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About Deviant Core Member MoonbeamsFemale/United States Group :iconunrealists: unrealists
 
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Deviant for 14 Years
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Literature
moonshore
                   the moonlight
                         shoes
                      the katydid’s hoof
              and cracks the glassy reach
                              of sound
                       and feeds the birds
                           an empty blue
                       and speaks
              into the sleepers’ mouths
                     the moonlight
             
:iconNLY:NLY
:iconnly:NLY 35 10
Literature
to be reborn
would kill to be
the curvature
defining your
horns,
the sharp of
your fangs,
the scorn
in your flawless
facade.
begging to be
drawn across
your snarl,
offering myself
to the burn
of your hellbred
brow.
let me
be part of
your overpowering
scowl,
one sufuric glint
in your steady
gaze.
let us be
the end
of days.
:icongliitchlord:gliitchlord
:icongliitchlord:gliitchlord 9 0
Literature
the efficiency of silence
waves curl up, drying
as they fly, to be made wet again
in the mouth of what transpires
each wave gone rise
into the paper-birch
and shake its silent sentience.
i see now you are above me,
these chords are not the chords
of slow cicadas
and that all is your soliloquy
and secret; this earth will
keep it while the black-caps come
with eggshells in their mouths
and hide from every starving eye,
all trace of love, and vow.
:iconwouldwing:wouldwing
:iconwouldwing:wouldwing 5 6
Literature
invisible taps on the window
No pale hands
no claws nor skeletal phalanges
neither tentacles
nor fins
in the three dead corpses
of the night
and still
the glass has callled
without a body
or a voice
three times.
:iconoviedomedina:oviedomedina
:iconoviedomedina:oviedomedina 5 2
Literature
LITHIUM HIGHS
Lead balloons
Metallic angel
Chrome ghost
heavy metals
Mechanical wings
Diamond mine
Ruby eyes
The jewelled spider
:iconRJBG:RJBG
:iconrjbg:RJBG 15 0
Literature
Variety
Affection
Oh, it was all only
some small thing—
a little crack
in the shale heart
into which
the river flowed.  
Connection
Planes lifting, buffeted
in the vast plumes and billows of air
I sometimes think I see
what Van Gogh painted,
that untameable whirl
I stand, stretch—
feel the forest of my body
become trees, each atom
wild and disparate
congregated, earthbound
if only by habit.
Salve
Here, the ounce of quiet
I daily dole out to myself.
In this
I’m a practiced pharmacist,
the most skilled doctor.
A soporific stupor,
the laxness of muscle
and a softening of bone.
Forget a medicine
for melancholy, who needs it?
Ounce after ounce
piling up like soft snow.
:iconsaartha:saartha
:iconsaartha:saartha 6 2
Literature
Little Iris laughs in the curtains
Little Iris laughs in the curtains of the atmosphere,
springs gymnastically on the foggy car light,
and switches the red pupil of the honk
with the petrichor of the running soles;
Little Iris waves at the polishing coats of the city:
the serious concretes, so gray, so gray yet patient,
and she slides up and down the windows
as they scream at the domestics
to save the ropes of clothing.
So much laughter, as varied as her seven dyes,
collecting the cityprints,
as she gaily thinks
of future ideas
to crayon on the clouds
once she can return to the supersonic sneezes of airlines
as they dust up
the cobwebs of nimbostratus.
:iconoviedomedina:oviedomedina
:iconoviedomedina:oviedomedina 6 5
Literature
momentary
(so this is looking back
to follow bloody feet)
shadows and mirrors
make for bad reflections,
but cracks can only be covered over,
not healed -
glass can only shatter.
these aren't scratches,
even though
they're just a phase
(two), phase three
is fading,
and -
(I remember
what the edge of a cliff
feels like.)
:iconcreativelycliche:creativelycliche
:iconcreativelycliche:creativelycliche 22 13
Literature
fever dream buffering
I watch the bright star, red and dashing
to moonlike Elvis
hustling his jamjar strings
and velvet coiffed purple jacket
I am perplexed
by the things you say; knowing
known unknowns and no going back
from the goings on of light
in gathering ghostgalaxies
near and far- as imagined- as we take turns
looking through my Tasco telescope
and I realize that this is not a moment
