|DDs that I have had the pleasure of featuring as a Community Volunteer.|
The Beard of intrigueHis beard was fascinating.The Beard of intrigue by ^Beccalicious
It was a loom, woven with intricate detail and so long it would put any wizard to shame. Each pattern in the coarse mound of hair seemed to share a secret. Perhaps they were memories- I’d heard others collect memories in such ways- etchings on their bodies, collecting objects and even journal writing. Maybe this man was his own journal.
The rest of him seemed positively ordinary. He rested in his chair in a blue business suit- albeit a little outdated for fashion, but suited the character I had begun to form in my head for him. His sorrowful eyes narrowed on a frustrated brow of greying features, illuminating a sense of tiredness. Perhaps the beard in all its might was weighting down. His skin was as rough as sandpaper, blotches and scars etching his hands and face with no revelation to the puzzle of his beard.
I wanted to move closer, debating whether it was rude to ask. The very notion excited me as I built up theories as to why his beard had the
Shopping and Wizards.A thousand bagsShopping and Wizards. by ^Beccalicious
shuffle down the high street between
clasped hands, scrunched with new purchase.
They’re buggy-dodging the determined mothers,
the rushed businessmen-- a pinball
machine shopping centre.
A green-robed man, tall with wand and hood
must be a wizard. He’s happily
procuring sushi and sparkling water
whilst his companion;
short with her piercings and jeans treats him
as if he wore the same.
Down the high street,
two track-suited parents
zoom past on their children’s scooters—
half-smoked fags between fingers yell
how fucking amazing this is.
spotted teen raps
his love for Jesus on a muffled
He raps for the Father,
He raps for the Son
and Holy Spirit.
He raps for peace, for hope, for you.
In a corner,
Brown eyes, hefty tears,
a snot-ridden face--
four years old.
A train runs through the mall toot-tooting
as grumpy shoppers move out of the way.
Napo 8- SusanWhy did you lock her out of heavenNapo 8- Susan by ^Beccalicious
and throw the key
into the lions land?
A beautiful girl enjoying
a new fantasy to live.
She'd stopped believing, but
faith stays in a heart longer
than a head.
"She wasted all her school time wanting to be the age she is now,
and she'll waste all the rest of her life trying to stay that age"
Napo 7- Teen of the 90'sI wanted to be Posh Spice because myNapo 7- Teen of the 90's by ^Beccalicious
hair was brown bobbed and she dated David
Beckham; I wanted to marry him. I
had no internet and recorded songs
on the radio to tape, daring to
pause and knock out the DJ’s droll. I sang
to S Club and thought I was the coolest
in my smiley faced top and my yingyang
friendship necklaces. You had to know the
Macarena not just for weddings but
school discos too and then every steps routine
to fit in. Slow dances with boys made me
wish again that they were David Beckham
and not greasy teens with bad curtains for
hair. They pressed themselves against you before
travelling to the next girl in leopard
print skirt. Viva forever was merely
a fantasy ; one I’d dream the whole of
the nineties, hoping my teenage self could
find her inner strength, her true girl power.
Napo 6- IreneShe left you a letterNapo 6- Irene by ^Beccalicious
outwitting at last the greatest.
A photograph, filched;
a King’s humiliation.
In your eyes she
holds the highest.
Runner's DeathRunner's Death by *RiparianVeins
In other words, the time of the year my parents put their everything's-alright smiles on and Anabelle fills the toilet with puke so that she can pretend to be filling her stomach with food when all our relatives come over--the time of the year we all pretend to be normal.
It's also the anniversary of Runner's death. But, like they always do, my family has covered the events of December twenty-fifth, one year ago, the same way they did the cracks in our living room wall--in a layer of bright paint and wallflowers.
Like usual, my mom will make an excuse: when my beautiful Aunt May asks in that discreet way of hers why the space in the corner of the dining room beneath the three-pane window is empty, my mother will reply, "Oh, poor Runner contracted kidney disease. We decided to pu
A game of dice'There are more cats than tables in this café.' I remark.A game of dice by ~maarvin
He tilts his head in his characteristic brisk nod, 'Aye, well, there will be no rats in the cellars.'
