Moonbeams's avatar
Lynne
144 Watchers33.3K Page Views281 Deviations
A
A Bulb Blown
There aren't yet enough years behind the filament finally losing its shine, and falling limp, and loose against the glass for there to be a haunt; not enough years for black, and white; for shadows to become petals of dark blooming over dark, and raise the question of why we ever needed color, and aren't they weeds in the only connections that mattered anyway? There aren't enough years yet behind the dry dimming of auburn crowns cooling to blue, and silver strands of hair thinning over jutting, sloping statures beneath the midnight, and stars; in wishing they too, could have even just the grace of a tree, of deserts, of the moon, and hol
7
13
L
Long Exposure
These mistakes  --   these skewed surfaces, and blurred backgrounds of a moving world have grown on us because they are a time machine unexpected  --   epures   that bleed back into coins in a wishing well, traffic giving up direction, and going back home; buildings stretched above us a streaked Stonehenge enshrined in the color of its own aura. And there we are preserved out there somewhere umbrellas in hand elongated, and gray tableaus waiting to meet again, and again; we could just never place our fingers on it, have known each other for too long to see anything but  --   have gathered for too long as the dents that make matter dis
3
14
G
Growing Linear
At the starting point symmetry is unavoidable  --   the perfection of posture, straight lines, and longhand; the learning of form, and composition; the sky as frame around everything  --   milestones, and rights of passage from yard, to front seat to cities away all falling like a herringbone around the middle part as it all seems to shrink away like the tarred edges of a burning piece of paper  --   a tunneling to sight that unbeknownst to itself just continues looking on. From here on there is an affinity for these static, and persistent cameos left suspended in the universe contain the emotions from when stars were untraced, and
10
8
S
Small
The parting in the grass holds up hues of a home warmer than I've known it. The haze makes the sky something more north than south, more winter than summer  --   turns the reflection in the window into a hearth fired up for days of storm and I think that I understand the nature of lures a little too much - wonder to myself if we're all small just the same clinging to ledges, fighting through palettes of pleasing, but poisonous; but you've yet to know anything   of the haze that hugs your slant of earth lifting its hood of light to scatter far into the sky. I remind myself that the stars are safe because they're not a candlelight that beca
5
8
O
Our Home Takes Its Shape
How come to pass each other by too busy to gather anything but the highlights of each other; a yin, and yang threading in, and out   as we move in much the same way that we don't linger for too long in each other's spaces. How the routine placing of keys, and tote are as static as stars  --   the familiar backing of which we need to remember how we gather here. A sky infinity being the program of peace  --   as we too move with the propensity to press, and knock against each other as the glass between paper.
8
12
I
Instead Of Birth
Maybe an arrival was meant to be a salvageable death  --   a rescue from infinity with the buffer of life-cycles, a last resort for the forgotten fragments of a star. For the endless burning through of burning -- a skin to shed; a pulse, a strand of something - the Earth a votive holder for days, and years, measured by a tree - another star to know eternity.
1
8
T
The New Selection
There is a primal brain somewhere reading the fault-lines of a smile, a rainy day, an inflection; a seat of memory that can sometimes only be a place inaccessible, or a specter still hurling toward you. There is a process that sometimes registers a recollection as the weight of an irritant that will toggle tears unable to dislodge, and so coat themselves with balm  -- an addictive pair of arms in place of arms securing you until you merge again into one   There is a part that sometimes stalls, stretching itself for as far as it can go like a stenciled row of dolls that is much like the falling away of shadows revealing the spaces between
7
11
R
Reminiscing
As the album closes try not to hold on to the faces in such a way that they fade to these corners  --   the ornate to its flat tinges of gray as if you've just returned from some long exile; such is the mind, as years collect like miscellaneous items we know not what to do with gathering the way objects do a division between then, and now  --   a slow missile down the middle of living --   an explosion soft, and silent as the accumulation of all things are leaving spots when they become empty to scream in their emptiness revealing how settling is a stealth bomb waiting to be activated, so step carefully.
2
9
T
Trying To Depict
the paint only falls by way of secondary brushstroke   (an afterthoughts as streak). In the snow-scape the scratching of a naked bough bowing towards its roof remembered completes the picture  -- the perforated tracks taking you underneath it all already there, and yet you settle for the ghost town anyway. The clarity of summer is no different  --   the glare of metal making everything urban, to leave is to simply leave a scent on a stubborn, sluggish wind, and focus on the alleyway  -- the trickle of steam that billows off the steel of kitchens down all labyrinth roads, and close your eyes. Let the language change. Forget all languag
10
12
F
For A While
The spring in the step of the child is the continued spilling forth of the debris of a star  --   the heat before it cools again, and again; the gathering of flowers into a basket, a bouquet, a terrace until only memory can continue where they leave off carrying the whole of places where they still stand in their multitude; that at one time their restless hands might've plucked too if they could  -- that some have tried to seize. The stars that we look out at now are the realization that we could leave things as they are where they are, and they'll still be our stories to tell  --   seen, remembered as they are.
