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for unseeing eyesladen with sky
we stumbled
and painted mockingbirds
on loveless branches
folding in our slender limbs
and ducking under our own
voices, fidgety and frail
against the wall of night.

between the dipping blades
and drawn shoulders
we learned to craft our words
steady-soft,
a drumming rain
that carved canyons
in open hearts and
drew the sunshine to
our supping lips.

keen-eyed, we watched
remembering the weight
of unseeing eyes
and scalding remarks
and we learned to slip
the noose-knots and slide
through the soul-cracks
and somehow
build kingdoms under
upturned noses.

with lyrical uncertainty
and tender determinat
Harvest MoonThree a.m. moonlight
across lazy dust motes; a
tree scrapes the window.
Your arm weighs on my hip like
whispered promises of love.
Like petals and leavesWhen she thinks of him, she thinks of tree branches:
spindly fingers spread out, stretching
in angles wide for handfuls of sky.

And she thinks of him.

She thinks of him digging his toes
into soft, damp sand,
wading in shallow depths before
being carried by crescents of the sea.

She thinks of him in a blur of curls, in the
warmth on her waist and the coolness on her lips,

pressing the memories and the maybes
like petals and leaves
to paper.

And she thinks of him.
SolsticeOnce upon a time, when you were still sunlighthouses and shimmering existence wherever you were needed most, you found him. He was November, shaky on his first last legs, and you saw through the mind-twistings he feigned to the mind-twistings that were really there, knotted up in his dreams.

You were still birdsong then, and thunderstorms, and your bodyheat melted the frost claws that held him tight. You held onto him as his November deepened. When he howled, you howled with him, and the wind played with your voices and pressed the softness of your lungs against your cageribs—and then against each other's.

November became solstice, and
WhitmanI am all that grows from me
and all that grows from me is sacred—
              my hair, dirty roots reaching towards sky,
fed by sky, shifted by its undulating currents
              my fingers, spiders, crescents, twigs,
gaunt, blunt, probing, inquisitive...prurient
              my ears, awkward conch shells jammed on as if by mistake,
rigid and ridged, elven,
innocent like unexplored caves for children to bound gaily into
resounding with echoed cheers of courage wanting
as if a dozen more children waited within, fearless guides;
              my nose, obdurate. 
The reach of my eyes knows no bounds;
what walls are there to throw my body against?
                 
earth circuitAnd when the sun sinks, the earth's skin crawls:

I.
I wonder if this awkward creature would notice me the way I notice him.
He's so tragic at his throne
I stare after him longingly.
And yet,
He never realizes that I'm the one
Who forever basks in his brilliant beams.
If only he knew how much brighter he could burn
[with me]
He'd light up the universe.

II.
I heard him speak of thirst, once.
The quenching lust of the stars had run dry.
So that night, I brought along a jar of acid.
(And how it gleamed in his glow).
I handed it to him, wrapped in taffeta ribbons,
screaming
I wish curdling joy
On my gurgling boy

 
WaitingWe are still waiting for the thunder from the distant stars,
The echo of mortality,
the whispers of a storm, half-remembered,
in sepia-coloured hallways in buildings that smell like books.
Time gets slow in waiting,
ghosts are formed from the wanting,
taking shape in the spaces where sunlight,
or moonlight doesn't touch.
The stars shake from the vibration,
and the ghosts shimmer in anticipation,
but we can't hear your voice in the dead of the night.
bedIt's a stabbing sight
Letting in the morning with a crack of the shades
And you forget you could page-turn horizons
Waft through free territory
Where acres are just beds
Made of fresh land

Wrinkles in the river
Tell remembered times
About old languages that could make you cry
About soft beds that carve away canyons
A speaking voice lifted from the earth
Begging you to remember
Va'eiraThis was a lesson in just how quiet it can be
when you don't make enough noise.

Me, holding a toy gun to a stranger's head
"Remember when things stopped being ridiculous?"

You, eating dandelions in a midnight field
"About the same time things stopped making sense."

A boy in church camp carved a small crucifix
for his arts and crafts project. He won the blue
ribbon and a brand new Bible.  The next morning
I found it hanging over our cabin door.
A toad was nailed to the cross.
Still breathing.
Still breathing.

