Moonbeams

Lynne

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Here you are

Just thoughts and doodles.

Blurb

No Skin

The sea is a skeleton of itself,

only streaks of moon

all the way down

to the sand

in the shoals

beneath the white caps of its waves.

And yet the bunches of seaweed between your ankles

remind you of its green -

opaque from the distance,

the smell of salt,

and you never notice

it's gone.

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When You See Us by Moonbeams, literature

Literature

When You See Us

Now I know why I love to watch the leaves fall from a distance - each one following the other is a dance that takes you away from the ground. And the numbers of us slow us when you take sound away - just a mass moving into a fog too soft to define it mad. Inside the gray a brood sleeps a foliage - tail over tail, a shade of rest. This is how the world was meant to be seen, why a pilgrimage is done as a group, why a glide between trees is as sleek as the wind if it were to be seen. Receive our words as couched in symbols on a DOS screen, as green - as rain.

Letters by Moonbeams, literature

Literature

Letters

That's the thing about cursive; At some point you lose yourself in the rubbed-out edges, pulled ribbons, falling around the ephemera like disbanded sails. I knock around with envelopes, too close to discern a shape in the ink - more like lasso now left to pull back the day. It is like the draft to your story. The faded edges of it swim to the most salient memory of you, the time we passed up Sunday's sermon to go walk by the pond. The scene is foldable, the memory of it blotted, blurring then and now - ducks, ampersands connecting us - the swans' plumages, arrows darting to and fro' between the length of our arms over fallen twigs half submerged in sun glare like something unfinished. Like something you uttered indecipherable, but the sound of your voice assured me you were happy.

Untitled by Moonbeams, literature

Literature

Untitled

On the stairs a past version of myself almost shivers out of alignment, verges on vellus hairs unsaturated with images of a colder sun, blurs my sight like dust with nowhere to fall. When the time comes there'll be maybe a handful - two or three at most as diffuse as the sky ready to merge in the fisheye of a room's light. For now, the leap in my chest as I crack an album briefly doesn't recognize itself as it points to itself, and I think of places I'd lived as ruins. At some point feet paused and forward became backward, or there were always two of us running to one another and the meeting point broke us both - loose pieces in my ankles, in the mind waiting for a recount but all I have are moments, mostly full of sky now, gradients of a color - utility wires vanishing midway. The bulk of me dissipates on the white of the attic floor in the weight of my eyes - a loose connection, whole as in the way the sky is millions of eras whole. A past version of the self almost

Swallows Us by Moonbeams, literature

Literature

Swallows Us

Today prayer is a place that holds your voice until it can speak - palatoglossal arches above rows, the pulpit, and its oration - hymnals pulled from pockets behind pews with a mouth that barely moves - mumbles, a lump in the throat - the voice splitting. As the congregation leaves yesterday's prayers surge the candles in the wind still sounding in their Ss between rows of pews with those who'd still come between sermons - linger in the oratory, take our prayer into their breast. I can see them better than the ghosts of loved ones filling the pit of the entranceway, and I wonder if this is faith dying or coming to life as we come with palms ready, with pockets filled and fumbling with keepsakes to lay on the altar like loose threads unraveled from the heart, our mouths tired.

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Mother of the Sea by TigerEgern, literature

Literature

Mother of the Sea

Mother of the Sea Let me untangle your unruly hair Set free the fish and whales And let the ocean run free again Mother of the Sea Dwelling a thousand fathoms Deep below the waves In your mercy we will flourish Mother of the Sea Who's anger brings upon us all Empty stomachs, retched days Let me bring an offer true and firm Mother of the Sea By my blood and will and strength I buy for us helpless beings Another year of joyous plenty Mother of the Sea By your mercy do we roam the sea Ride the waves and find the food On which to live another year.

Tree by saartha, literature

Literature

Tree

It is morning, somehow. Blue wash, gray field. I need to be gone. Instead I sit by the window, thinking of nothing at all. I am watching my mother. Outside she reaches high, picking apples. She is not Eve. She is not even the snake. O God, she gives freely to her sheep. I don’t know why she does this at seven o’clock, still in pajamas-- voluntarily, as though the dew doesn’t seep in right to the bone— but the sheep have gathered, lining up at the fence for their treat. Really, I do need to be gone, but I watch her lob the apples wide into the field, making sure everyone gets at least one.

