OritPetra's avatar
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147 Watchers42.4K Page Views86 Deviations
A
A woman is missing.
A woman is missing. My sweater is knit too loose and the wind blows through. The leaves are done changing and are waiting to fall. I think of them collaged against my morning-damp windshield; they will mostly be red. My wipers will push them off; I will forget about them. But inbetween these thoughts my brain hums. A woman is missing and I cannot forget. Two weeks ago the leaves were mostly green and yellow. Two weeks ago a woman went missing. I didn't know her but she went missing and today I am standing at a wall covered with candles and I am rolling her name over my tongue and I am thinking. I am thinking and praying, bu
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S
September renga no. 3.
Evening lake… making a Monet with my paddle.
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G
Going home to a home.
Being alone is not like dying or like suffocating; it's not a black pit, it's not any metaphor or simile - not dark Decembers, not falling leaves. It's just you not there on the couch when I get home from the graveyard shift. It's just me knowing that you haven't fallen asleep sitting up waiting for me to get home and kill the TV, drag you to bed. It's just all the stupid stuff that doesn't sound good in a poem, that doesn't lend itself to intricate metaphors or literary tricks.   It's just me sitting here at the kitchen table filling out passport papers because I can't stand one more damned winter in this cold, cold city; no, not if
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S
September renga no. 2.
the old treehouse –      a bee with no wings             the smell of decay
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S
September renga no. 1.
scrape of the bow on the sandy shore – a nap in the shade.
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P
Preserves.
There are tomatoes in the sink and I am sunburnt from picking raspberries. My dog is sitting on the doorstep snapping at flies but down by the field there are apples ripening! In the garden, squash and cucumbers grow fat, racing autumn's first frost.   In the forest, animals gather up summer's zenith, and in the air   birds fly away in search of warmer skies. Indeed, the whole world is preparing to die and I'm in the kitchen putting off making preserves!
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T
Tessa.
We laid you in the earth as the day reached its close. The afternoon's thunderstorms passed to the east and in the west the sun burned brilliant, its diurnal death a ruddy kiss upon our swollen cheeks.   That morning you looked at me from the backseat and suddenly you knew what we meant by "it's time."  And you let go so quick, so quiet – your tail thumped, thumped against the clinic floor, then stopped; your face was a calm, golden yellow. The tears did not come then in the office, transactional and sterile, but as my bare feet picked up the rain   lingering upon the backyard
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23
F
Fireflies.
glowing ember sinks into a black coal sea – fireflies flicker.
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N
Nature's last green is gold.
Nature's first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay. - Robert Frost, 1923. Nature's last green is gold: the deepening of summer into rich yellows, oranges, reds. In our maturity, grown comfortable with ourselves, we stretch out, languid, in the embrace of a hay field – limbs entangled. Our flowers are not the delicate sort that die away after spring's first flurry; they are smaller, less showy, but sure of themselves and hardy. Indeed, the honeyed scents of a ripened earth ar
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26
Sky-mirror.
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3
See all
P
Preserves.
There are tomatoes in the sink and I am sunburnt from picking raspberries. My dog is sitting on the doorstep snapping at flies but down by the field there are apples ripening! In the garden, squash and cucumbers grow fat, racing autumn's first frost.   In the forest, animals gather up summer's zenith, and in the air   birds fly away in search of warmer skies. Indeed, the whole world is preparing to die and I'm in the kitchen putting off making preserves!
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12
N
Nature's last green is gold.
Nature's first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay. - Robert Frost, 1923. Nature's last green is gold: the deepening of summer into rich yellows, oranges, reds. In our maturity, grown comfortable with ourselves, we stretch out, languid, in the embrace of a hay field – limbs entangled. Our flowers are not the delicate sort that die away after spring's first flurry; they are smaller, less showy, but sure of themselves and hardy. Indeed, the honeyed scents of a ripened earth ar
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26
H
History, molecular.
Packing up, stacked cardboard boxes filled - everything I own tucked away, ordered, labelled. Standing, empty once-cramped walls expansive - I cleaned to spotless white, every nook, cranny. Leaving, stillness just the moving van idling outside - I pause for one last look, introspective, tired. Settling, cornered dust that could not be evicted - remaining as I shut the door, history, molecular.
