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Literature
N.V.
N.V.
is not a sin.
It's thirty years of man condensed
into an obituary
two initials long.
:iconTheWaywardProject:TheWaywardProject
:iconthewaywardproject:TheWaywardProject 0 0
Literature
Lost Hope
It hunts me on salty days
and stings the wild flesh of memory,
insisting upon my negligence,
my lack of love for wild coconuts and
sleeping iguanas crept up upon by
the cautious feet of nostalgia.
The days of shell seeking
between rocks are
over -
grown
now by villas and resorts,
creeping down the hillside like love-vine,
choking the ocean of its play.
We went there, you and I,
on sandaled Sundays full of wind,
and discovered South America
on our wavy coast,
the trash of a far away continent
a treasure to sand dusted conquerors.  
I should have tried to hold on,
to that feeling of cool, sweet delight
when after sun and salt and sand,
bucketfuls of dormant well water washed
our sun loved skin of freedom.
But the greed of a nation has swept
us all into the future of adulthood,
a land of money and progress,
of exiles and homesickness for
a place that no longer exists -
where I am left picking
imaginary tar from between my toes
left by those old South American ships.
:iconDanteholic:Danteholic
:icondanteholic:Danteholic 10 18
Literature
Hold Me Up
I saw a man walking down a road
in Winston-Salem, North Carolina with
block-letter packages, an M on one side,
the wind pushing him back and forward as
he struggled up to the Post Office.  I held
in my lap my diabetes diet, which my doctor told me
was a good way to lose weight, and
I saw this man walking towards me, dressed in
mismatched scrubs and a walking-jacket, packages
clutched to his chest, mouth open, sixty-eight years
of misery running down his cheeks, howling
back into the uncaring wind, one stumbling foot
in front of the next, wife gone, children far away,
alone, alone, no one to hold him
against the wind, no one to lean on, no one.
Sitting in my car, waiting to get going again,
I started to laugh, and the pain swelled up below me,
from my lungs, and twenty-two years of fear and
distrust ran down my cheeks, and I howled it
into the wind, that wind that shook the trees,
that killed the oldest maple tree on our block that morning -
that wind that shook my car as I dr
:iconbassforsoldier:bassforsoldier
:iconbassforsoldier:bassforsoldier 3 4
Literature
The Yawn
You yawned
in early morning stillness,
a slow tremble
across your bare back
hunched over coffee,
climbing
to a penultimate shudder
of shoulders
and then the stretching
of sleep out of arms,
to deflate
over coffee
as I throw little arms
around your neck
and yawn.
:iconDanteholic:Danteholic
:icondanteholic:Danteholic 3 9
Literature
On a harp concert in a barn
My feet are carcasses that sweat and swim within
The saccharine stars of my shoes, cloying constellation skin,
Upon the bales, stacked roof-high, of gathered hay
Beside the stinking stalls where horses bray
Whinnying and whining in the air, hot and low
Velvet skin, mindless eyes like oily marbles and pale
Eyelashes caught on their hooded windowsills like snow
The beasts complain at the covey of harps that pluck and flail
Like crystal hearts inside melting lozenges, each note
Is stained-glass-coloured as it begins to float
Reverberating as it matures, upward the songs sheet
Projecting past my perch in the boorish bales, where ecstatic flies rove
Hay cloud-green with weeds of jaundiced grey and bruising mauve
A scent ascends, farmyard muck and stilting, stormy sweet
As spiderwebs and soft seeds on sauntering stalks stick to my freed feet.
:iconfiliochta:filiochta
:iconfiliochta:filiochta 1 14
Literature
Sneaking...
The tip-tap of my soft-soled shoes
seems stentorian to my timid ears
as I skip a step to try to stop a
Creak
issued from the sunken staircase.
The rustle of my silk suit
across still tapestries,
sticking out, staining the walls;
sickly timbre of timber sinking into my eyes
as I skip a step smartly,
kicking a stair,
seizing the banister,
staring into the solid dark
to see what startled Stalinist
comes to shatter the silence
with a slap and a
Crack
of a slammed door.
:iconbassforsoldier:bassforsoldier
:iconbassforsoldier:bassforsoldier 1 3
Literature
Leda and the Swan
The sea boils. It spoils – unusable, shameful – burn, burn
Beneath a red-black sky. The stars are clear-cut and bright
Quite expressionless in that rough rouge night, pale and stern
Suspended on string for they have never learnt true flight
While the sky behind, velvet or rose-petals, so cold,
Spreads its long arms white and wide, wrists, finger-lengths unfold
Like the porcelain limbs of a limp and precious doll
Upon themselves. Reflected in slim strips on sea-brine
Utter roughness, dead-leaf-texture, so unlike that fine,
Soft countenance that stretches overhead. A swan swims
Doggedly across the air above, no ease within
His motions, though non-tepid, intensely desperate
Not buoyed up by his long bright wings. Flitting from fetid
Fear-stained sky, he streaks on past the star-strewn ruddy plane
That beams forth in perpetual luster, flaming rain;
The swan claws the air urgently, clearly craving for
Some distant site – a terrible dream – some far-flung shore
And in the
:iconfiliochta:filiochta
:iconfiliochta:filiochta 1 8
Literature
Bromus Secalinus
I made myself a soft stream-bank bed
Of cress and chess and bulrushes,
Between an ancient willow-tree
And where the blushing salmon blushes.
Between my knees and under my bones
I put down roots and dreamt and wept;
I spoke in Polish and you spoke in German
And we cried with frustration and curled up and slept.
But all implications I studiously
Forgot and filled up with shyness,
Instead I read and thought like Socrates
And drowned myself in bromus secalinus.
When the sunrise spoke at last,
It spoke in ancient fairy tongue,
And washed me free of vestiges
Of my cerebral iron lung.
I shed tears, awaiting the stream
To rise and wash my nest away,
I swam in bitter water until
I could feel the call of the day.
I dared not think of my stream-bank bed;
My mind and heart now both were filled,
Between my knees and under my bones
And where the blushing salmon's killed.
:iconfiliochta:filiochta
:iconfiliochta:filiochta 1 2
Literature
Jian Dan Ai
come, tell tales of flying shoes
we could paint with our words
about chocolate stained kisses
and we can capture our clumsy thumbs
