Submissions still closed. Pieces added to the gallery only at my request, based on nothing more than the whim of the founder.
Oh, the pent-up frustration. I'm feeling better already.
|More Journal Entries|
water processspirit-sloth and overdone;water process by riparii
wonder-lost and undercome:
you are trenchant, sweet love.
you planted early mornings-
I lay coffee-drunk and thin;
the stir of your brown hands.
Questions For JulietWhy, on the fiftieth anniversary of my body,Questions For Juliet by brassteeth
does my youth come
to attack me? Perhaps it senses my
age-born weakness, this heart is a limping gazelle.
But I will always remember you standing
on that balcony,
watching me slowly walk away. Some
nights more than others,
the moon would cast
more of your wonder towards me,
a glorious bounce of beauty.
And even in the dark,
even from the road,
I could list your perfections.
smile, nose, ears,
frown. That list was a circle. Infinite.
I never knew a feeling like that before,
Love. fell hopelessly short.
From that opening scene in a young life
Love was a word.
This is my heart.
I prayed you my specific disease but would have settled
for fondness, likeness. Would have bartered
with even a devil for pity, so desperate was I
for only you. Juliet, even that
would have caused
my heart to burst.
And do you remember
I walked away backwards,
so I could watch you holding the rails? Before
A Sanctuarythere is somethingA Sanctuary by ApostateRook
self-contained pockets of joy
amidst a grungy room
in a forest of linoleum
plastic tables with dirt in the grooves
and a permeating sense of beige
the monotone buzz of pressures and suppression of reactions - human reactions
they softly soothe
a tonic citron smoothing ragged patches
existing (with(IN)side) of a lovely orange universe
knowing only the smell and taste and feel of it
relying on it
as if it might be a crucifix
or an energy-absorbing shield
quite possibly the hand of Mother Nature
carding through your hair
pulling threads and fibers to uncover something sacred
to be held in your hand
a soft-nosed bullet that pierced your father's thigh (and lost the battle)
a geode, a locket, the first arrowhead your mother ever found (her favorite)
a lock of your grandmother's hair (still auburn and beautiful)
except that this treasure
maintains its own impermanence.
and when you go, your fingers are stained
with some bright, a
LullabiesLullabies by RichardLeach
I taught my tongue so many things -
I taught it lullabies.
I sang them softly to my sons,
until they closed their eyes.
I sang them for the wakeful world
and it raved on and on.
It would not rest, it did not heed
the song upon my tongue.
I sang them to my troubles then,
my own, so very near,
and when they fell asleep I saw
how sweet their faces were.
My sons awoke, the world raved on,
my troubles stirred and coughed.
"Sleep on a while," I softly said,
and sang again so soft.
MoreNinety nine candlesMore by TheLunaLily
on a devil's food cake
lined up in formation
like soldiers in uniforms,
blue and white striped,
standing tall and self-sacrificial.
The flare of ignition
burns the hairs in his nostrils
(but it's a special occasion).
Wax drips onto drugstore icing,
marking time as he breathes fire
and makes his wish.
Taking a rideTaking a ride by RichardLeach
I was riding my red bicycle, going down those power lines,
obeying the speed limits and reading all the signs.
I'd been to see Big Serious and now I was headed home,
sometimes being with that guy will make you feel alone.
My ice cream started melting, and so I ate it up,
my favorite flavor - ginger - in a cone and not a cup.
My consciousness was smiling, my heart was open wide,
I began to have the feeling Lord Ganesh was by my side.
The power lines, they took me home, and I was glad to see
my dearest one was waiting there to shine her light on me.
Images: :iconsirobnaiv: :iconatj1958: :iconeliana
Exhume and InhaleI have tasted God, he tasted of sweet wineExhume and Inhale by sunshinegypsy
and sandalwood, the deep forest you lay down
in the moss and twigs, scattered like finger-bones,
your spine ripped out, curved like a bow.
I couldn't find your heart, trembling
against the opened cage of your ribs,
under the gently speaking rustle,
leaves unfurling, the dance of sunlight
slinking between your vertebrae:
piccolo skims and birchskin shaves.
I fled. Your right shoulder blade beckoned still,
unfolding like the slow feathers of a wing,
your wrist flung out, palm
up, gasped my name,
but I could not stay, only
strained your skin with oleander tea,
drifted, drifted with the tumbleweed,
the blind breath of the wind,
and I had tasted God, birdsong on my tongue,
soaring, sweeping, sweet and free.
|15-Minutes-of-Fame: A llama-free, drama-free zone for "fame worthy" literature written by grown-ups of any age.|
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(5) Pieces in a large number of groups -- say, 20, or even more -- may be declined, though some discretion will be shown. We're looking for work that might not otherwise be seen.
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