Sep 12
Icarus Blackmore's picture

Language (words)

I love language.
the way it sounds,
the way words
roll off the tongue.

Its roots stretch back,
through time
to that first, single,
unknown, utterance.

Yet still it grows,
branches twisting 
and turning.
They sprawl off
into the unknown
with words growing
like leaves,
every one there
because it was needed.

because there was some
thought, or emotion
so complex,
that all the words
that had come before
could not express it.

In this way language grows. 
Some new shoot of life
Or another original utterance
emerges and changes.
Meanings blossom
then fade
until the flower wilts,
forgotten by time.

Yet still,
the tree stretches,
back, back to the beginning
and that very first,
unknown sound. 

Aug 02
fiction 0 comments challenge: Run
Icarus Blackmore's picture

Tap. Tap.

Jillian sat, lightly tapping her pencil against the wooden desk. The desk had begun to rot she noted, tilting her head slightly so she could get a better look at the dark mold that now crept along its underside. She paused for a moment, sucking in a breath before she swept her finger against the mold. It was fuzzy to the touch she noted, different than the mold she had spied on the leaves that morning. She wondered if there was some advantage to the textures, she couldn’t imagine what advantage there would be, but evolution crafted nature with such fine detail, that she imagined there had to be some advantage to a different texture of mold.
Jul 22
poem 0 comments challenge: Silence
Icarus Blackmore's picture

The Silence of Noise

Burned Down-
An old motel lay,
Just a pile of
Ashes and soot.

Kids clambered
To the windows.
In such a hurry,
They forgot smoke drifts.
It slipped in,
Stinging eyes and throats.

Still, kids clambered,
Eager to see,
What lay before them.
Sirens cried out,
As the bus drove away,
From the smoldering remains,
And the smoke that danced above.

Quiet Reigned-
Code Red Drill.
Words we’d all
Heard before.

Kids silent,
Except for a cough,
Or a stifled laugh.
They sat ears and eyes clear.

This was the norm after all,
No need to clammer,
No need to cry out,
As the principal stepped away.
From the smoldering remains,
Of a ruined foundation,
And the smoke that danced above.

For us, tragedy is as normal,
As the motel standing,
While hope has become,
A spectacle akin to fire.
Jul 15
poem 2 comments challenge: Random
Icarus Blackmore's picture


America, I believe in you,
Even though perhaps I should not.
You repeat the same mistakes,
Over and over again.
So much so that these mistakes,
Have become the norm for you.

Still, I yearn for you to do better,
Even as history tells me you cannot.
Perhaps this latest mistake of yours
Is not a step away from your path,
As much as a reflection,
Of what you have always been.

Still, I worry for you.
Telling you that you can
And must, do better.

Your ideals have become,
A consultation to me,
Even as you so fervently reject them.
Spurning the huddled and poor,
From your shores.
You turn your back on them.
Caging them,
Tearing families apart.

And I don’t know what to say,
Because this is a mistake,
You’ve made before.
You said you learned though.
You promised you had.
Audio download:
Jul 08
essay 3 comments challenge: Safe
Icarus Blackmore's picture


Jun 30
Icarus Blackmore's picture


I remember the promise I made to you. Ellie began, only to stop, her pen hovering over the paper. Ink dribbled down it, landing first on the fine tipped point, and then crashing down onto the paper below, in a series of ugly blots. She cursed and put the pen back in the inkwell setting the paper aside.

She flipped over onto her back and stared up at ceiling. Her fan blew a light breeze over her that sent her papers flying. They scattered all over the room, and occasionally out the windows. How to write something, to someone you’ll never send it to. Would it be better or worse if someone was to receive it? Ellie pondered, pushing herself up. No matter, that wasn’t the case here anyways.
May 21
Icarus Blackmore's picture

How Many

Google Search:
Vincent van Gogh.
I was in art class.
When I got the alert.
Santa Fe High School,
Shots fired.
No casualties reported.
That was all it said.
 “What are you doing?”

My substitute art teacher inquired.
I showed him my phone,
He donned a grim frown.
His brows knitted together,
His eyes brewing with barely restrained anger.
Then he asked a question.
“How many?”

I paused, and looked at my phone.

I said.
And for a moment I felt,
A kind of bitter sweet hope,
That maybe that was true.
Maybe no one would die this time.
Maybe this one wouldn’t be,
As bad as others had been.

That dream had--
Unbeknownst to me
by the time
I climbed,
Down the stairs to
The ninth grade lockers.
At least one injury.
May 12
Icarus Blackmore's picture

Monsters in the night

“Go upstairs and sleep,
It’s late, past bedtime,
And the adults need to speak,
Remember to turn you night light on.”

“Is it because of the monsters,
That await me in the dark?”

“Come now, you’re too young,
To concern yourself with such things
It is not your job to take
 the weight of world,
Upon your shoulders. 
It is not your responsibility,
To right all the wrongs,
Of past generations.
Your still just a child.”

That may be so.

But what of the children,
That lay face down on asphalt,
Inquisitive minds spilled,
Upon the streets like splatter paint,
Their hearts bleeding onto concrete,
All because “They might’ve had a gun.”
Were they too young to face,
The monster that is hate?

What of the children,
Too young to know,
The name of the country,
They are in,
Never mind that of,
The one they left behind,
May 12
Icarus Blackmore's picture


There is a kind of silence,
That we know all too well,
It is the kind that comes,
With the absence of words,

Like darkness it creeps in,
Hushing the evening crickets,
Until they chirp their melody,
No more.

It rolls in upon the clouds,
Like a particularly warm summer heat.
And settles upon the meadows below,
Like a chilly fall wind, that,
Brings with it the bite of frost and snow.

It is not a comfortable silence,
But it lays there still, 
Like a tapestry pulled over the sky,
It lays thick across the night,
Beckoning forth beasts that bite.

But there is another kind of silence,
One like the rumble of bullfrogs,
Over the plink of a pebble,
As it crashes against a pond,
And send ripples skittering out,
Towards those same bullfrogs.

It is the silence of a city’s hum,
After you return from a place,
Apr 28
Icarus Blackmore's picture

The Words we Choose

There’s an old idiom,
”Sticks and Stones 
may break my bones,
but words can’t,
do a thing.”

It had fallen out of use,
Even before I first 
Climbed the steps to Kindergarten,
But the philosophy lives on.

“Look it’s just my opinion,”
—A friend defending saying,
that even though I identified,
as bi then, I was or would 
become a lesbian.
It was the first time I learned, 
I could be “too gay,”

“Look you know it was a joke,”
—One of my peers after saying,
That I should be careful,
Around my queer friends,
Because they’d “turn” me.

“Look it’s just the truth,”
—A friend of a friend,
After saying that,
She didn’t have any 
problems with me,
Just with those girls
who “pretended” to be bi,
“I know one who hasn’t, 
Even dated a woman.”

“Oh my god that’s a total cop out,”