[x]

Playing with threadbare doll,
Hestia waits
along a dusty path of rubble and dim lights.
The child hums, sweetly,
her own rhythmic fantasy adhered;
absent from the night of gunfire and blood.

High above on waning clouds
the Goddess is weeping;
she reaches for the girl--
the hearth of home is extinguished.
And the threadbare doll
has pleasure as she dances
between little grey pebbles
and the hands of the child.

Playing with threadbare doll,
Hestia waits
The child will soon see her.
The barefoot child with dirty
dress and dirty face crouched
over the ballroom floor
listening to invisible song.

Child, let me lift

syzygyweed fills the garage and
girls with whom you used to
drink half-beers with
now have tipsy pride and
are, like bad records,
unable to leave a room.

the moon is half empty
but at his word it holds beauty
just like any bookworm,
church mouse, or
band nerd falling
in the arms of syzygy.

they are paper in the winter wind
and they smell of the bedtime novel
your nostalgia spins.

or perhaps you read alone
and the stars, they're old
as the wallpaper in the dining room
your family eats at Christmas.

when suddenly you remember
"syzygy" means eclipse.

then the red bulbs gleaming
in that mighty pine
appear as vivid as the blood
p

CamisadoIn a double dream, I must spell out the storm:

how the half moon spoke in reams
of folk lore, pipe dreams that tore
the sky in two. How the walls
began to blister and you, sister,
took your place beneath my skin.

We met stargrazing, your eyes electric,
lacing your lies, your intricacies,
like a cat's cradle. And I, stumbling, stuttering
on in a maze of scars. My modern morphia,
sister scarecrow, I'd follow you to the depths
of my chest: to the mumblings and fumblings
of my heart in the dark. To deceit and defeat
and the great empty longings beyond.

For this, this is how
the camisado begins: with broken people
under a broken st

somniloquyLove is just
the search for
someone who cares
to hear our
lives narrated, so
if you care

this morning
I woke up to the sun tracing me gold.
I made myself a latte
and tried to write a little,
but the words weren't lithe and supple;
they wrote like broken bones.

So I read some of Emerson,
and I read some of Proust,
and I read some of Shelley and that was all,
saving the world I knew word by word,

and I spent the rest of my morning
looking at old pictures of you,
and by midday I was distraught
because you used to be so much happier.
But I kept looking at your pictures
to feel my bones keep breaking

.

and your story n

Tastes Like a Tuesday Harem words
whispering on the
edges of windows
frosted with moonlight, a breath from the firefly, a finerfly
has never been seen
he sees the letters I type at 2am
and kisses the girl that mocks the divinity of
placing and placating the words on my screen with
everything hidden in spaces and brackets

and I write my dances like I take my tea
bitter and without reprieve

cyclic motioni. every sad story starts with love.

ii. there is you sprawled across the bed
with your ankles tangled in cotton covers
and the golden waves of sunlight
breaking themselves through fissured glass
to drip into your hair like bright honey,
your hands reaching upward
as if they were young birds waiting on wings.

you wept for those flightless, wet-beaked children
anchored helplessly to your wrists
but their hearts were not as weak
as the foreign fist beating in your chest. they collapsed
and only left behind
the impressions of dying constellations
they had scratched beneath your eyelids.

iii. at dusk i watched the night take you in waves, glo

Four Things She Thought About Before She Jumped1.
She thought about her sister and how the shape of her face
became foreign in certain light, as if carved by the hands of a man
who had spent too much time on oil and canvas
to remember his own skin. Her eyes began to resemble chips of ice
as they filled with rainwater; the world like a river
that runs over them and
through them
without touching.

She thought about her sister
trying to talk in her sleep—
the way her tongue flapped uselessly
about her mouth, a coil of smooth muscle pinning itself
to her teeth. It spat syllables
like broken stones. She thought about her sister spread across
the bed sheets, palms turned upw

Cristian Rosas

Mediterranean breeze warmed my dreams;
cappuccino mornings blended
into Bacardi sunsets.
Tobacco smoulders and I remember-
his name was Cristian Rosas.

Sunset passed. Spirits poured
European measures- unlike tight English twenty-five mil,
relieving the throbs of snow white turned red queen.
The glow led our intoxicated journey. Sambuca fused.
We invaded the dance floor.

yellow lanterns,
blue, red, green
blue,
yellow, red,
green merged with smiles.
Freedom spun me to his arms.

Giggles blushed sunburn. Cristian Rosas
whispered his name.
Fingers caressed my shoulder;
pulses shot down my back.
Lights,
music people blurre

MoshtarakYou came in combat shorts
controlling attention
my American,
Speaking poetry to me
unintentionally
in pidgin Pashto.
I'm sure you've blown skulls
wide open with half formed words
and you frightened me
with your fearless fire.

You chased away the trouble that had
settled heavy over my shoulders and down into
every hair and pore and breath like desert dust.

