; amniotic
void of unspeaking, horizontal
trespass from dark to dark.
lover, i would kiss
your ghosts. the spinning prayer
of my mouth taking their poison
into mine. secrets
blooming there, blooming dark
like strangers. we sleep now. dream
ourselves against them, dancing. promise
the space of your breath worth more
than its abandoning, the static stain
that crawls you out to sea.
FuneralWould you cry if I died?Funeral9 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Would you care?
Would you even notice,
That I'm not there?
Slowly up the aisle I go,
My first and last time,
My pall-bearers steps,
Echoing the music's rhyme.
Solemn words spoken,
Tears in the watching eyes,
My coffin resting at the front,
Among them all who cries?
Outside in the shining sun,
The grave open, freshly dug,
Final vows, quietly said,
I sleep inside my coffin, snug.
You sit there smiling,
Sad people standing around,
Would you shed a tear,
When they place me in the ground.
The years flow by, one by one,
Moss gathers and weeds grow,
You visit me in my resting place,
Sitting there will your tears flow?
Damsel in distress? Not quite.I sit, trapped aloft in this dreadful tower.Damsel in distress? Not quite.8 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
I can't imagine anything more dull.
I really can't stand another hour
of counting passing clouds or winged gulls.
Soon captured by some wretched beast,
I watched the peseants panic in dismay.
"Oh no! They'll eat her as their feast!"
The many bards did sing that day.
I'm sick of waiting for my wand'ring knight,
his great sword of chivalry in his hand.
That dreamy, charming guy who'll win the fight
can go straight home, return to his own land.
I think instead of waiting here for someone else...
Screw it. I'm capable of saving myself.
CompleteWithout a Face, my mask ached. Nothing to cover my mask, it lay exposed to the world, to be judged, to be scrutinized. To be ridiculed. I don't blame my tormentors, people mock and distance themselves from what they don't understand.Complete8 months ago in Emotional More Like This
But my Face... My face.... that is something worth talking about. I have bounced between faces over the years. All stationary or blank, none fitting right, and none expressing Me. None... working properly. But this... My Face... For once, the mask beneath does not ache. It does not crawl like bugs are living in it. I don't hurt, and for once, my body obeys me. Not my conditions.
One could spend countless hours working on a Face and never quite get it right. My earlier attempts were... horrid to say the least. And store bought Faces, those mass produced... lack individuality. But... This Is Me.
It is individual
It is flowing
It is art
It is open to interpretation
IT IS MY FACE
AT LAST, I AM COMPLET
the human syntaxmottledthe human syntax1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
there are carbon copies walking the streets
cut/and/paste people who
deracinated from scriptured roots rarely
ever realize that history is always unfolding right before them
or that somewhere in the bubbling
ooze of their jurassic hearts
a pasquinade has sprung
an unintended flood of reasoning
and merry mutants will come out to play
in scorched supernova shadows
while predation in the bio-mass
reached its all-time lowest
as shown in graphs designed to demonstrate
LoveLove.Love9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
A candle flame,
Chance to grow.
Bright, shining light,
From within it shines,
All around illuminated,
Blazing forth, blinding,
Never-ending, eternal love.
Then, no warning, darkness.
A blanket, smothering,
The bright light is gone,
All is dark. Silent.
Yet, growing again,
A spark. Love.
Goldiwhat?So, me and my crew be out walkin, aight homey? Nice day and all. So we be out pimpin the streets, walkin around, doin our thang. You know how it is, right brutha? We be out, enjoyin the sun, hangin with the bruthas. Chillin. But it be gettin to dinner time, and we left us some porridge out to cool, cause we old school like that. Picked up some suga to go with that too, mmhmm.Goldiwhat?8 years ago in Humor More Like This
So, me, my man Poppa Smallz, and my new Suga Momma head back to my crib, bein hungry and all. But we be gettin there and the doors all unlocked. Now, when a brutha bear be doin what I do for a livin, you dont just walk in the door in this situation. So we be listenin, but nothin. Smallz pushed the door open. Feel like he a big man, cause hes the one with the connections, if you know what I mean. That be why we call him Poppa. Cause if we was a family, hed be the head, he think. He got
12.Jan.10Leaving the bus stop, alone at twilight, I want to wave farewell to the backs of the strangers heading home. A failed date today, a rumbling muffler chokes - white breath, a young couple hurries past to catch the night train.12.Jan.105 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
I commiserate with my cell phone's inbox; (three new messages, all junk) and watch a mother pull two children from the faces they are drawing on a parked car's windshield. Warm fingers leave behind two jaunty smiles in the frost. On the sidewalk stretching home, a sweet smell drifts from far away, and a man stubs out his cigarette, stone cold in an instant.
