SnowMonths grouped together like careless footsteps
stroll upon the lashings accorded to me by the sun.
In January I am caressed by ghosts
or something as cold and invisible.
They intrude upon hair, clothes; books
dampen with monstrous hand prints.
Are these shells of half-dead creatures
holding themselves, ancient in a cavern somewhere
or tethered to the earth by thought?
Bits of cloud, the flesh of heaven
picked off like a soft disease
nestle on my shoulder as if pulled from my sweater.
they emerge quietly like droplets of blood. Whisper:
we are the teeth of ancient things.
White drift presses upon the house
and the window. Its cool breath scales
my chin, pries open my mouth like a tenacious lover,
and settles with a small sigh on the tongue
like a hiss of steam.
We have made and unmade warmth.
the dreamerDo you remember the days when you scooped me up and I thrived in your sand-grain pores? It was autumn then, the leaves were too crisp and red back then, and you know how terrified of fire I was. In the summers I turned into burning coal and cracking volcano shells, and in the winter I would be blown away in the wind, acrobatic summersaults until I became another piece of hail in an ice storm.the dreamer7 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
But the hail is beginning to thaw and soak sweetly in the swelling ground. The mud will spring grass and flowers and forests will grow before my eyes. Im still a naive fledgling but you have your own freedom to chase after. Im the flower under the stone, and its my time, I can feel it on the rise now, to lift it off with my own hands and blood vessels and adrenaline. I need to reach up and turn to face the sun. I need to hold on to its rays with my delicate rain fingers until I turn green, but for now Im only white, white as snow, white as an eggshell, white as an empty and
for to fall on your deaf earsYou glisten in my throat, baby,for to fall on your deaf ears7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and glow across my pores -
but for our love to be
effective, you've gotta start shimmering, too.
You, though, will remain dull and we will
be like either side of
a glazed vase - sparkling Side A
vs. cold, unfinished clay.
I had been content to play Dagny Taggart
to your Hank Reardon,
Tanka Series1.Tanka Series7 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
the perfect spiral
of my worn
asking her out
I proofread every word
to the free space
in my journal-
but how can five lines
hold autumn dusk?
sorority bake sale
the girl I dumped
a cold brownie
of a stray dog
the tarot woman's hand
against my own
even in the cool
of night air
Bathtub EscapadeI am writing this to youBathtub Escapade7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
From a bathtub in Jerusalem.
This room is gold
like the city itself:
stone sitting smugly
on strata pedestals
looking down haughtily
at my scrawny form:
into scraps. scripts. dusty dreams.
Till tongue is soaked
in movements and images of
people burying all mystery
in the same old void.
I was speaking to
the Rabbis wife tonight,
Slurring my words
and cursing myself
and only thinking about
The dead bird stuck in the Wailing Wall
Its beak jammed in there
like a personal love letter
its wings flapping like dead weights.
From here the world looks grey.
The faucet dripping behind
a backdrop of spinal chord
and emerging puddle,
The edges of our world are desiccated.
In a land that has been ravished, raped, bastardized,
I dont go hunting for boundaries
So in my mind,
let us live here
syllables spilling softly
drunk with the drip.
of this golden tap
in this golden city.
Turner's HillOn Turners Hill in snow lit sky,Turner's Hill7 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
the very dead of night, and cold,
the joy of life is measured by
a brace of wind and stinging snow
the bane of hand and eye.
Scudding clouds do not deter
the laughs, the shoves, the dares,
a dangerous game is playing here,
unknown by those who run and slide
a fate awaits the years.
Dot Com Derrek struck it rich,
Stilwell died of cancer,
Alex never found his niche,
William died a soldiers death,
Jack became a dancer.
Sled on dear boys! and show no lack
of boldness off the mark!
One by one, straight down the track,
the hill is life and night is death,
there is no going back.
