The kid rocks back and forth
upon the newly-painted bench.
It isn’t raining
- not yet –
but he has his raincoat anyway.
or something like that,
so he recounts to the squirrels
The kid rocks back and forth.
The swings are quite empty
of momentum, though three
other children seat themselves there
and do not
to discuss moving.
He wishes they would, as his feet
are growing wet in the mud puddles.
The air smells slightly
of hand sanitizer Read more »
I have come through the vents
to breathe into the living
room during happy hour,
banging out a scale at two
o’clock, three times fast,
a lone disturbance in the front-porch forum fabric.
But there is an extra set of lungs
above me, trying to inhale enough
to rip the lining from my
throat and breathe the residual
smoke into his
eyes and bloodstream, a violent maw
open only once for the space-time
infinity before dawn.
Playtime is aborted; a temporary
retreat is in order, back to the ducts Read more »
I never meant for disarray
to sneak upon me thus:
The dustbin is full - I’ve nowhere to put
my things –
water drips on week-old dishes
whose filth I will not touch,
- I haven’t eaten since Tuesday last –
and fans kick the dirt around
into my sheets and skin.
- 11:11 AM and PM comes
and goes –
I wish for mirrors without cracks just in time: Read more »
I am sculpting a woman
from Nile clay,
and a man
of blood from a pine.
Using wool as the filling,
I begin to start drilling
the holes in their hearts
for their minds.
Introduced in a garden
of tulips in bloom,
I watched them with prideful
rather new to the world,
they flinched when I curled
a wind ‘round them to start a new
Two decades later, they lived
in the mountains,
I’d made out of sand.
But unrest had arisen
out of fear for those children
when I mentioned their suboptimal
Soon they packed up their offspring
and knocked on my door,
and showed me
the flaw in their spines.
They then wept with despair
when I refused to repair
a brood so vaguely
When they ripped out their hearts,
and their lungs, all of earth,
and crushed each atom
I was forced to reflect
on how to direct
a spark to abandon an urn.
I am sculpting a woman
from garden earth now,
and a man
from wind grown breathless;
I am starting afresh
because the facts of their flesh
made my children entirely
There’s no room for glass in here –
only the labeled shears to shorten
the ribs, the bellows
for the cavernous lungs, and the towering
dumbbells larger than I that I
to lift sometimes.
No room, not ever,
lest the blood be drawn
out from the woodwork.
I have welded the hinges to the muscle
of the mind— Read more »
It shouldn’t rain on August days;
runoff mixed with bathwater, the suds
melting into eardrums.
Singing whilst breaking nighttime fast, the tune
wrapped about toast and tea.
There is jade on me, sealing in
the jasper, pulsing, breast to neck, ears to toes.
Bibliophilic musings whisper
– hush –
on bone china as teakettle condensation drifts
to the vent so it may clump up
in mattress springs above
as the 10:45 to Boston glides by.
I left the front door ajar;
cats and their mistresses toe the line and line
up to watch typewriter keys
over elevenses and luncheon.
I have no windows to share
with you and again
I’ll mention the sound of breathing
into computer screens and loaded sinks that rattle
when the 5:15 to Boston goes by.
The hot water is gone;
I step out into thunder and lighting and scream –
I’d rather bathe in atmospheric
turbulence than mother’s well-water
Suppertime has come
and gone and there’s too many house-keys on the ring.
Eyes on the clock—shall I prepare
a dissertation on why
I’ve never fixed the leak in the upstairs hallway?
I feel like reminding
of why my ears are covered when
the last train to Boston rattles by.
I can’t read
the notes, not really—
on a scale of A to G, I’m usually
ghosting digits that cringe when dissonance scrapes
along my fillings.
I can’t read
the keys, never could –
between major and minor, I admit
I never did know the difference.
By now the sun has nudged the curtains—
there is no one to turn the pages
for me anymore:
Grind to an everlasting halt –
clunk of the pedal, click of the ivory –
another morning passed me by,
and I still can’t read.
On nights like yours I like
to lie and breathe and drag
the air in by the heels and then release it
down through the chill over your face
in nightlight profile.
I love how you hum as you smell
the toothpaste in me while you dream.
There is a shade of green that you like
to paint with sometimes,
sunshine-on-grass in a watercolor trickle
over my nose and I’ll laugh
while the kettle is on and the morning is vast
before us and we’ll stay indoors
until your brushes have dried.
Sometimes, I take pen in hand and I like
to outline the way you coexist
amongst the sheets; first in block print and then
in a spider’s scrawl that tickles your ribcage when I get
just a little bit daring and you wake
and smile and smudge the ink and roll closer
and reward me for my hard work.
