Featured: Mommy Told Me
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Some dreams seem to be much more
like little plays with two encores
like snowy days with sunshine rays
or something shiny at the store
Some dreams seem to never end
like birthday weekends with a friend
like bubbly suds in giant tubs
or blanket castles to pretend
Some dreams seem to linger there
like Grandma's perfume in the air
like sticky buns upon your tongue
or winter snowflakes in your hair
A daytime dream can sometimes spark
a springtime smell or meadowlark
I watch the snow just swirl and blow
and let the daydreams come and go.
Mature contentThe smell of the rain (Eng) R-R-Eco 7 10
I am Three
I am Three.
Split in half by the separation of my parents, I was broken.
In the lavish world in which my father resided, I was a pretty puppet.
Dresses of tulle and red-soled heels I could not remember names of tried to befriend me, the hollow fragrance of a thousand expensive perfumes combining in the four-floored mansion to emit an odor of ostracism.
It was a world of materials. Nothing was genuine. Yet it is the only thing my mother regrets leaving behind when filing those papers.
Then why am I not
When I’m here?
A Maybach Mercedes opens its doors to return me to the airport. I won’t see it again until next year, and I regret not having tried harder to be happy. If only I’d get one more day, I could turn into the daughter my father wanted, and maybe he would finally tell me he loved me
and mean it.
But did I
The airplane’s doors open on the grounds of my home city.
The warm aura of love and genuine hap
Ballad for a Bushy Beard
It's time to trim
this bushy beard.
Can't find my chin-
A grungy sheep
I never sheared.
grow like weeds.
"Tame that beast!"
the family pleads.
Finally, my sloth
I gathered scissors,
blades and combs.
I bought some Face-Nick's
I prep'd for paleface
With ninja blur
I sliced and chopped!
The whiskers snowed!
I swept and mopped,
before I stopped.
When the chin-fuzz
all had settled,
I felt so fit
so firm and fettled!
My nose was high
my rose was petaled!
I cleared my throat
and then announced
"Reduced the grunge
nearly an ounce!"
I bowed and basked
in loud applause!
My daughter's smile
then drooped and paused...
"I miss 'ol squishy Santa Claus."
i don’t want to write a poem
about you, or me,
even oceans -
vortices of brontebight sand
pull beneath our feet,
the crashing waves
of laughter &
bay wide smiles
lithe sea grass
is your role model
(neither of you could
really care for that)
& shoals of fish
have never had to write a single sentence
in analysis of foreign relations
i don’t even want to write
but i can’t paint
& social piroue
land of the envied.
there’s a cross inked down the flat plane of his back,
one thick line of black punctured by the jut of bone,
but a shrug of fabric later and that’s all gone –
was it ever really there in the first place?
the lone paper bag in the corner of the room
has wrinkles all over its front and back,
trademark symbols of wisdom and serenity –
gone through mass production and rough hands.
a still body of water slowly clouds over in the tub,
the temperature warm enough to fight away goosebumps
but cold enough for you to want to sink into it and never rise –
one slow trickle is all it takes for empty gaps to fill up over time.
a three-legged chair supporting its own lopsided weight on
a pile of ashes that will never feel fire ever again.
constellations reflect light down towards the masses and look pretty –
but that’s all they’ll ever be.
things are always beautiful when they’re doomed,
when they have an expiration date, when they’re sure t
The Art of Poetry Killing
When I find an old poem
Packaged beneath an allegory
Or taped beside a piece of prose,
Warm and balmy and still swollen
Ripe with the undisturbed
Within their plastic wrapper,
I untangle its cellophane bindings
To find it's too old
And too stale for the proper use of a poem
So I pluck out its
Like some guts of a creature
And sew them
Onto other dust poems
Like the mismatched socks
Of a child
Just like murder is an art,
I still walk away with ink on my hands.
A Cottage by a Steam Train Track.