that is happening; not in the way that you or I
or anyone alive can understand time
this is a placeholder frame,
a real-time rendering of objects clanging together
in frozen oceans of dark matter
and I switch myself on, off
you flicker and surge, remembering your suede,
your haircut and the expression you were wearing
we continue our conversation as if nothing
ever
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman 11 16
Literature
of mass and miscalculations
i just want to dig deep enough through the crust of the earth and all molten lava and feel myself crushed into a diamond. i just want to be worth a diamond. i just want to release all air in my siren chest and by virtue of dying, live. i am important enough to be gripped. i am not important and this is the force behind shattering nails and dissolving ulnas. when the drugs kick in i feel my ultimate bone fly and bless me with voidhood and the bird. i am a knot of the most absurd. i am not heard except for when i speak and i can't open my mouth this far underneath the surface. i have been worthless for millenia. i have been wordless as the dawn of mankind. i haven't been worth it, every bit of effort like honey in the rot of a carcass. i am gauze wrapped around the thigh of a goddess. i've gazed deep upon the void where god is supposed to be found and wept. i didn't understand yet. i cannot understand death at the hands of inaction. i am inaction. i am no person, i am no passion, i am no
:icongliitchlord:gliitchlord
:icongliitchlord:gliitchlord 9 6
Literature
yardclear memoir
my reasons wither
in love and thick trees,
wind waking wasps to flight;
I fight another fancy
  dream about a girl I knew
climbing up to nest
in paper honey catacombs,
she smelled like summer
bees and blank verse and our worst
conversations covered contemplations
of the way we often wander
through our lives like living longer
isn't even worth the weight
of carrying our bodies back
to shore,
and I'm sure
one day she drowned in a flat tomorrow
sunrise sneaking through clouded morning mist,
but maybe I should have stayed
or told her how her neckbones
made a perfect v
or how all I could think about
was lingering past midnight
in the patio moon,
casting shadows while we danced slow
to cicada tunes
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman 12 2
Literature
walkabout
i
found you in the deep shade
i
found you in the dream-time,
deciphering the long rhymes
of the old-fellas,
carved in the femur of the riverine
where
the bark of a gum was still too divine to break
for the sake of a fire.
the new-fellas in the places we left
-
dying to be near god
-
they wouldn’t understand such a prayer.
so
we dug in with our hands
to the cool seam of sweat and pink sand,
the same sand
that
stains the many faces of Mars
and
we ate on all fours of the roots of
all stars, and all the ripe
words of your corpus of worlds:
i
found you in the deep shade
i
found you in the dream-time
:iconwouldwing:wouldwing
:iconwouldwing:wouldwing 7 11
Literature
When the engineer sleeps
All the structure becomes a shredded salad
the grinder goes after the numbers, the multiplications,
calculations?
alll goes all over the place in particles!
bridges are parked in the sea
skyscrapers causing
earthquakes in the
basements
people sleeping
on bathrooms
heavens!
calculus teachers
exponentiate
aneurysms
because nobody uses a ruler!
nor a compass
not even
the goddamn alphabet
is safe!
equations in the
line
kill the commas
and the periods
fingers go mad
because every door
leads to a fall
and every window
does not lead to
its transparent rhyme
on the neighbouring window
-STRUCTURE!-
they say
BLOW UP THE WHOLE DAMN THING
 and start over again!
billions of paper bills
and the city
looks
like it just did a backflip
and landed
spine first
into the page
mister editor.
-Metaphors, my friend,
it is alll about the metaphors-
it is an sponge
no heads
no tails
no bases nor piles
strengtening this
idea
yet sponges
are sponges and are alive
and in the nile they knew about them
the same
:iconoviedomedina:oviedomedina
:iconoviedomedina:oviedomedina 61 26
Literature
small creatures
under dripping eaves
small green frog loving the wet
serenades the rain
as the raindrops fall
huddled under a wet leaf
mouse waits for sunshine
small creatures listen
hearing with different ears
a mid summer storm
:iconcattservant:cattservant
:iconcattservant:cattservant 10 7