When rain falls relentless, you like
to do the dishes and call
up to me with a shout that you think
it would stop if I kissed you,
except that right now I’d much rather sit
and spoon-feed you ink-and-paper kisses
until the gutter drips, forgotten.
When you think I’m sleeping, I like
to curl against your ribs and sigh
long and dreamlike so you know
to fall into sync with my lungs;
you’ll chuckle and poke me and whisper
I knew you wouldn’t leave without me,
and I’ll hum and wriggle closer Read more »
There are angels falling ‘round –
it is just moon and I watching the lights
bury themselves in earthly tombs.
It’s fascinating—the divots and bare patches
on bare spines
shift in the makeshift candlelight as I approach.
Armed with needle and twine, I dutifully stitch
flesh together in crisscrossing X’s because
the angels are falling ‘round.
There are angels sighing ‘round –
black holes flung from galaxies, I sit and wait
for them to adjust to their own gravity.
My ears ring with errant cries,
voices that wail when dreams comb memories
with serrated edges.
I’m careful to sweep away the dust that blows
over their backs with time;
when I cover the mirrors, I’m trying to shield
the angels sighing ‘round.
There are angels screaming ‘round –
the bathtub is littered with feathers
that aren’t mine
that clump up in the dustpan.
My kitchens and living rooms overflow with the wayward,
patched up and drifting.
Come nightfall, pacing the hallways,
I paint the windows with sigils to contain
the angels screaming ‘round.
There are angels weeping ‘round.
Silence blackens the eardrums, inviting
nightmares in with furtive glances.
Sky hangs overcast, daring to spit rain
at us now and again.
There are feathers in piles,
swept under the mats;
the healing commences,
yet nothing will muffle the agony Read more »
Between the steady drip of both leaking tap water and blood, the interior of the bathtub was a sight to behold.
The saw lay abandoned in the corner, with mangled bits of tendon and flesh, as well as splinters of bone, slowly detaching from the teeth as gravity took hold. I watched as a particularly large chunk fell to the floor with an audible ‘plop.’
He had taken the precaution of covering every available surface for the procedure with sheets, towels, and even a few of his own shirts. I had protested this at first, delusional under the influence of twice the normal dose of every different kind of pain medication he had found in the cabinet—I vaguely remembered clutching his forearms, crying about how I didn’t want any part of him or possession of his to get dirtied. He had run a hand through my hair but had said nothing.
The cloths nearest me and the tub itself were sopping with blood and coated in sticky red feathers. I imagined that if I were to reach out and pluck one to give to him, like I’d done numerous times before, that it would still be warm from the remembrance of me, of being an extension of me. Read more »
There is a man in the forest of leather and bone,
who runs like the wind on feet made of stone.
Over the river-woven meadows he flies,
surrounded by beauty and hidden from lies.
His hair is earth-colored, and his eyes such a green
that the trees declare it’s the deepest they’ve seen.
His mind is as innocent as the eyes of a doe—
an animal at heart, his humanity in tow.
He is sure he is one with his birthplace, his source,
unaware that his destiny will alter mid-course.
There is a land hidden from his world of lush greenery,
a curious place with something odd called ‘machinery.’
This inquisitive man, his feet all entangled
soon leaves his bed to seek rumors finagled
from birds chattering on through green lattices,
speaking of fire and unnatural apparatuses.
Thus he sails from his homeland, a baby, of sorts, Read more »
Someday I will build a boat, to drift
among those pinprick gleams. Sail nor wheel
will grace its blueprints, bobbing against the grain
of midnight worries; the quiet-time for dreams.
My boat will be of timeless sighs, molded
tight by whispers grasp—your breath imbued
inside it, deep. Your hands are fine; I pray
for them to stay within my range to clasp.
I raised my boat from water quite too deep
to mention. Blackness rolling from the windows—
water mumbles, speaking ancient curses
beyond, I hope, my darling’s comprehension.
Drifting is a solitary thing, full,
with eyes never met, hands never shaken.
I remember the mirrors—
the reflections shunning my graces
because I stepped
to draw enough attention.
I wore no ribbons and bows helter-skelter,
dicing apart, heels on hardwood floors,
spacing steps with dancer’s precision, but there were never any
dancer genes in the atmosphere. Read more »
It’s astounding, really,
how long forever is—seconds
tick by like death rattles, waiting
to come full circle at last.
Sunrise blinks by while hours drag on—
who knew time could be
when it wants to be.