let's wake up our dreams
build floating crystal castles
out of creamy velvet and snow
we could wage war with butterflies
or we could watch how the dust bunnies dance
come my darling, chase flying dandelions with me again
:iconakai-hanabi:akai-hanabi
:iconakai-hanabi:akai-hanabi 5 34
Literature
On Taking My Wife on a Date
On Taking My Wife on a Date after a Ten-Month Hiatus
Your hand melts comfortably into mine
And I steal a breath full of your perfumed lotion.
It’s good to get away from the baby,
Only for a little while (of course).
The memories evoked from such a simple act—
Breathing in your essence—
It’s as if your scent takes me back in time.
See the newlyweds? The pretty redhead,
Hair the color of fire, and the skinny guy she’s with.
Years and more, back I drift
Until an innocent question from your present self
Snatches me back from nostalgia’s seductive embrace.
“Did you say something?” you ask me.
No, I didn’t; but I suppose I was thinking pretty loudly.
I’ve long known that you must be hearing my thoughts.
Not a telepath, you only sense the quiet hum,
The buzz of synapses exchanging
Information in the flea market of my brain,
And you subtly ask me what I said.
I said, “This is just how a Grecian Urn feels,
How it feels when it finds
:iconbatousaijin:batousaijin
:iconbatousaijin:batousaijin 3 56
Literature
Dying Slowly
Dying Slowly
By SSK2000
You were dying slowly
And I knew
You were dying slowly
And I never cared
For twenty seven years,
You were dying slowly
Dying with a smile
Just dying for a while
You were dying slowly
And I never cared
Standing above your grave
I shed a tear for the brother I never knew
For every moment I never gave
For your smile I thank you
You were dying slowly
And I never cared
:iconssk2000:ssk2000
:iconssk2000:ssk2000 5 3
Literature
Whale Song
I found their remnants, drowned and buried
below warm waters and swaying wrecks,
hiding beneath centuries of sand,
their large, starched bones watery tombs.
They were scattered; our hands discarded
their dead in pieces,
the hunt for a loved one
impossible among the spinal columns
of diasporal sorrow.
I could feel their presence,
a large and looming shadow
at the corner of my eye,
accusing my flesh of brutality and
a sadness long forgotten by man.
I found their young there,
the kidnapped ones, slaughtered,
their cries trapped in fine needle bones
that sweep this ocean's floor.
Their songs adrift on currents
in search of a deep shadow
to call home
or a fountain of love
spewed to the trade winds.
Mothers, tasting the blood of their young,
frenzied inconsolable in sonar grief,
love song in throat,
echoed themselves off every surface.
They flung themselves, heaven bent
and hung themselves on our boats,
sacrificed on beaches of men.
I can still hear them calling,
mourning the young, the old,
:iconDanteholic:Danteholic
:icondanteholic:Danteholic 215 143
Literature
Waterlogged Manila
Swimming across the deep deep like a concertina
Waterlogged manila sleepily extends o'er sardina
Drifting languid lethargic beneath the old rusted marina
Playing tunes to the tuna that waft like a school of cortina
As I'm brought to the brink all my reeds slowly stately descend
Sinking silent like storks circling low through the water without end
As the sea rushes through them, they hum, gravity their bellow
Singing wet hymns, the sun a cymbal, the tangled kelp a cello
I exhale, trilling a million sea-spume chords in minor key
As my buttons come loose and drop, like a handful of debris
My bellows, wet through, fall to fibrous pieces easy as foam
Like so many linen minnows in a water whispering dome.
Swimming across the deep deep like an accordion
Listening to whale-harmonies spiral, soft and Gordian
A gold treasure-trove of song, a longing sea-shanty
As the weaving warbling misty melodies enchant me.
:iconfiliochta:filiochta
:iconfiliochta:filiochta 1 8
Literature
Float
The leaf floating down,
to rest finally upon the ground,
got caught up in a gust of wind
and blown
away.
Air's curly tendrils
of soft, cool autumn wind
whipped the tired old leaf
awake.
Sad and snapping parched,
this cranky reminder of mortality
sank into the wet mulch
too far away from
his tree.
He saw it's drying branches sway
like Air's soft rounded hips,
it's late persimmons red as her lips,
and he hated her.
Because she was forever,
beautiful and young,
because she had forever,
to laugh and wag her tongue
about all the silly leaves
she blew away
that day.
:iconTheWaywardProject:TheWaywardProject
:iconthewaywardproject:TheWaywardProject 1 29
Literature
The Knot
Life was always too much
for you
us kids were a handful
of the wrong kinds of blessings.
The sagging clothesline, dishes and mess
added up to too many kinks
to work through,
too many salted spirals
to trip out of.
That morning you tipped over the edge,
I had fallen out the back window,
into unkept bushes
my clean dress smudged,
and my combed hair
riddled with tangles.
You made the others sit
tight
while you fought the snarls
and knots in my hair,
with screaming and obscenities.
Finally those tangles choked
a sob out of your throat
so raw I wanted to hold you.
I went to church with tangles and burrs in my hair,
while you tied yourself a different knot
to uncomplicate your life.
:iconDanteholic:Danteholic
:icondanteholic:Danteholic 2 4
Literature
The Bouquet
I picked you a bouquet from the garden,
red, white, and the pink grafted ones,
the hibiscus flowers you had planted,
the bushes now tall, star-studded
with buds and blooms.
When I arrived I was grateful
for something to hold on to,
even though they made my palms sweat;
I shifted them from hand to hand
rubbing the moisture onto my school skirt -
I had nothing to wear,
little girls do not own black dresses
you see.
The church was stifling, between
body heat and grief
I could not breathe
and my flowers began to wilt.
Everyone had brought you fine arrangements,
tropical, store bought, with fancy wreaths
and sashes.
I had only your hibiscuses,
limp and dying in my hot paws;
I felt ashamed of my offering.
I had forgotten that,
like us
hibiscus flowers bloom only once,
and when the sun sets
their life shrivels
and returns to earth.
I buried them in that late afternoon sun
beneath the mountain of
flowery farewells you had received.
Your hibiscus bushes still grow,
tall and untamed.
I watch the
:iconDanteholic:Danteholic
:icondanteholic:Danteholic 10 15

