Crayon DrawingMy brother drew me a giraffe today,an orange and brown thingwith a square body anda neck so long,it’s head was off the page.We took him to the zoo yesterday,where he got to feed onea fist-full of leaves.He came back and exclaimed,“it’s tongue was black!Sissy, go see!”And I replied,“the crowds are thick,I won’t be able to breathe.”I came home to finda crayon drawing tapedto my door,and a promise that“I’ll grow big and strong,and hold you up,so you can see the head.”
Like Only the Stars are WatchingMr. Glenn’s wife died the day before last. Of course, now all their children could talk about was what she would have wanted.“She would want a proper burial,” Gary, the eldest, said.“In the cemetery at Memorial Park,” Martin said.Gary shook his head. “Much too crowded there. She wouldn’t want to knock elbows with anyone. She would prefer be buried in the Green Meadows Cemetery.”“No,” Lisa Marie said, slapping her hand against Mr. Glenn’s antique table. “She wouldn’t want a grave. If she was here, she’d tell us to cremate her and spread her ashes across the farm.”“I don’t think she liked this farm as much as you think,” Kurt said. “We should take the boat and spread her ashes out at sea. She would like that better.”Lisa Marie huffed and crossed her arms. “Mom told me everything, and I can promise you that what she would want is to be here, on the farm.
don't throw glass bottles at brick wallsto the boy with ghost hands,red marks the spotin the bathroom sinkwhere the light is swallowed.some secrets you just keep.
You Linger on the MediterraneanDesperate to leave this home,my August lover,it is not enough to writeour latest love letters.You’re killing yourself,my August lover,for seashine;and the queen is callingdown by the riverside.This poem is not about you,my August lover,(not anymore).Forget tsunamis and Pompeii --I don’t need to breatheor Atlantis as a lover;and the wind will blowme and my monstersby bridges to Babylon --city of ghosts.(And no, I won’t be sorry.)
PoetryPoems baffle me,leaving stanza-shapedheadaches.Rhythm & rhyme& counting syllables;Who has the time?Shakespeare and Iargue in sonnets,but heroic,my couplets are not.I copy downlimericks &paste them tomy friends' laughter.Reciting haikusmakes me seemsmarter,but I don't knowwhat I'm talking about.I wrote abecedarianson mother's daysover traced handprints,but she threw them awaywhen I turnedseventeen.Any other forms,I don't know,I always focused onprose.If I wrote a verse,with a drying pen& a papercovered in math,it would have a touch offree.I buried my soulin a casket of words,all the poemsI claimed to haveread.
Cassandra-81C81 had a name once. It started with the letter A, she thought, or maybe it ended with an A. She didn’t know anymore; it was the first thing they took when she arrived at the Troy Institute. It had bothered her for the first few weeks, but the more she tried to remember, the more she seemed to forget. When she brought the issue up to the doctors, they repeated what they had been saying all along, that she could not be healed as who she was. To be whole again, she had to rid herself of her past identity and become a new person. They would give her a new name once she was ready.She didn’t know how long it would take, or how long she have been there already. Somehow it didn’t matter, though. Once she had accepted the lost of her name, she became content with these white walls. Everyone eventually did.The common room was quiet, the patients playing chess and making minor chatter. It made C81 feel safe. Indeed, it made her feel so safe, she had to wonder why she would ev
My Mouth, a GraveyardI buried my wordsunder my tongue& turned my teethinto tombstones.Here lies hello,too shy to be uttered,just left to witherwhile my fingers tapped outits letters,& here lies goodbye,so scared of being alone,it left the roads betweenme and we empty.Love died the day myheart started beating,when it pumped outtoo much sense ¬ enough courage.Sorry was found murdered,its meaning stolen,the day it would have beenrelevant.I smothered help with my claimsthat I didn’t need it,then I forgot how to breathe& no one could see it.My mouth became a cemetery,& I chewed on petalsto keep the smell away,but no matter how manyhappy poems I recite,my words I can’t revive.
