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lalalalala
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N.V.
N.V. is not a sin. It's thirty years of man condensed into an obituary two initials long.
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L
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 s
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H
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 l
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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.
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O
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 ecstat
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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.
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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
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B
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 wa
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J
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
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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.
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Australia
Deviant for 12 years
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Devious Journal Entry
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I'M HAPPY... SO WHAT?!
OMG OMG OMG. *HYPERVENTILATING* i am so incredibly wonderfully ecstatically overjoyed! i couldn't believe it at first... I JUST WON FIRST PRIZE IN THE MOSMAN WRITING COMPETITION!!!!!! YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY *DANCING IN CIRCLES AROUND MY HEAD* I RARELY SHOUT MY TRIUMPHS TO THE WORLD. SEEING AS THERE AREN'T THAT MANY OF THEM. BUT THIS IS A PRETTY GOOD OPPORTUNITY, NO? happyhappyhappyhappyhappy :heart: :heart: :heart: :heart:
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clowns and other nouns
noun 1. crown ok so there arent that many nouns that rhyme with noun. but crown is pretty good. this poem, although i didn't realise it at the time, is actually the best one i have ever read. i am not exaggerating or lying or being overly praise-ful. (i know that is not a word.) Leda and the Swan http://www.deviantart.com/deviation/58902797/ i didn't have permission from the poet to plug, but too bad. and maybe it isn't much, seeing as i haven't actually read all that much poetry, but whatever. noun 2. slow-down yes i know it isn't a noun. i've driven about 5 hours now, yaaaay noun 3. clown that's me, when i drive.
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ProjectEarth's avatar
welcome to the club! :hug:
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I-am-Ginger-Pops's avatar
I-am-Ginger-Pops|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
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greentale's avatar
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.
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bassforsoldier's avatar
tanks for da :+fav: and :+devwatch:
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ssk2000's avatar
Thanks for the fav again!
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batousaijin's avatar
how old are you?
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akai-hanabi's avatar
thanks for the fav =)
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