Newest Deviations

Literature
Not My Memories
I dreamt we lost ourselves
in the changing patterns of soft and rugged
that became
the way a flame tickles the air around it  --  
the edges blurring
to the uncertain fate of a view
in its trembling impression of an image behind the smoke
that is the same
as a butterfly's skip along a row of flowers
that become the engrams of a path that still fluoresces
long after it's gone
that is no different from the sun lingering in a pair of eyes
that is given an instance to declare
how it may as well just become the light,
that only alone can relate
to how a star can only hold itself
for so long,  
that all the while were the years of a lamp to rest by
before we ran out of words,
the only part of me that ever was, the part that tries to hold on.
:iconMoonbeams:Moonbeams
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 4 0
Literature
We Stroll
We stumble upon the earliest memories of a market
in the length of a cupboard,
spices caught in the sudden stop
of a stream of wind,
jams and crackers making my hands small again,
surprised of the poise they've mastered,
that your presence had always commanded
as labels pale into the light
like the sun that once stung me
as I looked up to greet signs;
as masking tape curls like late ribbons
absent of your fingers
flattened to wisps of yellow
folding over their intricate patterns of flowers
in the wall.
:iconMoonbeams:Moonbeams
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 3 2
Literature
A Quick Reading
The long line in the palm boasts of life
with past and future
affixed to each end,
assumes the same stance over waters
it always has,
dangling itself before the sun
with the same love
remaining
like travel brochures
left open,
snippets of light spilling through
like years of mild days, and warm rains  --  
an idea that's been nurtured for too long
that has become too bright to look directly into.
:iconMoonbeams:Moonbeams
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 5 9
Literature
Lost Sunrise
How do I explain
the hatching stars between branches,
the straight symmetrical bloom,
illuminated gnat and pollen heaven?
As the hour winds down
the bands of red
fray into pools of pink,
leave half the sky a burning lake
as its lantern tips  --  
trees aflame
as I disappear for minutes not worth measuring.
By the time I come back,
my heart gathers all of the ash
of trees,
those that make trains
move slower
that hold the day up on their back
as the ground breaks.
:iconMoonbeams:Moonbeams
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 9 12
Literature
Resignation
See how each sigh falls,
the haze of its body unable to hold
in the light  --  
the slight curve of a hip
receding in the glass
not missing the memory of its beaded spine
somewhere limp on a leaf,
sinking into the brush,
and lungs of forests  --
into warped wood
new ghosts;
to cling to a cliff that way
before brimming
back into the belly of a sky
and fall back down to earth
on a familiar path                    
in the contours of a cheek,
and slope of shoulder;
how the light that reflects against the gray
leaves us all traceable  
and held together beneath umbrellas  --  
faceless, undelineable.
To be the particle, and dream of us
before it has decided,
to be able to fall to pieces
over these ballasts of broken falls.
:iconMoonbeams:Moonbeams
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 5 0
Literature
Apoptosis 2
Maybe you are a world,
the glass slide and microscope predetermined,
my vision only cleared for clouds  --  
the blur of lit thoroughfares
beneath the shade of my lash, maybe;
a slow stop motion
between shadows of foliage,
an inverse sky
with its case for skies;
long processions
signaling their own storms;
lanterns rising to the obscurity of leaves
caught in glares of light  --  lit windows
blinking on and off infrequently, peacefully;  
every weathered bulb and strung fixture of light
a permanent piece of the sunset,
flickering white with the pending weight of new eras.
If I looked any closer I couldn't return.
:iconMoonbeams:Moonbeams
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 5 2
Literature
Illustration
We spent enough time in the shade of sidewalks,
feet and hands stained in blackberry juice
to have absorbed the sunlit fences, and how they would thread along
without knowing, without ever looking up
until houses vanished,
and telephone wires disappeared into clouds.
We could feel the nondescript flow
between the air and grooves of our skin.
But we were still young enough; it being Spring,
and early yet in the evening, to be left as we were
for a moment  --  
the distance blurring, the sky and field
shedding shades to emerge as one,
closing together like a palm had laid down to rest upon us.
The flutter about the trees
unconcerned with being petals,
leaves, or butterflies.
:iconMoonbeams:Moonbeams
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 8 8
Literature
In The Heart Of Silhouettes
Do you lose a part of yourself
as you slide across hemispheres  --  
the rainbow inside of you
unable to retain itself  
melding colors to black
crashing the frond into the scow
with miles between them?
When we come together
it is out of passion.
Or maybe there has always been something about shadows,
the overlap, and dreams to be had
in the dearth of light
reminiscent of arms  --  
how the yellow grows over the bones of words.
Maybe it was all for the dream of arms.
:iconMoonbeams:Moonbeams
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 2 2
Literature
Apoptosis
If I stare long enough
the dots of red rise from the lane,
realign themselves into a whittling waltz
upon movement.
As I step into the road
the line inches forward like a gathering wave  --
a conscious chrome-tipped tide
toying with my shadow along the curb
knocking me aside like the hem of a flag
against the wind.
In the evening
the same road drones on like a sea,
its sighs finding me through curtains
and chamomile breezes
swept between the blades of my fan;
a nightly ritual of windows
across the way  --  
stops between destinations,
the serenade of a lit cigarette
in frames
between rows of light and boxes.
It's as if there's never been a need
to look any farther,