ode or order by gliitchlord, literature

at least a full third off by alapip, literature

Literature

at least a full third off

We - emerged of infinity who eternally fall in a seemingly endless tumbling sprawl We - programmed by the random in an unfathomed cosmos defined by changeable chance - yet claiming we have personal control Yes - Some do have 'quite a bit' although - many have 'not a bit' We're formed by our nature/nurture Still the few do learn free will via thoughtful singular mullings At least that's what I believe Those of us not inclined to mull but driven by evolved emotions assume they're making decisions but don't know they lack control thus don't own any thoughtless damage Though they sure do plenty of that being manipulable by narcissists who use misinformation and vapid lies to ply the hapless fears and pious certainties the many hold Are those the "fat, dumb, and happy"? Should they just be forgiven "for they know not what they do"? Or being dumbly driven by emotionalism are they perhaps "deplorable" and deserve negative judgement for both? I know where I

he really ain't heavy after all by alapip, literature

Literature

he really ain't heavy after all

Yes - we must keep in mind we humans endlessly sort ourselves ethnic ideals endure and expand to the self-excuse of one's "tribe" - "my God is stronger - better than yours" - "my skin more pure - my ways more sure" - "it's alright for me to shun and deceive" - "you're just one more 'they' - you're other" - "and I remain ready for war" but perhaps - just perhaps if a threat loomed large endangered us all - Climate Change! if everyone saw it and shared its threat realistically environmentally existentially - might we bond and band in defense together? might we then each see the other as brother? we could finally no longer be girding for war LLP - dA - dec2023

humble expectations by alapip, literature

Literature

humble expectations

Go with small hopes some needs might be met. Be grateful if one is partially so. After a deeply cold and dark night receive with thanks any weak warmth of day. Vicissitudes leave certainty unfound. Nevertheless know this one basic truth; No matter how sad your tidings may be, it is much worse for some other folks. Yes, that's fact. It will always be thus. Coincidence means this will be true. Wishes and prayers cannot change a thing, though chance and happenstance do. Keep in mind win-loss living is false. A zero sum posture negates 'common' sense. "All in this together" is certified fact. There's no such thing as "the self-made man". Live life open-eyed. Give thanks for good luck. And don't ask for more than your share. LLP - dA - sept2023

Treee by barefootliam, literature

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After Analog by Moonbeams, literature

Literature

After Analog

Now you can place the TV by a window, and tell yourself the sound of static was a storm -- mistake the metal rabbit ears for something else, and blink back into now come across a set of hangers, tweezers, or pair of spoons that are anything but an antenna. Anything but a part of an old living room and a box that has stopped humming the giant silent white noise. *********** The way we open our doors after a storm, after rain, and snow. Now you can tell yourself it was a storm -- the continual hiss becoming the sound of rain. The snow melting away away into your neighbor's house, the fog clearing.

Imagining a Ghost as a Blind by Moonbeams, literature

Literature

Imagining a Ghost as a Blind

There is the draft of a closing door; the full frost of winter in its closing in all seasons; passing through you that can be suspicious; the residue of something to feel the way an absence does-- in the rising dust of an empty shelf and calloused palm colliding -- hair burgeoning in the familiar width of a fabric, or the thought of it. You nce describing light as the silk of a spider's web flown high into evening's wind made visible by God's opening eye-- their seeing it in the measure of the wind that blew when you told them; by the sounds they heard of you when morning pooled the light to the bridge of dusk -- crickets chim

Narcissus by Moonbeams, literature

Literature

Narcissus

There are no curves or angles in your stillness, no wave of anything that fusses over your shoulders; no sliding serpent of light that scales through your form like time's hand skimming across the sky; no sun streaked through strand or pupil that draws love. By spring your heart is outside of you, a frenetic of blooms in the casts of your soil, rain caught with resignation, the wind smoothing your alleys like an intruding arm; echoes falling to the distance, the backdrop of a watercolor sky where you are content to remain winter. Only in frustration does Spring emerge from you like a moss, a settled static-- giving you distinctions

Silhouettes At Evening by Moonbeams, literature

Literature

Silhouettes At Evening

It is a show of forms. lovers with no space between them, a prototype for structures unlike the herd that comes together, and comes apart; a pair of squirrels rushing in opposite directions, the monarch slipped its stem -- the crane's neck, and unfolding wing; the parted group of strands on the down of a feather that know how to be alone again, the leaf, the blade of grass.