Sometimes we wake up early enough to hide the evil from our world.
Still breathing.
6:30:09what i wouldn't give
to have my body sink down
into yours, cocooned
in the tumultuous quicksand
of human flesh.

i have never been so moved
as by your touch, the slinking seeping
brush. the universe dispels
and in the absence of everything,
i am less alone
than i have ever been.
the Chandler's Around the WayThe hose slipped out again. Chan cursed, and shoved it back into the incision he'd made, adjusted his mask, and bent over the pump. He yanked the cord, and the pump started to life with a cough of biodiesel. It bounced on the sand as it grumbled away. Chan kept one hand on it and held the hose in place with the other.
If fucking Fathers would spend the bone on a new one, I wouldn't be all night at this, Chan grumbled. He ached for a smoke, but didn't have the hands to spare. Plenty of hands here, he thought as he glanced at the riverbank. Some of them even had a pulse.
"Hey," he said to whoever was closest.
It was a sunbather. A walker who drew enough bone to slot time on the beach without having to fight for it. She had each arm draped around a man, both of them tattooed in the same place with the same sigil. Chan was jealous. Someday he'd have his own numbers, but they'd be women. All of them. He was old-fashioned like that.
The walker answered without raising her sungl
LintukotoLife as a stained glass window in the cosmos:
a well of misfortune, shattered hours,
pieces of night and liquid decades.

A bird crosses the universe
and in the corner of eternity it warbles
a song that encloses everything.

I escape to the route of tempest:
the galaxy, oniric labyrinths,
a spiral path to madness.
October EyesSuch gentle colors drip across your freckled shoulder blades.
A quilt of puddled watercolors soaked in auburn shades.

Spun of golden rivulets and rinsed in autumn skies,
So many endless currents swimming through your lonesome eyes.

Brushing under fingertips and over shattered songs,
Unraveling like morning glaze against my paling palms.

With beauty like October hills and hollow as the skies,
The water drops against the earth will be our lullaby.
I Took To Howling With YouI was shy at first, timid in my dealings,
I laced the trap against my throat,
sang sparing, tip-toed
around your poems.

The tone, the slow vibrating
from the shoots of my shoulders
to the gleam of polished talons,
it purred around inside me.

Oh the song, Coyote,
the same resigned call, it
paled before you, swallowed down its insides,
wept.

I took your little hand in my big hand,
flew out towards Crow, and for a while
My Love, there were poems
and the world was enough.

I took to howling with you,
down from the branches, safe
womb of the tree, I spread
dirt between my toes, sang happy,

sang the song of free,
your wild howl
Under DreadThe winter, the whole winter
is sitting on my head, nesting its fingers
in the little hairs over my ears.
Its friend, the great and unnamed doubt,
is leaning against my collarbone
in a most familiar fashion,
and I fall in and out of balance

irregularly irregularly.

I have a beauty waiting, warm, willing
on speed dial, but the phone--
where did I leave the phone again?
Beauty is as elusive as
the car keys, which, I swear,
were just in that pocket. I

had my hand on them. The whole winter
keeps coursing its little nails
up and down my neck and taking
all my breath away.
There was a dream I had that
I almost remember, almost r
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More from ~dull-glitter

Concerning My Strange Affinity for Scorching Heat (i used to be wild highway dandelions
sometimes i miss the sky stretching as far as the interstate)

pancake flat horizon
the sunset's fingers
palm to palm with the black dirt

the soccer field dust
kicked up
stuck to my teeth
the mud pit season
wiping war paint beneath our eyes

(i used to be the bluebonnet smell of springtime
sometimes i miss chewing on onion grass and speaking shapes into the clouds)

barefoot days
pool sides
and scorching concrete
tire swing imprints
trampoline burn

and the slow slow
molasses speech
all tangled up in vowels

something in my heart is right
when the ground cracks like chapped lips in summe
Tomb Worldbuy the war bonds to my body
buy tickets to the air raid of my soul
trenches on my wrists
fight the somme across my stomach
machine gun pock marks
bombs, my flesh shakes

no land,
only lines to cross
and three miles of blood and barbed wire marshes

protect the soldiers
but there are no defenses
the western front is failing

TO ARMS!

shells that are empty
(I am empty)

the skies
(my eyes)
lighting up with flares
there's only smoke left
up there
(clouds my mind)

we left our masks behind and now we'll all go blind

packed in here, piled in
like cattle
like corpses

where is the axis?
we've been in here three days.
is t
MoabWe stand on a mesa
staring through the eye arch
to rocks forced upward
like our faces
to heaven
to the monolith spires
to God's pebbles
to tree fluff heads

Moab's pride is as empty
as the arches
abandoned to thickets and undergrowth
desert drowning out
our sandstone whispers

We are the only wildlife
funneled through the gorges
to parts more beautiful
than rusted canyon walls
kicking at the dirt
when we can't find our way
from Eden to the Devil's Garden

Alongside the pillars,
there are no men, not really
boys come along and play
at exploring
acting like love is a plateau
and once they reach the top
they can claim
WindowsI.