You were different.
Your eyes shone with the promise
of golden gates
and red bridges to white sheets
across blue gaps and hotels and museums and forests full of God
and everything
and everything seemed possible.

I did not think you would leave me.

And it returns from

Cup of Tea Promise

A cup of tea promise
starts, watered down
lies and coffee
depression.

We take a breath,
inhale the aroma of the mug,
accept what we find,
we drink to our own distaste.

Between bitter sips
warmed chests, clutched hands,
we sit in comfort of this liquid--
as if an elixir of life
snuck into the drink.

Despite cups with cracks and chips
we grip our mugs for comfort
and smile.

Ademir ReturnsAdemir Returns

                                       A Brazilian bricklayer reportedly killed in a car crash
                           shocked his mourning family by showing up alive at his funeral.
                                                                                    – The Associated Press

This is how we will speak of that day –
We will say his legs walked him
out of death. We will say his steps
kicked their dust from the road
into the sky, and the sky touches everything
the road cannot. We will say we must
sometimes go forward to get back,
taking the hearts from these things

as we speak. We will say we

MatthewThe silhouette in the back seat seems to say,
what's a few more miles per hour?
Jesus, there ain't any cops around at two AM.
The needle on that glowing green dial shivers, taunting.

After forty days of temptation in the desert,
I turned his breath bitter and blue from nicotine.

The illuminated cone of open road chokes the windshield
And he cranks the gas, feeling his back press against the seat.
A rush of lines and blue-grey pavement.

His fists were scarred, probably thought even Behemoth
was wary of his mirrored sunglasses.

And he thinks: bitch, you're gone,
You're all gone.
Bet you didn't say your prayers right.
He grips th

craneo de un caballoSoon it was clear that the moon
was a horse's skull,
and the air, a dark apple.

The gearshift shudder of
a heavy-laden truck fades,

all the while, the
sustained drone of bees;

past their prime and sluggish,
their wings cannot be stilled.

A dull glint behind the eyes
of a yoked pair of oxen,

standing at a crossroad
between myself and the fields

that bake in the August
of a Spanish sun,

waiting for the
hammer and anvil to sing,

for the echoing refrain
of rifle shots beyond

a stand of distant trees
shimmering from spent cartridges

in the waning afternoon
of your exquisitely curved spine.

12.Jan.10Leaving the bus stop, alone at twilight, I want to wave farewell to the backs of the strangers heading home. A failed date today, a rumbling muffler chokes - white breath, a young couple hurries past to catch the night train.

I commiserate with my cell phone's inbox; (three new messages, all junk) and watch a mother pull two children from the faces they are drawing on a parked car's windshield. Warm fingers leave behind two jaunty smiles in the frost. On the sidewalk stretching home, a sweet smell drifts from far away, and a man stubs out his cigarette, stone cold in an instant.

words clutter fogged panes
a passing sleeve erases

Chin UpAnd sometimes, coated and layered
with tens of scores of others' eyes
we forget the word 'lonely' -
so when it flings ashes
we blink, and are blinded.

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and streaks of black across his chest; he stands
wild with pride. His merciless eyes ignited by the
echoes of fallen enemies. He slew
two hundred men and just scars mark their defence.
There’s a warrior with a painted face
who prays to gods mightier than he; he kneels
arms open to implore. He calls upon his army
to pray with him; equals once more. He watches
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There’s a warrior with a painted face
and inside his heart rests a son and daughter
sleeping. There is a reason he is
a warrior.

Napo 3- Leaving the Train Station
Leaving the train station
alone I watch strangers head home.
The waves for yellow cabs and
stench of fresh-lit cigarettes, I let
the cold cloud white breath.
Even at midnight, a long-coated businessman
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a clip-clack of heels and giggles-
their night hasn’t ended.
Across the road, three youths in hooded
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Napo 2- Zombie ApocolypseTurn, turn, slow turn. Twist bones
broke but drag drag behind, pull
tug flesh ripped. Shuffle, groan desire
only for blood brains.
Undead, unliving, unknown.
To survive a zombie apocalypse don’t be
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Moan as much as they moan- both sides are hungry.

Napo 1- LiliesDo lilies anguish when they wilt?
Do they beg on weak stalks
whilst bowing
to a deity they have not worshiped since
raindrops first fell
and touched each petal; an angels
kiss. Gentle fingers brushed and
noses sunk into their pollen, but death
is still the same. Do they beg
in hope their lives are spared or
that a resurrection can be blessed
with fresh water? Does the sun emerge brighter

in final death;
a ray of glitter
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their sweet pollen inhaled
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Gourmet Novel RecipeRecipe for Writing a Novel
Serves: 1. If you’re J K Rowling, billions.
Ingredients
- 1 Tin standard cat food
- 1 Laptop/Computer
- 250g cat biscuits
- Paper
- 5 Pens, various colours.
- 1 stuffed cat toy with bell
- 1 pouch slightly fussier cat food
- 1 sachet gourmet cat food
- 1 bottle of wine, red or white
- 1 Wine glass (Large)
- 1 300g Tin of tuna
Cooking time: 2-5 years
Preparation
(Preparation time approximately 10-60 minutes depending on condition of desk and computer speed)
1. Clear space on desk. If you do not have respective space for junk, throw on floor. Place paper and pens in clear space.
2. Turn on computer and allow 10 minutes for slow loading time. Add 2-3 sighs as windows update informs to restart computer. Restart computer and allow a further 10 minutes.
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First Love

by ^Beccalicious, Jan 16, 2010, 6:16:23 PM
Literature / Poetry / Romantic / Teen / Free Verse

i.