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K
King Saul's daughter.
I found a photograph of us last night, one from our college days. It fell out from between the rice paper pages of my collected works of Shakespeare and floated down to the floor, settling among dust bunnies flushed out   during this year's spring clean. From five feet and fifteen years above, our younger selves stared up at me, smiling with a fresh flushed newness – full-faced and growing, we swelled with promise: the burgeoning fruits of an orchard in springtime,   the hope of a rich harvest come fall. Cheeks young and feverish, sun-tinted red – the first rays of warming summer darkened our thickeni
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T
Transmission tower boy.
I cling, a fog-cloud water droplet, to your transmission tower presence; electrified by proximity. Convinced that you stretch up to pierce the atmospheric heavens,     I am blinded by a simple trick of position.   Unaware that my cloud just hangs low, that above my sky is more sky, I worship you: seeming pinnacle of all worldly existence. So beguiled I linger on long after warming winds carry off those once close to me; live only for your cool smiles of arched metal   and your watertight heart of insulatory ceramic.   I cannot comprehend that I might be better loved by the h
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22
C
Crash city.
This town's so lifeless now inside its grey concrete exoskeleton; a bug baked up in the summer sun, too dry to rot with autumn's leaves and so preserved in stasis under thick sheets of ice; dead and already forgotten. Yet people froze red knuckled and wrapped up in stolen blankets, long before the suits suffocated in their own success, gasped over their Tuesday morning copies of the Wall Street Journal and choked on expensive coffee they could no longer afford; too black to swallow. But now it's the stuff high-quality photojournalism: huddled bodies, bags, and shopping carts bathed in the glow of humming Wal-Mart signs and neon-gold
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9
A
A woman is missing.
A woman is missing. My sweater is knit too loose and the wind blows through. The leaves are done changing and are waiting to fall. I think of them collaged against my morning-damp windshield; they will mostly be red. My wipers will push them off; I will forget about them. But inbetween these thoughts my brain hums. A woman is missing and I cannot forget. Two weeks ago the leaves were mostly green and yellow. Two weeks ago a woman went missing. I didn't know her but she went missing and today I am standing at a wall covered with candles and I am rolling her name over my tongue and I am thinking. I am thinking and praying, bu
119
256
G
Going home to a home.
Being alone is not like dying or like suffocating; it's not a black pit, it's not any metaphor or simile - not dark Decembers, not falling leaves. It's just you not there on the couch when I get home from the graveyard shift. It's just me knowing that you haven't fallen asleep sitting up waiting for me to get home and kill the TV, drag you to bed. It's just all the stupid stuff that doesn't sound good in a poem, that doesn't lend itself to intricate metaphors or literary tricks.   It's just me sitting here at the kitchen table filling out passport papers because I can't stand one more damned winter in this cold, cold city; no, not if
26
13
P
Preserves.
There are tomatoes in the sink and I am sunburnt from picking raspberries. My dog is sitting on the doorstep snapping at flies but down by the field there are apples ripening! In the garden, squash and cucumbers grow fat, racing autumn's first frost.   In the forest, animals gather up summer's zenith, and in the air   birds fly away in search of warmer skies. Indeed, the whole world is preparing to die and I'm in the kitchen putting off making preserves!
35
12
T
Tessa.
We laid you in the earth as the day reached its close. The afternoon's thunderstorms passed to the east and in the west the sun burned brilliant, its diurnal death a ruddy kiss upon our swollen cheeks.   That morning you looked at me from the backseat and suddenly you knew what we meant by "it's time."  And you let go so quick, so quiet – your tail thumped, thumped against the clinic floor, then stopped; your face was a calm, golden yellow. The tears did not come then in the office, transactional and sterile, but as my bare feet picked up the rain   lingering upon the backyard
29
23
N
Nature's last green is gold.