Wild Flower Crimes When I crush the head of a clover bloom, the scent carries me to that far off field where my weed battered knees cut trails by the blackberry bush. Where the old man let us feast on his jam flavored crop of wild fruit, and told us tales of when his hair was crowned with dandelion fluff. Where the overhead hum of power lines cursing the heat of summer was the only thread we used to find our way back home. Where the king of the day was crowned based upon who found the biggest possum skull, or smashed the tallest crawdad hole; swearing he fought off its occupant, who was the size of Bobbys dog. Back then, the trash of ditches was pirate swag, or royal treasure. A baseball bat swollen with ditch water was a giants club. A thorny weed was the last proof of an ancient forest.Wild Flower Crimes7 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Time ran slow there, meandering with bees tha
Strawberry reaction An Alaskan storm introduced itself to the weather three nights ago. It shook me straight from dreaming about (really, remembering) a dance with an elderly man, my feet placed off the ground onto the tops of his shoes. A balancing act. I awoke to four-fifty five, followed by a fleeting FLASH before truly registering the dark and the storm itself. I sat up in bed to peer out the window when a FLASH FLASHED again. For a split second, the room shone brighter than day. Somewhere close by, lightning had entered conversation. The sky grumbled in response as thunder fought for last word.Strawberry reaction7 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
Lightning never spoke again though. Within minutes I found myself sitting bolt upright in total darkness.
It hadn't rained so unforgivingly the e
Lisa VeeLisa Vee7 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
Fat square head ugly cheeks lank blonde hair turning brunette. Awful beaked nose lends an air of predatory asymmetricality. Chin that juts out heavy makeup suffocating lazy eyes. Sloping shoulders bulging stomach sagging bosom ripple judder shudder stutter. Swollen fingers pink choked in silver. Clothes strain to cover colossal bulk stretch marks tear through excess flesh. The actinic taint of nicotine clinging like a callous lover.
Immigrant's Guide to ColoradoI was promised horses. I remember this distinctly.Immigrant's Guide to Colorado7 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
My dad knew as well as I that moving isnt easy, especially to a place so very far away, so he would cushion it with promises such as these. Thoughts of horses and mountain ranches made the process of tearing away from my homeland all that more bearable, so I complied. My visions were of a log cabin situated on the hips of the foothills, with gentle mares that would lean their heads in my window in the heat of summer mornings. Of dirt roads and tractors, of cattle and barbed wire. But mostly horses, of course.
Colorado is not all horses and ranches. Our house turned out to squat in a quiet patch of suburb that seems a subtle copy of the very neighborhood from which I had come. It is a pale ivory and not made of logs, and the grass lives in trim, green patches like quilt squares, not in long stalks that whisper to my elbows. And the mountains?
Suspended AnimationWe will hide in roomsSuspended Animation7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
of corpses in clear coffins;
our names carved into every surface,
our fortunes told in fish eyes
and sharks teeth.
We are frogs in formaldehyde,
puffed up like tear-stained faces,
we are jellyfish in jars,
hanging like bleached willows;
tangled tentacles dangle, flaccid,
and spectres of the Pacific
will not stir us.
In the mother-of-pearl,
in the birds of paradise,
in the ribcages and tortoiseshells,
we linger, petrified,
and do not hope to be unearthed.
Now we stand like stick figures
pinned to twilight
as orange and blue hesitate in the sky;
starlings swarm across the stuttered sunset,
bubbling and breaking, meandering and mingling;
a sentient storm that plummets to the horizon
and rises on an unseen current.
In that paradise of half-light,
we wait and pretend
that you and I can stay undecided,
and time moves on without us.
pencils and knivesOur getting together was a roll of the tongue, a curve in my nerves.pencils and knives7 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
We played clever and intelligent and poetry-slam line break, smiled at our own pretentious predigested words, coffee and donuts and hardly a table between us. Your eyes flashed white and my smile flashed red and I pretended to be without makeup, and you, without frowns.
We discussed Small Things, work and play, and we discussed Big Things, God and philosophy. We faked thoughts and I made petty arguing comments just to sound like a brain was in my head.
It was perfect.
You said you believed God was a woman, for people are so wonderfully flawed and couldnt only a girl create such emotions and make things so delicate? Our trivial emotions like jealousy and rage, curiosity and adrenaline, they all had such a feminine edge, you said.
You threw in a compliment about me somewhere in there and I nodded and bit my bottom lip because God suddenly seemed very, very real.