Our bench:
rows of fairy lights rope
towards the turbulent city

Warm evenings, playing in the park,
till your mam came shouting .
Every night of summer.

You never cared how different we were.

ii.

Toilet paper decorates leafless trees and
your lungs fill with newly discovered smoke as
You admire your handiwork.
The sexes split. You tease
the girls for attention.

iii.

Those amber lights merely rows
upon rows of ugly terraces all designed by the same architect.

We never talk.

iv.

You were seen
with your hands
down her trousers

tomorrow you will blame intoxication.

v.

Under the red skies, we exchanged memories like
veterans warmly recalling fallen friends. Swings rocked
in the winds, squeaking slowly sharing our dynamic;
juxtaposed on that faithful bench. You told me you hated what
you had become.

Red turned grey turned black,
drizzle soaked our skin.
You held me close as we walked
back to your house--

It wasn't your first time
I ignored the pain.

vi.

You never visit the park anymore.

I haven't seen you since the day
you called me
a whore.

vii.

You're eighteen now. Rumours
tie knots between you
and heroin.

I took a walk up the hill today;
On our bench two children sat.

To them, the fairy lights still glimmer and
the echo in the wind, blissful.

First Loveby ^Beccalicious

Literature / Poetry / Romantic / Teen / Free Verse

2nd draft.

With a bit of help from `PoeticWar I've cut a fair bit of it. It's too prosey and I'm losing love for this piece fast.

-------------------------------------------------

I haven't submitted a deviation is so long, and perhaps this is evidence as to why.

After `lovetodeviate's poetry workshop at #Writers-Workshop on writing in the second person, `apocathary and I were discussing characters in such poems. I said that I thought the 'you' has to be a character, where he said that the narrative needed a character. So this poem is an attempt to create both.

This isn't a personal experience bar the image of a park on a hill overlooking a sea town.

The Artist has requested Critique on this Artwork

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~fobosanddemos235 Feb 19, 2012

This is so gorgeous and amazing.

*i-am-a-bridgewalker Dec 24, 2011 Student Writer

the sweeps and arcs of the story here are hauntingly beautiful.

the specific details denote a universality that is reaching and poignant: the loss-of-innocence narrative given fresh life.

~Ahcheenui Jun 26, 2011 Hobbyist General Artist

love this poem.

~sickofpissingabout Sep 3, 2010

Brutal.

~sickofpissingabout Sep 3, 2010

Strong, Painful. Good.

`BerylAlexandros Apr 7, 2010

I think that I vaguely recall reading the first draft of this... I am virtually certain that this is much, much stronger. I like that, while being very moving, it is not really expressed in a terribly emotional way, as if the character is willing to accept first loves sometimes go that way...

!conorschild Feb 11, 2010

iii. is odd, part of me is tempted to say chuck it completely but i'm sure you can do something with it.

as an explanation, while i can sorta understand what's being said there i have to tease the meaning out. it's like 'those amber lights' was the beginning of one sentence and it's been shunted onto the rest of it. also i'm struggling to see the relevancy of the description to 'we never talk'. is it meant to reflect the speakers disappointment? angry? sadness?

obv feel free to hit me on the head and tell me if i'm missing out on something obvious, but they seem to have no relevance to each other; in which case, why are they in the same section? there's something peculiarly beautiful about your description but i don't think it's enough to save it

~mim-chan13 Feb 1, 2010

beautiful.~

`Itti Jan 31, 2010 Hobbyist General Artist

I liked squeaking slowly sharing our dynamic and also rumours tie knots - some nice original language there. I also like the ending, depressing as it was, but eighteen seemed awfully young for the outlook you were expressing. The narrator and the "you" (the narrator wasn't given an age but you tend to assume it's similar) are still just children themselves really. I don't feel there's enough of a gap between those two and the children that she sees.

This is a sad and lonely piece but I kind of like it. Nice to see you back.

~RickDanger Jan 18, 2010 Hobbyist Writer

I find fascinating how this character handles the subject of first love with a certain measure of detachment - a formal distance that I feel in words like "spectacle", "intoxication" or "dynamic". Despite ~TheCuddlyDevil's critique, I suppose that "dynamic conversation" is indeed what you intend.

Of course, I also love the whole fifth section and how you paced it right until the end. I specially like Swings rocked in the winds, squeaking slowly sharing the dynamic of our conversation; juxtaposed on that faithful bench.

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