I brush off the crumbs from my napkin; he lets his drop into a crumpled ball of cloth onto the table. I step off the raised pavilion, past the bougainvillea and onto the road. I hear a chair grating, someone shouting something to me in a high pitched voice, and tyres screeching.
I twist my head and see a sedan speeding towards me, its burning tyres shrieking curses at me; in slow motion, I register the type of car a Honda accord -, its registration number a couple of years old at most and throw dice in my head.
I stand my ground.
The car screeches to a halt inches from my knees. In the distance, an old lady is screaming; in the vicinity, someone is shaking my shoulder, asking if I'm OK; the odour of burning asphalt and rubber assault my senses.
I look down at a cat looking up at me, pawing hungrily at t
The IdolI once saw a man on the television who was so afraid of fruits that when presented with a bowl of them, he fled the stage, knocking over the host and several other guests. Though I openly pitied the man for his obvious malady of the mind, inside, the small bit of sadism buried within all humans laughed at his bizarre affliction. How can one not find cruel amusement in the cowering of a grown man who has been confronted by nothing more than a bowl of peaches? But now I understand fear like no other. I now no longer find amusement in the terror of others, no matter how illogical.The Idol by ~PlagueJester
Now, let me tell you the story of why the sound of wind whistling through the trees in Autumn strikes me with a fear so immense that I can do little more than shake uncontrollably.
A good friend of mine, a young and upcoming anthropologist by the name of Henry Byrne, contacted me eight weeks ago. Though he refused to go into details, he excitedly explained t
PressureSomething broke.Pressure by *neonxaos
A hard CRACK while sitting in
a soft chair. No pain registered.
The absence of it
is like watching explosions in space.
You follow the curve of your skull. You remember
how skulls are formed like tectonic plates.
Your head wants to be a planet,
volcanic, living, in change.
You continue to your left shoulder,
the one with all the problems.
But today, it has nothing to say.
Your rib cage moves
like oceanic waves, expecting a storm
that hasn't come.
You stand up,
you consider your legs,
nothing feels wrong,
But you can break
more than your body.
Noticed in CommittingI started committing suicides. They were small at first, but more grandiose as the months passed.Noticed in Committing by *enigmaticsmile
At first, I came up with basics: wrist slashing, hanging, overdose, jumping off a building, and stepping off in front of bus. They were all very mundane, really, and if not done properly you just end up living very, very painfully. It was after those routine ways to snuff oneself that I began to get creative.
There was going into a biker bar nude and starting fights with drunk bikers. And when I say "fights", I mean with a knife in my hand. That was a fun night. Everyone was freaked out and angry at the same time. They all wanted to kill me, but they didn't want to touch me either. Eventually, though, they did.
Oh, another good one was sneaking into one of those giant dump trucks at a quarry and letting them dump tons of excavated rocks on me. The driver of the loader always sees you just as it's too late and tries to stop the load.