1
9
See all
A
A Bulb Blown
There aren't yet enough years behind the filament finally losing its shine, and falling limp, and loose against the glass for there to be a haunt; not enough years for black, and white; for shadows to become petals of dark blooming over dark, and raise the question of why we ever needed color, and aren't they weeds in the only connections that mattered anyway? There aren't enough years yet behind the dry dimming of auburn crowns cooling to blue, and silver strands of hair thinning over jutting, sloping statures beneath the midnight, and stars; in wishing they too, could have even just the grace of a tree, of deserts, of the moon, and hol
7
13
T
The New Selection
There is a primal brain somewhere reading the fault-lines of a smile, a rainy day, an inflection; a seat of memory that can sometimes only be a place inaccessible, or a specter still hurling toward you. There is a process that sometimes registers a recollection as the weight of an irritant that will toggle tears unable to dislodge, and so coat themselves with balm  -- an addictive pair of arms in place of arms securing you until you merge again into one   There is a part that sometimes stalls, stretching itself for as far as it can go like a stenciled row of dolls that is much like the falling away of shadows revealing the spaces between
7
11
L
Long Exposure
These mistakes  --   these skewed surfaces, and blurred backgrounds of a moving world have grown on us because they are a time machine unexpected  --   epures   that bleed back into coins in a wishing well, traffic giving up direction, and going back home; buildings stretched above us a streaked Stonehenge enshrined in the color of its own aura. And there we are preserved out there somewhere umbrellas in hand elongated, and gray tableaus waiting to meet again, and again; we could just never place our fingers on it, have known each other for too long to see anything but  --   have gathered for too long as the dents that make matter dis
3
14
G
Growing Linear
At the starting point symmetry is unavoidable  --   the perfection of posture, straight lines, and longhand; the learning of form, and composition; the sky as frame around everything  --   milestones, and rights of passage from yard, to front seat to cities away all falling like a herringbone around the middle part as it all seems to shrink away like the tarred edges of a burning piece of paper  --   a tunneling to sight that unbeknownst to itself just continues looking on. From here on there is an affinity for these static, and persistent cameos left suspended in the universe contain the emotions from when stars were untraced, and
10
8
S
Small
The parting in the grass holds up hues of a home warmer than I've known it. The haze makes the sky something more north than south, more winter than summer  --   turns the reflection in the window into a hearth fired up for days of storm and I think that I understand the nature of lures a little too much - wonder to myself if we're all small just the same clinging to ledges, fighting through palettes of pleasing, but poisonous; but you've yet to know anything   of the haze that hugs your slant of earth lifting its hood of light to scatter far into the sky. I remind myself that the stars are safe because they're not a candlelight that beca
5
8
O
Our Home Takes Its Shape
How come to pass each other by too busy to gather anything but the highlights of each other; a yin, and yang threading in, and out   as we move in much the same way that we don't linger for too long in each other's spaces. How the routine placing of keys, and tote are as static as stars  --   the familiar backing of which we need to remember how we gather here. A sky infinity being the program of peace  --   as we too move with the propensity to press, and knock against each other as the glass between paper.
8
12
I
Instead Of Birth
Maybe an arrival was meant to be a salvageable death  --   a rescue from infinity with the buffer of life-cycles, a last resort for the forgotten fragments of a star. For the endless burning through of burning -- a skin to shed; a pulse, a strand of something - the Earth a votive holder for days, and years, measured by a tree - another star to know eternity.
1
8
R
Reminiscing
As the album closes try not to hold on to the faces in such a way that they fade to these corners  --   the ornate to its flat tinges of gray as if you've just returned from some long exile; such is the mind, as years collect like miscellaneous items we know not what to do with gathering the way objects do a division between then, and now  --   a slow missile down the middle of living --   an explosion soft, and silent as the accumulation of all things are leaving spots when they become empty to scream in their emptiness revealing how settling is a stealth bomb waiting to be activated, so step carefully.