Activity


deviantID

lalaland-faerie
lalalalala
Artist | Literature
Australia
Shell of choice: tortoise shell
Favourite cartoon character: hobbes

Comments


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:iconprojectearth:
ProjectEarth Featured By Owner Nov 3, 2007
welcome to the club! :hug:
Reply
:iconi-am-ginger-pops:
I-am-Ginger-Pops Featured By Owner Sep 24, 2007  Professional Artisan Crafter
... you deserved to be featured! Your poetry is stunning, and create really beautiful and clear visuals that take each reader to a world that they can relate to. Impressive:D
Reply
:icongreentale:
greentale Featured By Owner Sep 12, 2007
thanks for the comment :)
i still have to find my words about your poems with the certainty in mind that they tell me lively stories.
Reply
:iconbassforsoldier:
bassforsoldier Featured By Owner Aug 23, 2007
tanks for da :+fav: and :+devwatch:
Reply
:iconssk2000:
ssk2000 Featured By Owner Jul 16, 2007
Thanks for the fav again!
Reply
:iconbatousaijin:
batousaijin Featured By Owner Jul 1, 2007
how old are you?
Reply
:iconakai-hanabi:
akai-hanabi Featured By Owner May 24, 2007
thanks for the fav =)
Reply
:iconssk2000:
ssk2000 Featured By Owner May 15, 2007
Thanks for the sympathy and all your comments, I don't come by and check on you near enough I know.
Reply
:iconthe-last-stanza:
The-Last-Stanza Featured By Owner May 13, 2007
Welcome to the club!
Reply
:icondiamond-tears:
Diamond-Tears Featured By Owner Apr 10, 2007
thanks for the Fav's and Watch
Reply
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