It was one of those balmy, summer days where everything was still and beautiful, as if painted – and one would dare not breathe lest the perfection was spoiled. The only place that moved was beyond the windows of the train where Henry sat; it flickered by like an old film, yet the sepia tones were replaced with a vivid blur of colour. A pity Henry could not appreciate the scenery as he had nodded off.
At the end of the line the train stopped and Henry woke up. He could see clouds of steam billowing from the front engine. He looked at his watch – five hours had passed and yet the journey should have taken less than an hour. Steam trains were slower, he supposed and was amazed that this one was still running. Still retro was everywhere now.
He stepped from the carriage and was instantly wrapped in the stillness that had persisted since sunrise. Tall weeds grew at the side of the line and on the platform itself, rising from cracks, as if to all
a dangerous hallucination
The light coming through the window was bright,
much too bright.
Even though my eyes were closed
I could see it-
The skin of my arms prickled,
sweat dripped from my brow.
It was two in the afternoon but…
the sun was setting
through the window facing east.
I should have seen the hutch,
shelves lined with bone china
decorated with delicate leaves and vines.
I was so thirsty
and reaching for cups that should have been there.
Instead I found a billboard of butterflies,
the colors raging
more than any rainbow
I'd ever seen.
Their wings fluttered and flashed
yet somehow they moved in slow motion.
I wanted to stand,
wanted to reach out and touch them but…
I couldn't move,
and yet I laughed
ignoring my dry mouth
and the tingling in my feet.
There was a tempest
on the rise
and in my blood.
A sugar rush disguised
as a riot of butterflies
and they were swarming me.
There was a small vial
of insulin in my pocket
that I nev
It never leaves you, the addiction.
No matter how long you live, you never stop being an addict. Once you have become one, it never goes away. Once you’re labeled an addict, you will always be one. Some people may forget, or you may move away someplace where nobody knows your past, but you yourself will always know, and you yourself will always remember. You never stop being an addict, the illness is tattooed all over your body, your insides, your brain, it's everywhere. It's slavery: being a slave to your self-soothing medication.
Everyone always says that admitting you have a problem is the first step into recovery, the biggest step. They never tell you that the hardest part has yet to come. You can admit you have a problem ten times a day, but still let yourself give into temptation after each and every admission.
Withdrawal is its own circle of hell. The misery that encompasses your life when you’re in withdrawal eradicates all desire and motivation to fight. If by some miracle you manage to get past it,
Incompetence: A Half-Baked Tale
She disappears in a puff of smoke and leaves me standing there
In a dress of the palest gossamer, with fancy curling hair.
I take a step—my slippers pinch—“Oh dear, they’re slightly small―”
But the coachman interrupts me: “Come! We cannot miss the ball!”
He grins at me with buck teeth as he stands by the carriage door;
I climb inside; my slippers sink in the spongy, slippery floor.
The seat is slightly sticky, leaving pumpkin on my palms,
But the coachman cries, “Hooray! We’re off!” and waves excited arms.
The carriage starts with a painful lurch and soon we’re rolling fast;
I close my eyes and pray it holds together to the last.
My hair is shaken loose; I bump my head, my hand, my knee,
And I wonder if that fairy passed her Magic Arts degree.
Along we jump and jerk and jolt; I’m flung from side to side;
The carriage comes to a screeching halt to end our breakneck ride.
DFC2013 7: The Lady of Life and Death
Her breath sings the snow
and autumn obeys,
consenting to bow
to winter's arrays.
And autumn obeys
for it does not die
to winter's arrays
in the wind of her sigh.
For it does not die
but consents to bow
to the wind of her sigh
as her breath sings the snow.
The devil watched me dreaming,
kissed my wrists
and painted my lips with blood.
I bartered for my place in heaven,
but I was buried too deep
to be heard.
He pushed me
out to sea and I
valiantly tried to drown.