Nature's first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay. - Robert Frost, 1923. Nature's last green is gold: the deepening of summer into rich yellows, oranges, reds. In our maturity, grown comfortable with ourselves, we stretch out, languid, in the embrace of a hay field – limbs entangled. Our flowers are not the delicate sort that die away after spring's first flurry; they are smaller, less showy, but sure of themselves and hardy. Indeed, the honeyed scents of a ripened earth ar
42
26
B
Big fire.
Big Fire came during dry-sand summer. I still remember my roots ached and Lake shrank away until I could not feel her. Sky had nothing, either – blue eyes dry;   the blackflies, heat-dead, gone too. Parched, we prayed to Rain Spirit. I was young, just ten rings, and this my first baking heat. Like my aspen brothers further south, I trembled. But rain came one night,   dark, in sating sheets,   and we drank big, long draughts, while Sand got thick and wet and Lake rose up again. But too greedy then were we, and forgot our Southern brothers when our Sky tried to make Rain stay   in just this fores
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16
H
History, molecular.
Packing up, stacked cardboard boxes filled - everything I own tucked away, ordered, labelled. Standing, empty once-cramped walls expansive - I cleaned to spotless white, every nook, cranny. Leaving, stillness just the moving van idling outside - I pause for one last look, introspective, tired. Settling, cornered dust that could not be evicted - remaining as I shut the door, history, molecular.
29
13
K
King Saul's daughter.
I found a photograph of us last night, one from our college days. It fell out from between the rice paper pages of my collected works of Shakespeare and floated down to the floor, settling among dust bunnies flushed out   during this year's spring clean. From five feet and fifteen years above, our younger selves stared up at me, smiling with a fresh flushed newness – full-faced and growing, we swelled with promise: the burgeoning fruits of an orchard in springtime,   the hope of a rich harvest come fall. Cheeks young and feverish, sun-tinted red – the first rays of warming summer darkened our thickeni
37
35
S
September renga no. 3.
Evening lake… making a Monet with my paddle.
29
10
S
September renga no. 2.
the old treehouse –      a bee with no wings             the smell of decay
12
8
S
September renga no. 1.
scrape of the bow on the sandy shore – a nap in the shade.
18
6
F
Fireflies.
glowing ember sinks into a black coal sea – fireflies flicker.
21
13
Sky-mirror.
11
3
J
2011 June Haikuthon
The following is my contribution to the-haiku-club's 2011 June Haikuthon. This is an on-going deviation and will be updated through-out the month of June 2011. Stay tuned for more Eastern poetry and if you're interested in participating, check out the-haiku-club! 1. (haiku) jostling pick-up truck lovers hold hands     rough roads, big sky.   2. (haiku) spring's open road - bike tires ready to leave winter behind.   3. (tanka) momma-bird with a worm waits on the telephone wire: across the street chirping babies with rumbling bellies.     4. (haiku) on the motorbike: wind-tears and a side-mirr
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Collection Coming Soon!
Check back soon to see OritPetra's collection.
August 4, 1988
Canada
Deviant for 14 years
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ScottMan2th's avatar
ScottMan2th|Hobbyist General Artist
happy birthday again Tazz...still wandering around the various galleries here on DA and contributing here and there with collaborations when invited...been a rough year so far, family events and so forth but hope still endures...  again, hope you are doing well and hope to hear from you when you have the chance :D (Big Grin) Hug 
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ScottMan2th's avatar
ScottMan2th|Hobbyist General Artist
happy birthday Tazz :D (Big Grin) hope you are doing well and hope to see some new postings soon.  
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ScottMan2th's avatar
ScottMan2th|Hobbyist General Artist
hey Tazz, still here on DA...lot's of collaborations and personal projects over the last few years...skillset has really developed during that time...so glad i found DA when i did... hope you are well and hope to hear from you at some point in the future :D (Big Grin) Hug :happybounce:  
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Jasperinity's avatar
Happy birthday! :D
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Sammur-amat's avatar
Sammur-amat| General Artist
happy birthday, beautiful soul :iconlachoirplz:
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LadyofGaerdon's avatar
LadyofGaerdon|Professional Writer
You've been featured on my blog:la: Come check it out if you'd like. :heart:
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Sammur-amat's avatar
Sammur-amat| General Artist
Happy Birthday, beautiful soul! :iconlachoirplz:
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