2
9
T
Trying To Depict
the paint only falls by way of secondary brushstroke   (an afterthoughts as streak). In the snow-scape the scratching of a naked bough bowing towards its roof remembered completes the picture  -- the perforated tracks taking you underneath it all already there, and yet you settle for the ghost town anyway. The clarity of summer is no different  --   the glare of metal making everything urban, to leave is to simply leave a scent on a stubborn, sluggish wind, and focus on the alleyway  -- the trickle of steam that billows off the steel of kitchens down all labyrinth roads, and close your eyes. Let the language change. Forget all languag
10
12
F
For A While
The spring in the step of the child is the continued spilling forth of the debris of a star  --   the heat before it cools again, and again; the gathering of flowers into a basket, a bouquet, a terrace until only memory can continue where they leave off carrying the whole of places where they still stand in their multitude; that at one time their restless hands might've plucked too if they could  -- that some have tried to seize. The stars that we look out at now are the realization that we could leave things as they are where they are, and they'll still be our stories to tell  --   seen, remembered as they are.
1
9
A
After Analog
Now you can wake, and tell yourself the sound of static was a storm  --   the continual hiss   becoming the sound of walls, and patio  -- a demarcation for time; sound as stasis for a brief point in history  --   for pacing as the spaces between the snow bevel from dream to slide down the glass, and loosen to the shade, and dimensions of shapes -- distinctions of rays of light in a cul-de-sac where the present could be playing out on a table in the distance, or the rain becoming rain again, or just becoming.
4
11
I
Imagining A Ghost As A Blind
I think of the draft of a closing door; the full frost of winter in its closing in all seasons; passing through me, but not to stay -- the cold, but ride beneath the warmth always the residue of something to feel the way an absence does-- there but not there, like the rising dust of an empty shelf and calloused palm colliding  -- hair burgeoning in the familiar width of a fabric even if never known. I once described light as the silk of a spider's web flown high into evening's wind made visible by God's opening eye-- but you probably forever saw it in the measure of the wind that blew when I told you; by the sounds you heard, still
3
3
N
Narcissus
There are no curves or angles in your stillness, no wave of anything that fusses over your shoulders; no sliding serpent of light that scales through your form like time's hand skimming across the sky; no sun streaked through strand or pupil that draws love. By spring your heart is outside of you, a frenetic of blooms in the casts of your soil, rain caught with resignation, the wind smoothing your alleys like an intruding arm; echoes falling to the distance, the backdrop of a watercolor sky where you are content to remain winter. Only in frustration does Spring emerge from you like a moss, a settled static-- giving you distinctions
2
1
S
Silhouettes At Evening
It is a show of forms. A lovers' embrace takes its position angled, and burnished as sculpture unlike the herd that comes together, and comes apart, the romp in a bustling bush  --   monarch slipped its stem, the crane's neck, and unfolding wing; the strand on the down of a feather that knows how to be alone again, the leaf, the blade of grass.
3
8
P
Postcard
The sun is always a fixture over oceans, another cliched photo. But never where I can pretend you've gifted me the waves as I lose myself in the memory of shapes, as if your foam fluked tide had stretched as far as it could and decided to stay; A horse's gallop slowed through the blue before a piece of his snout breaks off and drifts away rather than falling into the earth like the ghost that it is. I wonder if wanderlusts know the treasures their destinations become as they scatter in parts for the rest of us to gather; A piece of sun bleeds into the now purple cloud and cooking smoke the way a heaven would burst from a clam-shell ov
0
2
I
If I Stretched Fire
The patina of metal frames might outshine the faces they hold leaving the details to ash as the tired wavelength that cradles the color slips into the skin of heaven all of the motes of things left untouched. It might appear as if the curtain has soldered itself to a sun-ray, the home half cloud with no threat of falling; your presence locked in the faded piece of wallpaper, peeled  -- your pace preserved in the light that favored you, that sinks in from the day in the way all flowers and good things become points of light in passing anyway, the only thing between being and not being, their memory.
0
3
E
Existentialism
Because a wing is hard to master in marble, obtuse angles chiseled into hours; unlike the stoic glide between trees, the stumbling muscle that birthed its way into skies. Evolution is a stolid, faceless flight through waning stars; with purpose riding beneath our fingers, protruding from the spaces where weeds would grow.
