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literature

Wild Flower Crimes

Daily Deviation
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By DarlingDante   |   Watch
148 152 4K (1 Today)
Published: March 7, 2008
             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 Bobby’s dog. Back then, the trash of ditches was pirate swag, or royal treasure. A baseball bat swollen with ditch water was a giant’s club. A thorny weed was the last proof of an ancient forest.
              Time ran slow there, meandering with bees that passed, honey-drunk in zigzags before our eyes. They were as shameless as we explorers, who trampled grass, and danced around blossoms as if we were avoiding primed traps. We knew our place in the field. It was indifferent of us some days. Others, it was proud of its unburied vaults; parting brush in our presence to reveal a giant beetle, or some flower we swore was a color never seen before. We abided its rules, always entering by the same hopped fence, and landing on the same smashed grass threshold of the day before. We always followed butterflies, knowing them to be the guides in that flat Heaven. We never crushed a perfect blossom, or ran from a passing bee, fearing we’d curse the day’s expedition.
               That’s how summers went: passing our days in another place, a country on another plane, separate and safe from school books or bed times, where we listened to the wind whisper those secret things that had to be tapped out in tree branches to be understood.
                Until one day, we hopped the fence, eager to uncover an apple core buried the week before, so we could see what the soil did with our offering. That’s the day when we lost the field. Every bull nettle stem, beetle blanket, and every other thing and place that we’d named in the sacred kid tongue had been torn away. The whole of it severed at the stalk. We all whimpered that the cicada shell we’d crushed the week before was to blame, but I knew that wasn’t the reason. The world we came from was jealous of our hiding place; of the last patch of magic that it may have been weaved out of long ago.
               I grew sick at the scent of all those headless flowers, left piled up in mounds by the force that had broken them all in one swing. I wept for the bees that lay like striped raisins dying of thirst far off in some front lawn garden, whose blooms were dust compared to the potent nectar they’d grown accustomed to.
               I still dance around perfect blossoms, and frown when I see a bee shining thirsty in the Sun.
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© 2008 - 2019 DarlingDante
This prose piece is about a subject very near to my heart: a fond and upsetting childhood memory that changed me for good.

I've always wanted to write this, but it had to come out on its own, and I'm mystified by it.

I'd love to hear everyone's feedback on this.
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Do 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. 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. I’m still a naive fledgling but you have your own freedom to chase after. I’m the flower und
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1. dry leaves- I remember the perfect spiral of my worn pigskin 2. asking her out by email I proofread every word then- delete 3. flipping to the free space in my journal- but how can five lines hold autumn dusk? 4. sorority bake sale the girl I dumped last year serves me a cold brownie 5. Thanksgiving- above the dinner prayer the howl of a stray dog 6. fall carnival the tarot woman's hand warm against my own 7. even in the cool of night air the rose climbing her ankle
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for to fall on your deaf ears
You glisten in my throat, baby,        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,        or Hades, on fire with patience                        to have my time with                                  the Persephone in you.             But now I'm out of analogies,       cyclically suffer
Comments152
anonymous's avatar
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TheBrassGlass's avatar
TheBrassGlassProfessional General Artist
This is a poem. It is absolutely beautiful.
vampire-zombie's avatar
vampire-zombieProfessional Photographer
this is just insanely emotional. you make really good use of imagery, and it just made it such an easy read. i loved the line "The world we came from was jealous of our hiding place". beautiful piece over all =)
DarlingDante's avatar
Thanks. This one flowed so easily and honestly, it just came out the way that it is. I just sort of furiously scrawled it at a coffee shop, and was dumbfounded by the ease of composition. That never happens for me, but I really wish it would more often.

I will be sure to take a look at your gallery, and thanks again for lavishing all the praise haha. It is certainly appreciated.
vampire-zombie's avatar
vampire-zombieProfessional Photographer
you're really welcome =) you deserve it, your writing is amazing! and yeah i really love it when the writing just sort of flows out of you so easily, and everything just turns out the way you want it. it really should happen more often
Lucky978's avatar
Lucky978Professional Traditional Artist
This is such a beautiful piece. I can see why it received a DD. I could really feel the emotion in this piece and like another commenter said, nothing felt forced. The whole piece flowed from beginning to end
DarlingDante's avatar
Why thank you. I'm so glad you liked it.
Mirrorakay's avatar
You certainly know how to put images into a reader's mind! Excellent piece.
DarlingDante's avatar
Thanks so much, and thank you for taking the time to read it!
Mirrorakay's avatar
It was my pleasure.
glowingkitten's avatar
glowingkittenProfessional Artist
This has been featured in my journal :D
DarlingDante's avatar
Aww, thanks so much!

You have an amazing gallery.
Simon-Xax's avatar
I suppose so...

Well...

Have a nice day!!
moskvitchok's avatar
moskvitchokHobbyist General Artist
Top marks for conveying the feeling! What I love most is the fact that the rich imagery doesn't seem overdone or forced like it oh so often does. Good job on waiting and letting it come out on its own.
Several commas felt wrong to me, personally (comma critiques? How pathetic, I know...) yet the reason for that is, I feel, because this is simply a selection that would be perfect in polysyndeton heaven, away from such worldly things as commas.
DarlingDante's avatar
That's a very thoughtful suggestion and stylistically I tend to overuse commas or at the very least place them when they may not be completely necessary.

As far as the adjustment of common placing to create a new pacing via a polysyndeton grammatical format, I'll certainly have to look into it and I constantly revise old work, so thank you for pointing it out.
moskvitchok's avatar
moskvitchokHobbyist General Artist
It is my pleasure to be of some use.
partyhat's avatar
that was so beautiful! I could really taste the words.
DarlingDante's avatar
Why thank you, I'm glad that you enjoyed reading it.
Tshroom's avatar
This is one of my favorites. It is just so nostalgic. Brings out deep emotion.
Ellen-L's avatar
I have a place like that, I hope it is still there. I moved, and haven't been back there for nearly 7 years. Sweet poem, lovely writing.
Just wondering, what is a DD?
anonymous's avatar
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