MeanderingHardly a mountain, though on lowering days its head sits wreathedMeandering by *rlkirkland
By the mists of a passing front, aged and befogged as bygone elders
Doddering about before there were names for the malaise
That hazed their thinking
And from this modest crown there slouched and sloped
A long shoulder, meandering down to meadows below
Pausing now and again to coddle a pleasant hollow
Casting a sloping pitch enough to rush a torrent
After a sudden shower
Its glint and glimmer burble among the stones
To join a rill and plash and swirl and putter about a root
It's there I'm apt to wander
Not much of a path, hard passed and thorny
As twisted and narrow as the thoughts of bigoted men
Treading there finds stern resistance and stones to turn the foot
The clatter and crunch of brittle leaf acorns pop and skitter
A plenteous crop, beyond the appetite of wild things at forage
Leathery husks abound, pignut hickory the ebon stains of walnut
On taking pause the quiet lay, a
A Pocket Full of SkyWhen I was young, my father would take me to the highest tower of Notre Dame precisely once a year. It would be cold. Freezing. But we'd stand there, and take deep breaths of air, and peer down, towards the tiny ants of people below. Down, towards the sprawling city beneath us. It was always winter, when we'd go. Always cold. Freezing, freezing. But however cold it was, and however dull and bleary the weather, my father would ask one thing, and one thing only: that we adhered to tradition.A Pocket Full of Sky by ~iridiana
"Lucie," he would say, with the fond smile and kind eyes I always remember. "Lucie, my peach. Whatever you become, and wherever your heart and mind leads you, you must always do for me one small, beautiful thing take a handful of the sky, and place it in your pocket. Take a handful of the sky, and remember, always, that your feet need not always be imprisoned to the ground. Anything you could ever wish for, Lucie, can be yours but only if you study hard, and always feel the freedom of t
|DDs that I have had the pleasure of featuring as a Community Volunteer.|
Early April, Northern IllinoisThe snow is gone, winter's ugliness
Thunderflash, rains coming
A fat robin perches on a wire, not singing
just hanging on
A fat man sits on a wall
and talks loudly to himself
This purgatory between winter and spring
this unsettled soupy day
when the lights flicker
This is the way the sky dances its
This is the way the homeless man
calls to be taken home
Shitty coffee at the City Cafe
People with newspaper heads rushing by
as big drops fall
I close my eyes and see a world
of green to come
I don't know what or who
the fat man sees
awaken from this
you’ve become a servant to the ocean,
obeying its every command –
succumbing to its demanding beauty,
hypnotised by the tranquillity.
(rising and falling.)
(falling and rising.)
you fragile, broken thing,
a beautiful golden fool –
your frame filling with
bones stiffening, skin wrinkling
blood turning blue.
you’re visiting the ocean’s depths,
welcoming the cruel world below;
but those lungs of yours are burning,
and those soft eyes are questioning –
you ocean captive,
open your eyes
swim to the top –
and breathe the air,
| I am running 5k for Cancer Research UK on the 14th July 2013. |
This is my 5th year participating and this year I am teamed up with ~CurvyLemon!
Cancer sadly still affects for too many people, and the work Cancer Research does not only funds the science, it also supports more treatment centres, nurses and support for families.
Every Pound counts, even if you can just sponsor me just £2 I would appreciate it!
Click on the button to be taken to my page!
Together, we CAN beat cancer!
We thought whilst out prose-rs are enjoying the manic world of NaNoWrimo, it would be an apt time to keep the poets occupied too. Over this week we want to scale back some of the fundamental aspects of poetry writing to hopefully give some useful advice to new and less-experienced writers. We will be looking at the technical elements that make a poem a poem, identifying the key differences between poetry and prose and also hopefully at the other side- publishing poetry and getting yourself recognised as a poet. This is not about different forms of poetry- we already covered that in Poetry forms week- this is about breaking down beyond the wordspill and truly understanding what a poem is.
I am not going to bore you with a wiki or oxford definition, instead here is a gif:
If you ask around the patch, everyone will have a different view as to what poetry is or isn't. Like many art forms, poetry is subjective and what may be seen as a good poem to one person, really isn't to the next. However, what is key to poetry is the connection to the audience- whether that is worldwide or to yourself.
(Updated)DD suggestion guidelines!Hello all
Firstly, I would like to say I am truly grateful for every DD suggestion I receive. It makes me feel reassured that the pieces featured are community decisions, not just my own subjective thoughts and findings. There are millions of writings out there and I can’t see every single one. I rely on good spots of others in hope of continuing to share a variety of good quality and unique literature. Thank you to those who suggest and those who continue to make the time to share their findings.
I prefer 1 DD suggestion per note.
Please always try to tell me why you are suggesting this piece. A bit of enthusiasm from the suggester can help make me feel enthused about the piece too. Plus it helps add a description to the DD
What I look for in Daily Deviations
For those who know me as a writer, you will know I write
| Or just confused?|
If you are new to the Literature community or don't know where to start to get involved, then adding %CRLiterature to your watch is a good start! The group is the central cub for the literature community relations team, and we encourage community interaction!
CRLiterature chat room
Lit Community Volunteers