4
2
S
Scanning Polaroids
I place you between a series of chronological rows, your earlier smiles more genuine, and unburdended with time; the earliest one a fragile piece  --   my smoothing palm a cloud in the muted sun by then as it pools into pixels, reclining ghosts of fingerprints drawn to splotches like the blight of mildew on forests; the propensity to preserve too human to be a malady as row after row we lean in to each other like a wind had pulled us together -- a storm blowing from laughter, or something deeper that unearths laughs, that thinks it has outwitted the marker of years, the film that covers the past. I worry about the intensity of us pressin
0
3
H
Head In The Clouds
And now I know why the fluted corners of buildings, and treetops always get my attention first. The sunset is all the words I have beneath a spill, a fancying forgoing form to remain a fancy; aphasia in the swelled clouds of ink meeting tea-stains of endless corners where the eyes fall to rest as they take in what is too large a vision to hold, anyway; how the light that emanates from what is seen is offset by its emerging storms, or what will someday eschew its form yet is somehow still worthy of a word that leaves me pining over words until the day is dark and bruised with the memory of ink running ren in streaks where trains once
3
7
A
Amniotic
I guess when waves have rung through you for so long you're bound to revert back to the same rhythm in something like sleep; and what a strange ocean now  --   these years slowly rocking out of sequence, a sandbar of figures and faces that don't belong, places colliding without a crash in an Escher print of time  --   no wonder memories are as fragile as froth fighting to hold its shape against a rock lodging bits of itself into scenes replayed long before their inception as I never question the steadiness of you through it all knowing without knowing that all that matters here are the roles we meet each other as filling the pits,
0
14
N
Not
I’m at the mercy of your silence There are miles between us as we sit side by side Torturing sweetly Vinegar and honey You are standing in a ring of salt I see the lines you have drawn You don’t see the lines on my skin Abusing gently Screaming quietly Have you calculated the distance between you and me? By proximity or by years? Perhaps by the volume of things we do not say A void An abyss Avoid Remiss
5
5
G
Gather Soon
             Orange and green -       Black, purple glimmer tween  Colors glister in all hallowed hues. Ask haints and ghosts what shaded haunts they wish to choose, And witch familiars to be let out wild and loose.   Gathered neath the Samhain sacred moon.        Slivered stars shades are strewn -              gather soon
3
43
U
Underground
I didn’t mean to walk across the graves in you.
8
13
t
tonics and supertonics
scale me down another degree enharmonic to every capricious submediant and when dissonance strangles the dominant chord we’ll be a half-step away from full-blown oblivion
0
7
O
Observer
Long have I wandered the winter vacuum And thought to the pale cities of the moon. There, do they sing songs of the ghost colored Fields sprawling their domain, or songs of Earth? And when snow wraps around the year like gauze Covering our mitres, crowns and coxcombs, Can the Pleiades, dancing in their sphere Distinguish between these two lonely specks?
1
2
I
Inspiration
I imagined constellations in the whorls of your thumb; they spark star-dust, embers low in my chest. I write songs in your voice, a baritone prayer, sentiment caught on the corner of your lips, catching mine. Out of your dust, your amber-honey laughter, I am led by the chin into worlds, words, that open my soul like a clementine. Every word I breathe is a net cast wide, attempts to cage canyons full of the way I shiver when you say my name.
17
26
T
Tidal Treasures
I tell you true So do not laugh To count me luckier by half A fate avoided worse than death Lines I love aren't happenstance Snatched from ether like a breath I count it joy to share with you Worlds unknown with color imbue To craft a rhyme or free-spun verse Better than apples to prevent a curse But as the hour groweth late I'll share the treasure Time would take Away from me if I should lose The train of thought I'm wont to cruise Far above the worth of gold The words you pluck from out your soul.
3
6
O
Oasis
went outside deep in the night moon was riding high and the wind was in the trees a ghostly Coliseum sat above the trees it arrested my mind and I waited for hardened charioteers to appear before that moonlit Caesar their stallions trod the windswept canopy proud ebony carvings of cathedral jet pawing the air fierce spirits in the nave of Orion crowds gathered to behold the warriors: beggars and lords harlots in satin and hangmen in leather; philosophers spoke of sparrows and aqueducts, sharing opium with jesters and samurai yet no one knew when Ulysses would return just as Caesar raised his hand to commence, a thunder of clo
0
3
Inktober #14: Overgrown
6
79
w
where my soul still sits
my eyes learned colors then closed returning to doldrums too briefly I dreamt with them open now sleepwalk now praxis now call it a day but my heart knows thaumaturgy and yours is young and fae the blood speaks the bones sing and we are sharing thoughts and accidentally summoning why not wake to reverie daily purposely partaking of the magic of the glamour that abounds cast off the sad somnabulant gray daze that drapes for the kaleidoscopic life patiently waiting
10
18
Feb 23
United States
Deviant for 15 years
Badges
Super Albino: Llamas are awesome! (170)

Comments284

anonymous's avatar
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Sign In
thesquareroot's avatar
thesquarerootHobbyist Writer
thanks for the fave :peace:
NarcissisticPanda's avatar
NarcissisticPandaHobbyist Writer
Thanks for the fave! :)
Poetrymann's avatar
PoetrymannProfessional Writer
Thanks for the fav!
oviedomedina's avatar
Thank you for the favorite!
ShadowsofLight777's avatar
ShadowsofLight777Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for the fave :)