Four hours is long,
but in hindsight
sixteen years never had potential to be
enough. Clocks are never kind that way.
The grandfather clock is conspiring, I think,
against me—corner-bound, it hums
a self-satisfied tune while I yet again
bemoan the hour.
Hey guys and gals, this is DeathNoteMathChick here. I'm pretty sure this post will go utterly unnoticed, but I thought I'd get it out there anyways.
In case you didn't notice (which you probably haven't), I've changed my username to what you see - Zo-chan. I'd finally gotten tired of the rather infantile DeathNoteMathChick one, so here I am, semi-reborn!
I’d like to run away, to mountain trails parted
from earth and sky, and I’d climb,
climb so high,
I’d inhale the clouds and crystals would form in my lungs.
But, higher still—it’s not yet
into the night,
to swallow it,
to darken my shade a tad.
Bouncing and barreling down the mountain side,
to feel the cracks in me—
a chattering mouth lets people fly in
and I am now of moonlight-on-crystal and I’d like it
if I could run away
I miss my books, dust in sunbeams.
Moonlight-on-crystal rattles the breath.
take a sledgehammer to my lungs,
A little scribble inspired by the style of the INCREDIBLE poet Donald Hall. His poems are sheer joy to read - if you can, check him out!
Hands sprung ahead as decreed—
gears of life’s seconds twist and whine of misuse.
Time is not a fixed thing
but we think it is and I look at the time sprung ahead and I’m so tired
of seconds and second-hands and I wish I had a third hand
to make playing the piano easier. But as with time, I had to learn
to do without.
The bouquet of carnations was a little too red,
straining towards the light, trying a little too hard
to be roses;
they smelled as sweet, but the lie was there.
I remember you gave me roses
I can’t remember why, but the intention was there,
I never liked your flowers—
they lived a little too long,
smelled a little too much like lateness,
looked a little too beautiful
after a week of neglect—
something I couldn’t replicate.
Yet the chocolates you gave me were lovely.
I didn’t eat them;
perhaps I should have,
but I hate to get my blood sugar up,
lest you think I’m trying too hard.
There’s a girl at a sink with some bottles and pans,
unaware that she holds someone’s heart in her hands.
This girl has her alchemist’s mind set on love—
crafting concoctions to snag a prince from above.
And there is a boy who has seen her through trials and errors,
who is dreamily sure that there’s nobody fairer.
Faithfully he tries all her powders and potions,
praying to be noted by his true love’s emotions.
His adoration burned wordlessly on through the years,
until he was buried in bottles, high up to his ears!
But waiting and waiting to interrupt her routine
was not nearly as painful as remaining unseen—
Thus, he jumped, landing light where he leapt,
standing so quietly in the room where she slept.
Whispering softly, in ears unsuspecting,
words he hoped would fast be connecting.
“I want you to look at me, woman to man,
and reflect on the things that I’ve done for your hand.
With your endless supply of tinctures and brews,
your heart wants to be able to view and be viewed.
But true love is before you, watching you try
to find a companion to hold when you die.
I have sat here and silenced the thoughts in my mind,
but it’s true that no longer can I see you be blind.
I want to marry my love with her bottles and pans,
walk into eternity; two names in the sand.
So I’m begging you, please! Drop your disguise!
abandon your bottles
and open your eyes!”
If I had the courage,
I’d tell you to lie.
To abandon the ship,
to let the circus fly by.
I’d tell you to run
to some faraway land,
carrying my bones,
to be laid to rest by your hand.
The others would stomp,
wail, rattle and knash,
while inside here we’d smile,
unafraid of their actions - so humanly brash.
If I had the courage,
I’d tell you to ‘git,’
to get a head start:
only you deserve to benefit.
I’d scream you a warning
to flee, if you cared,
while I stayed behind:
self contained, yet utterly scared.
We’d once laughed at life,
just the two of us, you and I;
choosing instead to go for eternity—
surely, that’s where all true alliances lie?
If I had the courage,
I’d curl up and die:
saying ‘I love you more’
as one final goodbye.
But you never did let me,
telling me I was wrong—
pushing the hair from my face
with a smile that seemed like it would always belong.
You mentioned just once
Of a truth come sunset;
well, my heart’s in your hands now—
I’ll not leave it behind – at least, not just yet.
My second attempt at rhyming poetry!
I like how easy it was for me to sum up my entire existence in three stanzas...
I like the weight of paperback books,
Particularly those in alphabets foreign.
The smell of fresh ink and covers so shiny—
Unknown words, but syllables soarin’.
