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Happy For CloudsThe sky is always a fixture over oceans,
another cliched postcard;
this is a place where the only distance is upward,
and I lose myself in the memory of shapes
as if your foam fluked tide
stretched as high as it could
and decided to stay.
A horse's gallop
is slowed through the blue
before a piece of his snout breaks off
and drifts away;
as the sun sinks
into the depth and contrast--
heaven over the clothes line,
and corrugated metal,
I realize no one ever mentions clouds in a sunset;
only their absence in a clear sky,
where the light spreads thin into nothing,
and no one notices
lest it be over oceans.
Observing SilhouettesOur gazes are frozen,
arms locked around each other
in rebellion to the future--
the overexposure and time
unlike the the herd
that comes together, and comes apart,
the brief romp of a pair of squirrels,
the crane's arching neck to the pond,
the strand on the down of a feather
that knows how to be alone again,
the leaf, the blade of grass.
To EarthI feel the sulfur of your hand
spinning shadows into shoals
your allotropic breath
in the sky
going every which way--
bones shifting in your axis,
and all I know is that I cannot keep
from racing to your prevailing path
all I see is the age of you
in patches of desert and tropic.
I want to tell you
I am not another freeway
running through your lungs,
breaking against the crest of them,
but more like the prodding rivers
nudging at your mountain;
and from the fold of your horizon
you will half whisper
how the wind is the swelling of all of us,
everything that matters--
that carries echos between hills
as I try to distance myself
from the clenching gravity of your heart
telling me to lie upon the ground
Unopened LettersPulled ribbons
fall around the ephemera
like disbanded sails.
I knock around with envelopes,
too close to discern
a shape in the ink
like scrawled twigs
drawn from the slow,
lost to the grip
And yet the kettle on the stove
because we need it to remain the same,
even if in novelty--
like the doddering, ghost
of an old hand,
gesturing for time to slow.
The Stubbornness Of Homethe canopy
parts from its roof,
to the sky
with no memory of blue,
the tired wave length
sinking into the brown and gray
that can no longer hold its red;
in the last heavy wind;
the distended metal
shoved upon the beach,
with the memory
of its place in the world.
As I Roam With ShadowsThe sun finds me,
between the spaces
in the pools left
on empty cupboard floors;
through the Venetians,
like a Godly hand
bending this figure into a pendulum
Cars strobe the room,
passing through it
like bits of photon in a memory,
the great prism,
and no matter how long I wander
into the hours,
I will never walk into
the peaceful posture of saints
in the courtyard,
the long pause
beneath the soluble sun,
the long gaze inward,
oblivious to the rain.
Veil Tail GoldfishAs the vein
runs through the fine
you have the light by which you glide,
the current that moves beneath you;
fragments of lamp lapped up
in the shadows of a room
while my feet try to pick apart a pace
in the metronome of
day to day
whose time has all but buried the satellite
of where I need to go
between bits of brick and mortar
and so I leave the window open
the memory heavy in a lifting curtain
as this room sits like a sunken ship
in the waltz of light and turning earth.
I curl up in the womb of it,
leaving the sky as my glass,
feeling the heaviness of Heaven's eye.
IntegerI tried to think of colors,
or a place that would embody a poem
one day, in the event that I lose
the chance for words;
a tree seemed too simple,
but a worthy candidate
as the forest thinned its limbs
to the sun
like futile arms
in the sighs of future buildings.
And then it was too complex,
and green sufficed,
or maybe blue, or whatever color
broke out into the sky.
I tried to walk without a beat,
and summon what feeds
on every bit of youth it could get
from our bodies
like water to a desert-fiend;
tried to think
of what a minuend would be
if not the razor backed edge
of a number,
but the crumbling of cells
piece by piece to the elements
of time as it sorts infinities,
and I am nothing but the breath
that escapes me.
EveI remember when time was time,
when Eve fell into the sea, eyes burning--
her great arm unraveling from the night.
Her breath made its way into
the path of sun.
She became the long road, arriving;
for me the cradle of Winter,
a quilt of windows and hills.
It was a beginning.
She walked with me,
our pace measured in the length of buildings
as she sighed into the wood, textures,
and the joints of stairs.
I almost remember when the thick oak of doors
only ran beneath my fingers
long enough to explore.
This was a beginning too,
and I know that it was here that time began to bleed,
and Eve died young.
Today thoughts almost seem to
in the melted snow of windows,
falling away into Spring.
I watch the spaces emerge in the fence,
the transparency of glass.
Her vision now rests in the pool of sun upon my floor.
She is almost better suited without a form,
as shoveled roads and time wait for me to carry on,
the world cracking beneath an unforgiving sun,
nails rusting in
BetrayedI won't swallow your lies anymore
I can't stand your presence
You used to be my friend
But you're nothing to me now
And soon you'll be
Another bad memory
I won't be able to forget
You AgainOh, it's you again. I must admit,
The crooning has
The lies have been
And mine are like swords
It's just you and me
In this sick game
I can tell
You're pulling me in,
And I don't have
To pull you down
Sometimes, I've had
And all I see is
Then it became
I don't know
How to escape
Dark to see.