You asked me something vaguely romantic and it hit m
NdinonziMy name is Rufaro. I'm turning nine soon. I like going to school, even though I have to walk a long time to get there, because I can meet my friends. Some of them are from other villages, and I wouldn't see them if I didn't go. I like some of my teachers. Ms Machegutu is very nice. She says I'm a good pupil, and maybe I can go to high school if my grades are good. I don't think I will, Baba doesn't make enough money. He gets drunk very often, Amai says it's because times are hard. I don't understand. Times have always been hard.Ndinonzi7 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
My name is Tendai. I'm 22. I've been living in the capital for 4 years now. Even though I have my A-levels, it's hard to find work. The people here are smarter than I am, some make fun of my accent. But I work hard. I don't smoke, and I don't drink a lot. I always have some money when I go home for my parents and my aunts. My little sister can go to school, and she is always very happy when I bring her a new dress. Last year, I met some guys that sell Katshasu.
fire, or waterfire, or water6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
were this blurred, we'd be submerged,
stuck under the waves
with warping colours & corals falling away
from a certain blue surface, where white animals are climbing.
hot & cold climb the same ladder into the eye
and we see everything sharper:
today there are sky-flags, halfway tattered.
browns & sea-thinned greens, then reds & great flames
but the starving stag, steaming in the cracked courtyard
says blue is autumn's secret favourite, the colour of bruise & ozone & iris.
a leaf can fall like a cracked mast, or a dead bird meant for the ground
where the plummet loves death's rest; or simply a painted sail
that dispels the break of landlocked bone
& breaks the windy hierarchy of leaves ― a mess of fire, or water.
but this wading one-hand-clap falls like a berry
too ripe to maintain the grip
of its slim stalk limb,
here it cannot echo
or be poisonous.
SocksYou can't always win a nobel prizeSocks7 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
or vicarious eyes
while thinking of ways to rhyme
with a 2 syllable word;
I spew lizard,
despite how absurd,
and whether or not
that strikes you in awe
or raises a brow,
or opens your jaw,
regardless of whatever you're thinking right now,
this has no relevance... to anything. At all.
Sometimes you write
about humanity's flaws,
write to grant laughter,
or analyze God,
but then when you write,
you imagine your bed!
so maybe you'd rather be writing
about... socks, instead.
It shouldn't take long
since i'm very much familiar
and quite frankly, an expert,
in the subject matter,
I mean, I wear socks
like, every day, man.
It's I think something
everyone should try.
At least once,
just sit down and write.
No theory, no philosophy,
no literary temptation.
Just write shit about socks,
and the feet that wear them.
Remembering HazelI remember Hazel really well. Sometimes my memories are so clear that I can almost feel her sitting next to me, or walking by my side. Seven years have passed, and I miss her like she went away yesterday.Remembering Hazel7 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I met Hazel for the first time when I was twenty; I was an ambitious guy studying psychology who thought that he had already reached happiness, buying a nice car and hanging out with friends. Hazel opened my eyes and, thanks to her, I discovered how beautiful it is helping others and giving them second chances. Hazel helped me grow with her generous words, her patient work and her strawberry candies given to everyone.
She was the most helpful person I've ever known, because she liked to help everyone who needed comfort and never asked for something back; Hazel was happy to receive your smile, and felt satisfied hearing "Thank You", and for her that was enough.
Mostly for its nice sound, her unique name, Hazel Daziel, earned her many nicknames; for someone she was Hazie-Dazie, for some
A Strange Letter FoundA Strange Letter Found8 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
A much-folded and faded letter was found among the personal papers of Professor Howard Rice after his death in 1936. The contents, more than a little puzzling and troubling, are presented here unedited for your review.
June, 17th, 1908.
My Dear Friend Howard,
I am writing to you, from my room at the Kempler Arms, a run-down inn located in the God-forsaken port of Rockfish Harbor, North Carolina. I have just drank the contents of a bottle of brandy in the vain attempt to calm my nerves enough that I may commit the events of the last few days to paper before I collapse into much needed slumber.
I came here, as you may recall, to study the lasting enigma of the disappearance in 1587 of the English colony on Chapanoke Island. In my mind, it is a great mystery, more than worthy of ranking alongside the more commonly known tale of the Mary Celeste. As you may remember, she was an abandoned ship found off the coast of Portugal in 1872. None of the her crew or passengers were ever found
Old GhostsOld Ghosts7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Only here can I find you
on mute mornings of poetry,
where words unsaid
suspend, up end,
their breathy presence the wind
across the hills, plains, lakes,
sneaking through the shudder of grass;
the ocean in a shell.
You are in each inhalation
even though April's love
is lost and drowned,
Only here can I find you
blowing the world my way.
It won't be long before
I decode the wind.
The world has never been so loud
I'm Not Sure Why All of ThisI'm Not Sure Why All of This7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I stick my toes into the flaccid skin
collected on the floor, as he tells me
that hes going to construct me a wooden bra
and that cunning smile of mine
creeps across my face.