I like the way my hands mold to mugs,
With bases chipped and steam fast leavin’,
Curled on the couch with the snacks piled high,
Drinking tea, it seems, is as natural as breathin’.
I like how quaint words often seem on pages,
With row after row of young ideas playing:
How, spoken aloud to a group of fresh-minded,
The natural flow has to go without saying.
There is a saying in the land across the water that the mouth that eats does not talk. It is mentioned time after time, year after year, before, during, and after each and war-created famine that plagues their country. It is repeated as a mantra sometimes; to children with overeager faces, to women in the dusty streets with heads hung low, breasts pushed high, to men begging on their knees at the doorstep of a stranger. It is repeated with a detached feeling of hope long lost—no one eats here, but there is still no talking. Not anymore.
There is a rumor in the land on the border of sundown that abundance will be the end of their civilization. It is mentioned time after time, year after year, before, during, and after each person sickens from the unexpected costs of too much insurance against starvation. It is repeated as a mantra, sometimes; to children who know no other way to get comfort, to women in their bouncing-back binges, to men who reach for it just as often as they reach for their women. It is repeated and ignored—no one wants to stop searching for comfort. Not anymore.
...which is an INCREDIBLE book.
The day the eye of the world shall open falls upon that moment itself;
The second of life that your one and only heart cracks and breaks,
To be fused anew into an amulet worn about the neck that is twice as strong.
The desert sands will trickle through the destinies of thousands,
Grinding and reshaping, ultimately changing.
The jewels in Arabian market stalls will glimmer with the hopes of childhood dreams,
But none so brightly as the stars within the souls of those with a realized path.
The water-clocks will run dry with drought, but the people shall still dance,
For life is in the air, and death behind a curtain, always watching:
A universe that is eternally close and constantly out of reach.
The spring that holds the gears of commerce are old and rusted with tried-and-true methods;
Mud will crack under the sun, and so will your coins—what is currency truly worth, in the end?
But in the end, the night-dreams of children who were cursed with lives that do not allow them to day-dream will be our salvation;
I can dream, but satisfaction is not gained until the sun and moon-dreams meet on equal footing.
But can I not still dream?
If you've ever been in some kind of writing class, you've probably done that "where I'm from" template on the first day you tackled poetry - I know I did. But I was bored out of my mind with being confined to a template in the first place, so I wrote this instead of following what the instructions told me to do...
(incidentally, it's my first attempt at rhyming poetry, ever!)
I scraped my mind up off the bottom
of that snail-encrusted sea;
And my heart, dear heart, I’ll always remember—salvaged
From the core of that blooming plum tree.
My knees and nose I must confess,
Did cost me a pretty dime;
For those I bargained with the ageing seamstress,
Over tea flavored with two lemons and a lime.
My eyes I dredged from the middle
Of the cracked marble jar,
Stained by mud but ever-so-smooth;
A bargain; a mere ten pounds at the gypsy bazaar!
As for my hands, well, there, I’m afraid
I’ll have to withhold some information;
But I did promise a tale, I know, so
Climb upwards into mountains with substantial glacial striations,
Where I plucked my two-lips up;
Mulched mushrooms from a patch,
I watered and sang and weeded and danced,
But abandoned ideas of another prospective batch.
“I want to know where you came from,”
You said with eyes gleaming of liquid gold,
But I refused to tell you anything more
Than that my soul has been already sold. Read more »
If any of you are going to CCYWC this year, you might hear this one - I think, if I can squash it down under 1.5 minutes, I'll slam it.
Now is the time I must implore you all to hush, for it is moontime now.
Take your seat at our banquet table –
Your spot is marked, for we have been waiting for you.
If you wish to take part in our remembrance tonight,
You may light a lantern that we’ve woven out of a collective web of our hopes and dreams.
If you so desire, you may add your own to the mix.
When the moon whispers that it is time,
Seven platters of grilled pine nuts will pass you by:
You may take what you can eat, but please, no more,
For it is moontime now.
After the center of our web-of-tales is spun, I must ask you all to stand:
The procession of wandering starlighters will venture by our gathering.
Pay them no heed, for they are as delicate and flighty as the membrane of the universe itself.
Instead, let your eyes settle upon our table’s centerpiece;
A cornucopia containing a mask for each one of you –
Dear guests, fear not the blindness I beseech you to take upon yourselves, for
While our host still shines in the sky, the light will not abandon you –
For it is moontime now.