Changing Sands"May I sit here?"Alex looked up, the breeze catching her red hair, blowing it back. "The beach is big, I'm sure if you looked hard enough, you could find some other place to sit," she said, her eyes returning to the orange-tinted waters as her fingers dug into the still warm sand."I know," the man replied, dropping his surfboard and himself onto the sand beside her. "You're always here. I dunno, but you always look lonely.Alex frowned. "So, you're my white knight here to rescue me?""I just wanted to see what kind of girl would come to the beach and not even swim.""The kind that doesn't own a swimsuit." She turned her head just in time to see a wide smirk spread across the surfer's face."Ah, but clothing isn't exactly required. I'd be more than happy to join you if you decide to take a dip," he offered. He didn't seem to notice the way her green eyes narrowed."You know, as sweet as that is, I think I'll pass."The man picked up a seashell, examining it as if it was something that
Tips on Avoiding Word ConfusionWord confusion. You’re and your. To, two, and too. Their, they’re, and there. Effect and affect. Its and it’s. Then and than. Who’s and whose. Get the point? Good. Now learn the difference between these words.You’re and your.You’re is a contraction, meaning that humans, being lazy like we are, decided to make two words into one. You’re and you are mean the same thing. Your is possessive, meaning it shows ownership. Replace you’re with you are, then read the sentence again. If it doesn’t make sense, you’re probably looking for your. (Hey, look, a proper use of you’re.) If you’re owning something like your ego or your grammar, use your. (Look! My tips double as examples.)To, two, and too.Two is a number. Are you talking in terms of numbers? Did she have two slices of cake? Did he pick up two hookers? In other words, you can replace two with 2 (only, not really, because you
SuffocationI found a vintage denim jacketin the bottom of my mother's closet,underneath a black-and-white montageof shoebox photographs with burned edges.Like she had been trying to asphyxiatethe memory of my fatherbut kept coming up for air.
seabonesyou told me to walk on waterbut all i did was sink to the sandy bottomsof the salty sea.the brackish water stung at my eyesand filled my lungs,seeking refuge in the spaces between my ribs.i remember barely breathingwet inhales and slow exhales of the briny seathrough slightly parted lips.my heart was lost in a century-old shipwreckfound through the haze of floating sandgranules that looked like dust in sunlight,fingers wrapping around wood and forgotten memories.i wondered if this was death,ocean water pressing down on the hollows in my chestworld moving in slow motion through teal colored lenses.you told me to walk on waterbut all i did was drown.
The swerveI tore my flesh on the corner of the lake & bled in cubesand my best friend knew the weight of my green eyes and tried to sell themand the spring left me heavy in my skin and the air she breathed metasted of umami and B12 and water. I drank it all in just like waterand began the aviary process of collecting budding groves and early springs.you came to me with eyes like empty jars begging for sparksand the hundred scraps of paper of pretty lies in pretty cursives,the firefly wings and peonies and ocean salts and river rocksand you were the first one capable of rustling the dead leavesat the creek floor, so those went in, too. adding pensive thingsto your eyes until they flooded over. they keep flowing.You were beside me trembling at being essentialand I could barely contain my laughterfrom spilling into the air of the auroral forestand getting caught naked in the mountainsThe first time I didn't mean it to tearthrough your skull and plant flowersand you were beside me
expired warningsI hate to break it to you but we're all betting on the day whenyour nightmares will swallow you whole and you won'tremember how to open your eyes. we forget your voice,it broke and no one buried the pieces. we're giving you up:secessions (your ribcage is a civil war, your heart is the victim.there will be no memorial; there are only red flags)obsessions pick your bones dry, vulture needs, vulgarmortality argues at least you're not aliveat least you can't see us anymore, counting the knotsin your neck and catastrophes in your mouth. inyour summer cage you were a soggy butterfly bearinga cumbersome cross. now, we leave you naked andseizuring on winter's doorstep as the little lamb whonever loved enough.they haven't paid you for the dreams you pawned years agoin exchange for a little sleep, no, they tied more rocks to yourankles and begged you to fly - they said they traded yourmisformed hopes for something a bit more fitting, a soliddose of reality with a hint of self-h
ZemiThings having to be returned to their transparency: i. / green mist-earth / knit atmosphere / fathomless blue-lavender / lights spun out from light ii. are recalcitrance / and you are convergence & - a fingernail of summer - a melting of rain - a crown of flowers - a priest of sunsets(beautiful? I love you, because. Zemi.Zemi. are you beautiful because I loveyou? Zemi? ) iii. I imagine this is what it's like to breathe sea foam over the Cliffs of Moher: hydration. absolution. To Rilke, it's a melody that floods over us when we have forgotten how to listen for it. I never could forget this: for how could I know my hand as both well and chasm? and how could I know time, a windstruck dimension, standing in her white street? iv. We go on morning walks and Zemi laughs at everything I say.
Meta-PhysicalFought writer's block.Lost the plot.