Postcard by Moonbeams, literature

Literature

Postcard

The sun has always been a fixture over oceans, another cliched photo. But never one where I can pretend you've gifted me the waves as I lose myself in the memory of shapes, as if your foam fluked tide had stretched as far as it could and decided to stay; where a horse's gallop is slowed through the blue before a piece of his snout breaks off and drifts away like a tragedy. I wonder if wanderlusts know the treasures their destinations become as they scatter in parts for the rest of us to know; the way a piece of sun here bleeds into the purple cloud and cooking smoke just the way heaven would burst over clothes lines, and bird wires if

Existentialism by Moonbeams, literature

Scanning Polaroids by Moonbeams, literature

Literature

Scanning Polaroids

You swim between a series of chronological rows, your earlier smiles more genuine, and unburdended with time; the earliest one a fragile piece -- my smoothing palm a cloud in the muted sun by then as it pooled into pixels, reclining ghosts of fingerprints drawn to splotches like the blight of mildew on forests, but the propensity to preserve is too human to be a malady as row after row we lean in to each other like a gust of wind had pulled us together -- a storm blown from somewhere, or something deeper that what unearths uncontrollable laughter, that thinks it has outwitted the marker of years. There is something urgent about the in

Writing Letters At Dusk by Moonbeams, literature

Literature

Writing Letters At Dusk

It's as if the sunset was everything I had to say beneath a spill-- a fancying forgoing form to remain a fancy; aphasia in the clouds of ink meeting tea-stains in the spaces of corners where the eyes always fall to rest anyway as they take it all in -- what there is between two people; how a good day is always offset by a storm, or what will someday eschew its form but is somehow still worthy of a word that leaves you searching for more words until the day is dark and bruised with the meaning of them running ren in streaks over tracks and a ghost train, and you are certain that there was a word for that which moves without moving, c

Amniotic by Moonbeams, literature

Literature

Amniotic

We fall back to our ocean at night -- the years slowly rocking out of sequence, a sandbar of figures and faces that don't belong, places colliding without a crash in an Escher print of time -- no wonder memories are as fragile as froth fighting to hold its shape against a rock lodging bits of itself into scenes replayed long before their inception as I never question the steadiness of you throughout it all knowing without knowing that all that matters here are the roles we meet each other as filling the pits, and spaces as they need, as deep as the heaviness of a blanket's lean into the heart, the steepness of static falling f

The Color Of by Moonbeams, literature

Literature

The Color Of

These slopes suggest we just go on with the memory of ourselves, here where the sharp edges shed themselves to shoulder clouds, their slow succession half-heartedly fumbling with the blue of roads, and the hue of which we left ourselves to portraits clean from the splintering of chasms we made when we walked away -- our feet barreling against the glass sky of their world whose breaking is never aware of its breaking; those quakes now far removed from the breaths that linger in their place, the smoke-plumes of the hours in between tumbling like a yesterday you can touch -- a yesterday you know is there like an entity unto itsel

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About Moonbeams

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Feb 23
United States
Deviant for 19 years
She / Her

My Bio

Favourite Movies

Too Many To List, I'll have to come back on this one.

Favourite Bands / Musical Artists

Jefferson Starship, U2, Dan Foggelberg,and many more

Favourite Games

It must be life, it's the only game I'm forced to play

Tools of the Trade

Mostly just pen, paper, sometimes involves paints, and paintshop.

Other Interests

Art, Poetry, Psychology,

Trying to let words rise to the surface the way letters on lit backgrounds do.

Llama Farm

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Moonbeams

Sep 25, 2019

Out of curiosity

0 min read

Is it Little Rabbit Foo Foo, or Little Bunny Foo Foo?  Google was giving me mixed results on this one.  I grew up singing the song as Little Rabbit Foo Foo, but am being told I'm wrong now.

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Moonbeams

Mar 30, 2019

Cliches

0 min read

Clichés are bad for writing, but are a sad testament to humanity when it comes to how we regard truth (clichés being what they are, and so often iterations of truth).  We are basically saying that the naked truth is secondary in importance to how it is dressed  --  that style, and presentation are more important than substance.  And we've been saying it all throughout documented, and recorded history, back at every utterance of truth.   We do it, and have been doing it beyond the world of writing, and literature as well.  You would think that their existence would be more of an alarm, a cause for collective self-analysis rather than

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Moonbeams

Mar 8, 2019

Eclipse

0 min read

I finally tried it out. A quick what I like, and dislike so far: Pros: 1.) It's new. 2.) You can adjust the lighting on your page. 3.) Watchers, and watches stand out in bold boxes,   so it's easier to more quickly access friend's pages from your own instead of searching for them in lists. 4.) The backdrop compliments visual art better than the traditional gray/green  (although I've read at least one journal that said it somewhat distracts from more traditional forms of art). Cons: 1.) I think the thumbnails for literature were better the way they were before (unless there's some way to adjust them  --  I'll be playing around with it