The headlights on the shitty asphalt,
of the pleasantly named subdivision streets,
illuminate the features of that thing they call a canine.
He asks me what is on my mind,
which always presses
for something that isnt pessimistic.
She shows her teeth to the stench of foot odor,
and I tell him,
Her mouth looks like
Vagrant HeartsAh... the reflection in your eyesVagrant Hearts7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Play across your skin
As your shivering hand reaches out...
Love fades into the sky
Another broken window
Another strip of film
But every night I still see you there
Lying in the tide
Foam rolling silently up legs bare
Are you wishing it pulls you away...?
Now you become the silken sand
Now you are the waves tenderly drowning
Under my stars, forever
Bated breaths into our fire we feed
Singeing flesh, sinking deep
Wandering through ashen night
Sweat glistened memories
Or desires that one day might...
Possessed of us, behind closed doors
I'll be under your thoughts, forever
There is a home for me
Only in your eyes
Behind your ribs
Between your thighs
Against your lips
We'll freeze the moon
And burn the sun
Cause you're the death of me
My vagrant one~
Lobotomy for BeginnersIt wasnt the windowless room,Lobotomy for Beginners7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the edges of the walls mixing with harsh light
while waiting for the doctors knock.
Or the sweat-leather straps and buckles braided into her hair.
It wasnt the operating utensils on the steel tray,
the scalpel that looked more like a butter knife
and the drill plugged in, lying on the floor.
Or even the way the doctor complimented her posture,
as if a stiff chin was more valuable than a working brain.
And it wasnt the taste of copper that filled her mouth
before she closed her eyes, not wanting to see
him squint at the black dot sketched
in the center of her forehead
before picking at it like a tender scab.
It was the way she sang My Country Tis of Thee,
forcing words out after each prod of the ice pick, soft lips flinching
until the tool garbled her song to silence
and the surgery finally stopped.
Rita Hayworth is 90 nowThe old man sat shoelessRita Hayworth is 90 now9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
On the side of Grayton Cross
The dust on his face and hands made
And white alongside the stripes
In the tired sky.
It was April, and still too early to
Put away the animals
I slid down
By him and accepted
His yellow cigarettes.
Somewhere buried in the paper of his pockets
Lay stale pictures of the dead
"Remember Ms. Farrell?" he spit out
A little too quickly, landing
Dried pieces of his lips
Onto my bare feet
"Older than me
but pretty as a statue
I could picture
This woman, frozen
In one place
Sitting easily within a smile
Like my mothers'.
The red in her hair
Had faded with the heat and dust
Of 60 years.
Then down to my own elastic
Thighs, the tight
Wrap of my ankles snapping
With early springtime wind.
I licked the dust off my lips
In an effort to talk to this secret
Man smoking inside the evening mud
But nothing was pulled out.
Later he asked again
By that time I was too gray
And it was time for night.
Dragon SlayerThis book is a story of stories.Dragon Slayer7 years ago in Spiritual & Occult More Like This
It is fitting to begin with one of which there are so many variations.
Somewhere where there was a wood, far away and long enough ago not to matter to people who thought that way of getting rid of problems best, a little child found a bird on a woodland floor. The child was a boy; it could have been a girl, too, for it was just a common child.
But the bird was a majestic thing, which storytellers would later call the Simurgh Phoenix. It was crowned with glory, with wings like the sun, and all birds were made in its image.
It was a powerful bird, like an eagle, falcon or a hawk, that saw all things.
It was like a sparrow, very full of joy, that chirruped so that anyone with kindness would kneel to nest it in his hand.
It was like a magpie, that looked sharply at everyone, with a mind quicker than anything.
three point turnthree point turn9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
It's not always about things like slipper slaps
on wilting skin, knees turn supple and give way
as you heave up ribs. you lost a red rubber dingy
in a sea that reminds you of sinks, white skies turn and run
in the opposite direction.
You will not always be this way. A judder from the core
right to the jaw lets out subtle things like sighs
and almost tears. Stumble, bash your head against an SOS sign,
I am on the other side of the helpline with fishbowls
and plasters on three fingers and every inch of my arm.
Five was enough to hand you glasses of water
and a heavy-but-warm telephone connection that runs through my toes
right to a muscle that contracts and sometimes aches.
I wrap up safe in padded jackets and enter your room.