to peel the hours away
to the surge of soft organs of us
swarming upon each other
like sperm rushing to somewhere
and flushed away again.
The world has always been pregnant
with something larger than us  
with its horizons, layers of sky,
sun glares sinking into glass.
:iconMoonbeams:Moonbeams
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 5 2
Literature
Before Sunrise
My sight, like a servant with her secrets
adjusting to the palpitations of some other heart  --  
brings to me the dawn like a glitch in her programming,
a slot she's let slip through the cracks;
a sky and streetlamp not competing,
no sallow midnight drained of stars,
no clashing cataclysm of light and shadows
of us,
no streak or motion that stretches too far, or huddles too close
to know what it is;
just a town in it metal and pavement
like a bedroom left unoccupied,
secrets strewn in corners somewhere,
dreams still hanging on the hems of thought
like children we're willing to briefly entertain,
like optimism before it fades.
:iconMoonbeams:Moonbeams
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 3 3
Literature
A Northern Rain
It leaves all things translucent for a while,
the world on the other side
a plane I'm unaware I've breached,
footsteps as divine as a ghost's,
as temporary as my wonder;
as a rainbow that knows
the presence is not in the vividness,
but its rationing,
that I will follow the road
until it is just another road  --  
even hold the texture of tree trunks, and bramble
close to my heart
for as long as they can conjure this place,
as every mounting muscle of memory in me tires
of swelling in its reaction
with the intention of forgetting it all
to experience it again.
:iconMoonbeams:Moonbeams
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 8 8
Literature
The Carillon Plays Us
The city at these hours is inside of you,
in the brim of your bell --  the sky
no different from ours
as copper swaps shadow for sun,
for dusk, for sunrise  --  
the silhouette of the black
of buildings buried in the tarnish
as they're remembered  --  
buried somewhere the roads
as seen through their same smoke stained screens
and balconies,
patina sunsets
in an alloy moving through its mold
of tableau patterns and wrought iron
sculpting us as we are
at this hour.
:iconMoonbeams:Moonbeams
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 4 5
Literature
As The Yard Becomes Familiar
Somewhere around the time I lose count
of mornings
the tree has merged with me  --  
dying inside;
its roots coiled in my stomach,
vines pulled through my arms
and nettled about my heart.
Anthers shake pollen to the mind
laying seeds inside and out;
the growth slowing rivers,
blighting the sun
for the sake of these eyes.
:iconMoonbeams:Moonbeams
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 7 2
Literature
Going Through Boxes
There was a time when keepsakes
kept pace with our hearts  --  
the face in a photo succumbing to time,
recognizable only by strands of hair
pulled a certain way, in a familiar lean
behind the cloud on the white albumen
leaving the flesh of a face
as it is when it haunts rooms.
There's something about shelves
and shoeboxes, and stumbling upon;
about haze, and lack of clarity
pulling from the reservoir inside of us
to fill our sight
as we say without saying,
stop here.
:iconMoonbeams:Moonbeams
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 4 0
Literature
The Beginnings That Lie In Closeness
Remember when the flashlight
turned the palm into a canvas?
Brought it into the light
baring bones of fingers
smoothed of their joints,
like an x ray
of the earliest sketch of us,
like the osteal lines
of a neighborhood
beneath the moon
relegated to the idea of itself
as we turn to dreams
that could have been anything
the following day
if not left to the confines of its movement?  
It was around that time I recalled
how I was wrong about the waves
inside the shell,
not knowing
they were behind my ear,
pouring through my veins
with the same eagerness  
to rush, to hear
what they longed to hear.
The ocean was always lighter in my mind
in its blue
than the deep shades of every green and gray
it holds in the day.
A sketch
can be anything you want it to be,
a dissipating fog remembering
as it hugs you,
a light in the distance courting the eye.
:iconMoonbeams:Moonbeams
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 44 9
Literature
Do Not Disturb
The room becomes a barometer
for how deep you've fallen,
your absence measured
by changing tints of screen
and how they dance
unmitigated by your movement
as if stumbling serendipitously
upon an empty stage  --  
the circus of your mind released,
the world of you in my periphery.
The sun rises over it like a time lapse
of centuries
revealing the spaces left of floor,
cobwebs like slabs
you'd broken through along the way,
a language encrypted.
I think I could find your heart sometimes
in the low-light
like a scroll coasting in the darkness,
an epilogue.
:iconMoonbeams:Moonbeams
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 1 3
They can be negative or positive, but either way they have a pretty revealing nature about them, don't they?  They can provoke a maelstrom of fear and anxiety, or intrigue and pleasure, on the tails of specific events in our lives, however major or insignificant.  When they have a negative impact you can either embrace more magical thinking in countering them, or attack them with logic;  there's never a dispute in the latter.  When they're of a positive nature there's no dispute in embracing them for all that they're worth, fallacies included  --  but there shouldn't be for reasoning their magical nature away either.  For some the act itself is treated like writing life away, but is it really?  Isn't it the unnecessary, and excessive worshipping of the positive that drags us into the undertow of the negative?  Why can't we learn to take things for what they are, assure ourselves of our reality in times of uncertainty, and simply appreciate surprises for their serendipitous nature when times are more plentiful?  
  • Listening to: Sad Songs
  • Reading: Text Books
  • Watching: My flickering screen
  • Playing: Nada
  • Eating: The thick humidity
  • Drinking: Burnt Coffee