Once the lies this world holds are hidden from you,
I shall direct your attention to the canopy of vines that keep our secrets safe inside this grotto. Read more »
As it says above - does anyone think I should finish this? It was just a random midnight scribble, but I could be motivated to get off my lazy couch and write a proper ending or two if anyone thought it was worth the effort...probably not. *laughs*
Meh, haven't posted anything in awhile, thought I'd remedy that...
See the dissonance in your heart!
Cried the soothsayer to the jester,
For once-upon-a-time there was such a thing as true love, but no more!
Carpe diem and journey across the oceans to the land the sun does not warm and listen,
Listen to the dissonance in your heart!
Listen to the conflict in your heart!
Cried the jester to the lady’s maid,
For years past there was such a thing as true peace, but no more!
Take up your poisoned dagger and plunge into the vat you call risk and accept,
Accept the conflict in your heart!
Accept the variance in your heart!
Cried the lady’s maid to the princess,
For on the eve of departure to the promised land I believed in God, but no more!
Take up your wits and stand on the cliff as the waves crash below and believe,
Believe in the variance in your heart!
Believe in the uniformity of the mind!
Cried the princess to the prince,
For on the night that the stars fell down, I thought I was one with the roses, but no more!
Find the blood that streams from the life of the Earth and sing,
Sing of the uniformity of the mind!
Sing of the complete cycle of all things!
Cried the prince to the ocean,
For the day that I lower my lids for the last time was a day I once feared, but no more! Read more »
This short story is based off of a poem that I wrote in Creative Writing (that I posted on here as well). It's a bit more fleshed out than the poem, and all-around creepier, if you ask me. Enjoy!
As the changeling tended the fire, I became aware of just how wet the fallen leaves I was seated on were. I shifted a little, waiting for her to speak, wanting to move but nervous to do so, afraid that she’d fix me with the look that I had only encountered once and never wanted to again—a look of surprise with a twinge of shame underneath, like she was suddenly shocked to find herself in such ignorant and lowly company. She had first given me that look after she had first told me what she was, after I had slammed the door in her face and told her to clear off, or I’d call the cops. And yet, somehow, the second time she’d knocked, I’d opened the door. Read more »
She cuts parsley with a dull knife sometimes,
On purpose, of course, so she has to use force—SLAM
Goes that blade into the heart of the wooden cutting board that’s already stained with pale green and bright red blood.
It’s odd; she cuts and cuts, but there is no waiting vessel for the herbs.
You see that her teeth are as white as the bones of the rat in the corner;
And that she does not partake in the parsley.
She cuts sage with a silver serrated spoon sometimes;
One from her family’s best silverware set, of course, so she has to be rough—CRASH
Goes that bent-handled piece of childhood into the circulatory system of the leaves that are lying disemboweled over her fingers and face.
It’s bizarre; she bangs and bangs, but if anything she seems to be intent on destroying the tool instead.
You see that her fingers are as crooked as the four white scars down her face;
And that her actions do not cease once the spoon is ruined.
She cuts rosemary with a child-sized ivory comb sometimes;
It belonged to her sister, so, of course, she has to take care of it—CRUNCH
Goes the rosemary as the comb is rocked like a child back and forth over the sprigs that are blown over the kitchen like loose eyelashes.
It’s strange; she sets her face in a fierce she-wolf stance, but holds the comb like a fragile newborn bird.
You see that her gait is as unstable as the table she cuts on; the one with knife marks on the legs; Read more »
I met a man on the shores of Cape Cod, who said, with a mother-of-pearl smile,
That I was truly the cream of the crop.
He would build me a castle out of the richest chocolate, to suit my temperament,
And would leave a rose on my doorstep every morning, as I smelled that sweet.
When the tide came in, he left me, with a promise to be there on the dawn.
I waited for him, to stave off boredom’s clammy embrace,
By the window of the cottage with sea-glass in the walls.
He never did show, but instead sent his love through the mail,
A red envelope delivered by a laughing child with Dutch cover garlands in her hair.
There was no letter inside—instead, it contained sixteen rose petals,
And a palmful of sand so fine it felt like air.
I felt no joy as I gazed at his token—
Instead, I sat on the oak piano bench and plinked out a tune to amuse my restless fingers.
As I did so, through the rafters drifted a birdsong that mirrored my inexperience composition,
Lifting my fingers and coaxing them to, instead, drift
Like loose spiderwebs across a drafty wood floor,
Coming to rest upon those curtains Mother made for me,
The ones that she told me would hang in the house my future husband would build for me.
The tides came and went, as ordained by the moon that shone through my driftwood windows,
Pooling on the rag rug woven from my sister’s dresses—all of them, save the one I buried her in. Read more »