Introduction to the sun
leave the window open
until wind rustles old photos
off the wall.
Sometimes I feel like
I'm a Polaroid.
-Shake Me-
until something meaningful
appears.

II.

I met you in the woods
laying in the rusted culvert,
brown eyes absorbing my home-cut hair and torn knees
I'm gunna to see everything in the world someday
I told you that sounded fun and
we played explorers (You asked to be Captain Cook,
I was the one holding the compass)

I saw you again in the bus seat
next to the window that was stuck down
even in the cold and rain
you liked the window
Most people just look out it,
but I like to feel the
Dear MonsterTo start with, I will compose a letter:
Dear Monster under the bed,
Tell you I can still hear
the whispering after
a ten-year vacancy notice.

I'm sick of how you hold me down,
the way you shackle me to the bed,
bound by thresholds
cotton sheets cloaking every
drop of by fear-infused blood.

Heavy breathing,
chills down my spine.
Your phantom is pressing
down on my chest,
and I'm helpless,
stunned,
screaming,
waking to my night-robed mother
hand warming my pallid skin.
No memory—only a voice,
(and I think it was yours)
asking where the monster was.
Are we afraid to forget
what might have been imagined?
I know you

Featured in Groups:

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September 23, 2012
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[x]

Dormant

:icondull-glitter:

Winter is a blank slate,
but not like Rousseau's—
it cleanses
sucking out warmth like poison
leaving only windburnt frost
tacked to the window pane

all we remember
is the numbness
the shuddering
skittish steps across the ice
snowflakes pasted to our faces
smoke rising from our lips
dragged across bleak clouds

winter has us captured
bound by fur and walls
drifting in our eggshelled silence

bone cold until we birth ourselves by warmth
emerge from our shells wet and heaving
uncurl our fingers one by one
joints crackling like fire at our backs

until spring comes
drip by tender drip
old wounds thaw
we are found raw,
graced again by feeling.
:icondull-glitter:
Written back in Spring 2011. I forgot I hadn't posted it yet. :blushes:

Another from my poetry class that turned out to be rather promising. That winter was a LONG one, but at least it gave me plenty of inspiration!

Critique for :iconthewrittenrevolution:
[link]

1. How is the flow of the poem?
2. Do the images carry?
3. Favorite part?

As always, thank you for the comments!

Edit: Wow! :O Another Daily Deviation! I'm extremely grateful, especially to *Mrs-Freestar-Bul for the suggestion and ^thorns for the feature. Many thanks to all who commented and fav'd as well! :heart:
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Daily Deviation

Given 2012-11-28
Dormant by ~dull-glitter ( Suggested by *Mrs-Freestar-Bul and Featured by `thorns )
love 3 3 joy 1 1 wow 0 0 mad 0 0 sad 0 0 fear 0 0 neutral 0 0
:icondreamsinstatic:
`dreamsinstatic Nov 30, 2012  Professional Writer
Your fantastic work has been featured in Friday Night Features.
Reply
:icondull-glitter:
~dull-glitter Nov 30, 2012  Student Writer
Thank you! :D
Reply
:iconme-inator:
~ME-inator Nov 29, 2012
I can see the images your words convey as clear as day! My favorite line is, "smoke rising from our lips
dragged across bleak clouds".

Congrats on your DD! :love:
Reply
:icondull-glitter:
~dull-glitter Nov 30, 2012  Student Writer
Thank you! :heart: Glad you enjoyed reading it!
Reply
:iconcraazhy:
~craazhy Nov 28, 2012  Professional Writer
I didn't like this when it started, but by the time it ended I thought it was a masterpiece. I think it was only a fault in my personal taste. Please, carry on. :)
Reply
:icondull-glitter:
~dull-glitter Nov 29, 2012  Student Writer
Thank you! :heart: Glad you enjoyed reading.
Reply
:iconstaciejones:
Mood: Love *STACIEJONES Nov 28, 2012
That about sums it up in a nutshell.........Couldn't have said it better myself (then again - not a poet)....But have SAD - so I feel as though you wrote for me! 5 STARS
Reply
:icondull-glitter:
~dull-glitter Nov 29, 2012  Student Writer
Thank you! :heart: I'm glad you connected with the poem!
Reply
:iconpandalannee:
Mood: Love =PandaLannee Nov 28, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
Beautiful
Reply
:icondull-glitter:
~dull-glitter Nov 28, 2012  Student Writer
Thank you! Glad you enjoyed it!
Reply
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