deviantID

Moonbeams
United States
Interests

What Should I Put Here?

Ideas?

Everything you do in life is because. . . 

54%
13 deviants said you desire to leave behind an even slightly better world
17%
4 deviants said You desire to express yourself, and you choose the venue that suits it best
17%
4 deviants said You are sure you will have lived a life with very few regrets when your time comes
8%
2 deviants said Of a deterministic universe
4%
1 deviant said You're a slave to your biological gene and at the mercy of precarious whim
0%
No deviants said Society has conditioned you to do so

Comments


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:iconsalshep:
salshep Featured By Owner 3 days ago
How on earth was I not watching you?

Terribly remiss of me.
Reply
:iconmoonbeams:
Moonbeams Featured By Owner Edited 3 days ago
Thank you so much for watching.  It is definitely an honor.
Reply
:iconoviedomedina:
oviedomedina Featured By Owner 3 days ago
Thanks for the favorite! :)
Reply
:iconoviedomedina:
oviedomedina Featured By Owner Aug 2, 2018
Thank you very much for the kind commment and the favorite!
Reply
:iconthesmileydinosaur:
TheSmileyDinosaur Featured By Owner Jul 31, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for the fave :D
Reply
:iconladylincoln:
LadyLincoln Featured By Owner Jul 23, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for your recent support, dear one. I appreciate you! Heart
Reply
:iconvespera:
vespera Featured By Owner Jul 21, 2018  Professional Writer
:rose: thank you for the watch
Reply
:iconoviedomedina:
oviedomedina Featured By Owner Jul 20, 2018
Once again, thank you very much! :)
Reply
:iconoviedomedina:
oviedomedina Featured By Owner Jun 29, 2018
Thank you for the favorite!
Reply
:iconoviedomedina:
oviedomedina Featured By Owner Jun 20, 2018
Thank you very much for the favorites!
Reply
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