words clutter fogged panes
a passing sleeve erases
a love note
Melatonin Addictioncan i fill you up?Melatonin Addiction1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
on brine, boosts and bronze.
I mean that literally,
The Earth is hollow but we still drill through.
Space is a concept evidently named.
I'm a warrior and you be the princess,
you're already rescued, promised to curses.
is a line is a line is a line is a line
and I'm in enigmas, sure by shore leaves.
sunken ships launch from the beach front
and take their ghosts,
a secret suicide.
If ants drew us and we marched past,
would it be any different, would it be any different?
in a line to end all lines,
and seductive co-workers fling their shit at me.
once primal, always primal, just anthropomorphic.
I'm just a collection of piss stains,
wrung out and forgotten
stinky and melancholic.
addicted to that pin-prick well,
settling for justice with a bucket,
we dip our heads into water and crack the rot over bemusement.
I hope you wake up
oh, god i hope you fucking wake up
The Other's Orange FlowersMy brother’s asleep on the couch and I have a pen in my hand. At first I was going to draw on his face, but that would wake him up. So I turn the pen upside down and dangle the orange feather at the end just above his nose.The Other's Orange Flowers1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
“What are you doing, Allie?” he asks without opening his eyes. I sweep the feather across his nose. His face wrinkles up and he opens one eye. “Ew, orange!”
“It’s just a colour,” I say. “I’m looking after you. Mum told me to.”
He pushes me off the couch with one hand, and I slump onto the floor. “You’re too little to look after me, Allie.”
“But you’re sick, and you can’t look after me, so . . .” I chew my lips.
“Sure, I can,” he says. “And I’m not sick, just tired.”
“You’ve been tired a lot. That might mean you’re sick.”
“Allie. There’s nothing – underline that – nothing wrong
Ice CreamEveryone writes poems about emotions and fearsIce Cream1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
And one day I said, "I want to write a poem about
About Dilly Bars on the drive from Tucson to Phoenix
The Dairy Queen across the highway from the ostrich farm
With the dust devil's raging by
About soft serve cones at the Desert Museum
Always Twist. Never Vanilla.
On all those hot Saturday afternoons
Watching mountain goats sleep in the shade
A poem about Friday nights after pizza
A different flavor every time
And eating straight from the carton at Dad's
While netflix plays on the wii
And sitting on the rooftop watching the stars
Ice cream bar in hand
About the store by Big Lake
Where I always got the cookie ice cream smash
Ate it on the way back to camp
Every single time.
Gelato at the Stanley Hotel
The worst I've ever had
Talking in hushed voices about ghosts and bravery and
"Oh that's so bogus"
And then there was the Gelato at Parisi's
After a wonderful, stuffing dinner
The mini Ben & Jerry's at Fry's
House of the SnailCurled like a tadpole in the confines of the ball turret, he slips into his mind and enters the first nautilus ring of memory.House of the Snail3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
He sees a potting shed littered with terra cotta fragments, soft loam, and quietly rotting tomato vines. It is fall now, and the place hasn't been used for nearly a month, not that his mother was ever much of a gardener - she prefers the career of a socialite, and complains constantly about this heathen life in the country. His father yells whenever she embarks on a new tirade, and his mother drinks something out of a square-cut glass bottle that looks as though it were pilfered from Oz, and then everything is still again. For a while.
He watches himself enter the shed, gawky and fair. Tears have made a paisley pattern of sorts in the skim of blood on his pale cheek, and the skin about his eye looks like an oval of wet blotter paper rife with plum-colored ink. He purloins a splinter of stake from the tomato ruins, and in his rage and helplessness, ass