And all I can
Wonder at every
Turn I make
When can it be
flower petalsi know that when we touch
that my energy is yours
that we are like flowers
because at our roots
we need water and love,
we reach tall as we can
to get to the sun
and stretch our leaves
to welcome it all;
and when we touch
i know that our skin isn’t skin
too soft for this world
when it grows rough with gravel
so i invite you back to our bed,
soft with the earth
where we can lie gently
and sleep until it is time
An artist (revised)
Staring blankly at a white sheet of paper
Can truly be an artist’s worst nightmare
An artist’s duty as its shaper
Their thoughts up in the clouds somewhere
Looking for bits of inspiration
Their eyes searching the skies
Nothing can break their concentration
Nothing can blow out the passion in their eyes
Being an artist does not always mean you are skilled
You do not need to be Picasso or Bach
It means you want to see your dream fulfilled
And that you will never give in to an art block
SightStars in the night sky
I see beyond that and through
Greatness into darkness, I can fly
Here above the earth I can see the truth
There is an angel that will love me until I die
jackal grinMy orange peel
lips split: the beams
a deck of cards
nana’s worn porch,
and fingers weaving
through grass blades
when the light is
soft and warm.
(have you f
I Don't Come with the Edgesi.
It cries the way dragonflies leave ripples
in the rain. On days I swallow
whirlpools for breakfast and
drown with libraries for fun,
I can almost allow myself to forget
And it doesn’t want to make
me kneel on my shoulders
or pluck the weeds
from my scars;
I can see it try so hard
to be my friend.
But if I could choose
polka dots over tail lights
and sun screen over
I wouldn’t think thrice
or even once
not to blow the candles
on my grave.
That’s why I keep
the colons of analog clocks
under my tongue;
so I could keep the
figures eight of cliché’s
as keepsakes for old age.
I like to think infinities
have loopholes; tree rings
that dissolve into each other
with exhales for a caress.
And just when the tones
of lyrics would enter the
eutony of names, only then
would I drift into love.
When I wouldn’t be holding
my blood in my temples-
when all I am is a thought.
The running footsteps
we’ve come to cla
Gaelan's LullabyTell me why you had to go
Did you fall in the dirt, or in the snow?
I've lost nearly everyone, from the start
Now you left me with this emptiness in my heart
Don't tell me that it will all be well
For my life is already a bitter Hell
Would you have loved me throughout our years?
But now you aren't even here, to dry my tears
You have always watched over my sister, Vahl
A brother's duty, I was doomed to fail
And as I was fighting on a foreign field
You became her sword and her shield
Tell me please where your body lies
I just want to at least close your eyes
Tell me the names of those who ended your life
So that I may put them to my knife
So tell me where you wandered to
Fields of green or the sky of blue
Please tell me that when I die, you will be the first that I'll see
Tell me Lydia... Why did you leave... Me?
At a DistanceAt a Distance
I keep myself far away
So that I may enjoy my Day
Ignoring men’s endless scars
So that I can go drink at the bars.
But why, isn’t isolation the bane
That will drive most insane?
Not for me, what do they care
If I go bald or pull out my hair?
At a distance I’ll stay so I’ll be at peace
I don’t want to mourn or be on someone’s emotional leash
Why? Simply because I’m human, why all the fuss?
You never cared about my work so I’m not going to cuss
Over you, him, her, not over any folk
So don’t lump me in the same bowl of yolk
As you people, didn’t you know?
That I’m not going to be a part of your show.
If that hurts you, then have fun with that.
Now whine and cry as I play with my cat
CompresenceThe specter pivots
in the straight-jacket of an untempered wind.
My fingers trace the back of another hand
in half wakefullness;
the silence has grown a body
to lie beside me
in all of its moldy breath
as the house begins to breathe
from its fissures.
The leaves in the garden are a thousand pleading hands
running across the hem of some archangel's gown.
Street lights plunge from their posts
onto the asphalt.
I will remember tomorrow
as if it were a dream,
yet the ground will spill with it,
as if death entangled itself with life
in the confusion of a wind,
and I lie half submerged
between an eternity
Genghis Whenever we were bad my mother used to take us to the mall to see Genghis Kahn. They kept him in a dusty diorama of a Mongolian steppe, all tall grass and yurts. He sat on a throne of bone (well, plastic shaped like bone), scowling in incomprehension at the American kids who flocked around him like startled lemmings. My mother would usually push us toward him, saying things like “Tell him what you did to your father’s stamp collection.” Genghis would give a grunt, spit a wad of phlegm onto the tall grass, and give us a wizened, wrinkled grimace, as if he had to go to the bathroom.
He terrified me.
My brother couldn’t get enough of him.
When my brother got caught in my mother’s evening dress, my mother grabbed us both and dragged us to Genghis. It was a slow day, and we were the only kids crowding him. “Tell him what you did,” my mother hissed a
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More