Practical ArtAngela was an artist, but not in the conventional sense. She didn't use canvas and paint, and the idea of sculpting something made out of a material as mundane as clay made her want to vomit. She loathed the idea of creating art for art's sake; anything she made, she wanted there to be a practical use for it, something beyond decoration.She labored on each piece she created for countless hours, making sure every detail was perfect. Sometimes it could take months for her to finish a single work. She'd always ask me to take a look at her pieces and demanded that I point out something she could improve upon. I was never an artist myself, but thanks to Angela I was able to spot the tiniest flaws in design.Angela drew her inspiration from everywhere: nature, mythology, both ancient and modern culture. The list went on and on. Once, she sculpted Atlas, the Greek titan who supported the world, and fashioned him into a rather nice coffee table. She chose to reject the semi modern idea of him
A Butterfly Flapping Its WingsThe letter was clutched in strong fingers which, had they belonged to a lesser man, might have been trembling.Application successful.It wasn't happiness or elation that he felt. There was a vindication that scratched on the edges of his thoughts, but the only thing really resonating in his mind was, 'what now?' It was the first time in a long while since he had heard anything beside the scornful echoes of his father's words.It was a dream.Almost a decade had passed since they'd been said. He'd shyly expressed his fondness for art as a schoolboy, and his father had promptly crushed his meek hopes with an iron tongue. "Fool," he had said. "Dreamer, head in the clouds." He'd laughed then, coarse and cruel. "You'd never make it." And the next semester his star-gazer of a son had been enrolled into technical school.It started with death.Standing cold and numb as his father was buried, it was his mother that convinced him to apply that first time with her soft word
PhotographSix year old Rose decided that today would be the day she asked her grandmother about the painting.It always held her interest, magic upon a canvas. Perhaps it was the rich colors that shimmered under the perfect lighting. It could have been the girl captured within the painting. Maybe it was all of those things, but she had an idea on what it truly was—the eyes.They were created by the tip of a brush, but carried more life than anything she had ever seen. Color of ice blue, they carried familiarity, warming the inside of her chest. The more she stared, the stronger it felt.Rose entered her grandmother's living room to see her standing motionless below the giant painting, which stretched over four feet on the wall. Every day Rose spent the afternoon over here, her grandmother would stare at that painting, not a single world falling past her wrinkled lips.Rose tugged on her grandmother's sleeve and asked," Grandma, how come you look at that painting every day?"Her grandmother looke
drowning intides butterflied with starfish kisses, softly.
Not-So-Little MermaidAriel's bra:Needed a sea cup.
Sudden Drop Ahead"Wait, did that sign just say-"
Recycle mePuking the after tastes of aluminum.
Writing Tournament 2013 ~ Round ICome one and come all, raise your pen take part in this grand literary battle! There are subscriptions, points, and more to be won! You all have until February 19th to enter.The time is nigh for the Third Annual Writers--club Literature Tournament!This is a tournament for all writers welcoming prose and poetry! It will be a grand competition spanning three rounds of literary challenge! First of all, you must be willing to write for each of the rounds over the coming months.There will be judging at the end of each round and those who progress to the next round will have to write a new piece for the next round's theme. A new participants list with the surviving writers will be released upon the announcement of the new round.To sign up, join the group as a member and add this blog entry to your favorites. From there, feel free to submit your entry to the Tournament Round 1 Folder. Round I Theme: Immin
6wortgeschichteIch träume von deinen Händen; Erstickungsgefahr.
Being Right"I disagree.""Guard, shoot that man."
Growing Pains ManagementWhen I was four years old,my mother told me that the sky was the limit,so I ran face first into thepine tree in my front yardto get the ground knocked out of me.When I was thirteen,I busted my head open in band class.In the clinic, I wiped the bloodthat flooded down my face with my forearmand made the Vice Principal vomit.Since then, I’ve made a habit out of makingeverything dangerous.When I was seventeen, Kevin put a copyof HOWL face down on my desk and told menot to tell anyone. I didn’t.He still lost his job.Now, I’m twenty two and I don’t knowwhat I want to be when I grow up.My hair is thinning faster than mypatience is thinning faster than myblood is thinning faster than mywallet. I buy time at the ATMand gamble it away.It’s all maintenance now, like so manycar parts creaking. I haven’t put onthat many miles but when you floor itfor twenty two years straightthere’s going to be some damage.Damnit— there
The sad truth is...Broken souls come from broken homes
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