I Didn't Think
i. Your wolf grin
burned brighter than
the sun-drop days that we
At the end of our short
paradise I would
watch the candle-wax sun
as it dripped down
a canvas of colour, and somehow
it always called to mind the
vivid shape of your upturned lips
and the way that dimple would arch up
recklessly like I used to arch up and
linger into your embrace and I recalled
the sharp gleam in your laughing eyes
as you dared me to ever
try and forget about you.
You etched your words into my
sun burnt skin but eventually
they faded into-
ii. A crisp reminder
written in the warm scale of
leaves, falling like I did for you
and now I fold them up into little
squares and place them in
my pocket (because you said that
lockets meant death) but
I just want them safe, somewhere
the winds cannot steal them
from the fragile grasp of my
aching fingertips or
clear away your smirking breath
that lounges like a coat on my shoulders.
Memories aren’t tangible
and you never believed in metaphors
If stars are wheat fields,
The moon – a scythe; we shared the
The night is aglow, sitting
in the depths of my heart;
the city lights knitting
pale orange halos above.
In breaths pale with Argyle pink
diamond, the lovers rise
over the very brink
of the iceberg's cyan crown,
like celestial bodies.
In the crumbs of honeycomb
scattered on the table,
I'll find our proteome;
I want to decipher our
genetics, map your heartbeat
and find constellations
among every discreet
naevus nestled upon you,
joining the dots.
I'll pursue you forever,
until my worthless bones
(in boundless endeavour)
are at last compressed into
Argyle pink diamonds.
of footprints ingenuously left behind
in the sand, blown away by now.
I remember a new track in the snow
but it has melted away
- merely my own reflection lingers in the water.
A thought of a muddy trace in the mist
- another attempt to let myself stray -
yet by now the rain has cleared the way
does any of it matter?
Time blurs all of it into actions of whim
Careful footsteps on liquid cement
a tough path
I hope, I won't be stuck.
But then you smile from afar
You know, I'm on my way
and behind me, the cement dries in the warm sun of spring...
O sing, muse
I fell asleep once with my memory caught
in tadpoles and roses and water and light,
in the mausoleum where bloodshot eyes
And paper meet (where ideas drop from nubby pencils,
to splay, stillborn, across a sea of white).
My pen bled circles
through my desk that night.
When I woke, you were standing
on the edge of my sight,
your eyelids trailing ink.
I watched your hands fold in and out,
The smell of words too strong to think.
You smiled at me and let me fall
into the promise of your face.
There I read snowflakes, sea-foam and angels;
flashes of of glory and splinters of grace.
I asked you in, and your words behind -
'Sing, muse, of roses and water and light,'
I was fool enough to call them mine -
My pen bled circles
through my desk that night.
Her aorta ensnared
by vines, her capillaries
shrivelling, as flowers
drink up life-energy. Her
nervous system a cave full
of shipwrecks, and her bones
crumbling, like the walls
of a once ancient tomb.
She has to wonder,
Air is being forced out of your lungs.
Can't help but tilt your head back,
surroundings revealing themselves.
Struggle to keep your eyes open,
against a savage current.
I don't - understand.
You gasp again,
You feel warmth too.
Pile of Ashes
Herman Mildew, the devious bastard who hung a match, blazing with life above a manuscript that took me five years to write? Yes, I know him…and yes, I remember the remnants of his jealousy, a pile of ashes left smoldering. Years of work just gone.
I can recall that evening like it was yesterday…
The sweltering July heat hung over me like a scalding blanket. My mouth was dry with a parched passion as my hands worked diligently curving the pen as I wrote the last words, the last sentence…the last thought of my manuscript that would waft me up to the stage in front of thousands of people where I could proclaim my genius.
I slid the stack of papers into the slick, black briefcase and secured the locks before I hefted it up and headed for the elevator, my way out of the steel cage.
I stood before the large, metallic doors; a putrid, sickening odor scratched at my nostrils. Damn, I thought. Before I was able to turn around to face the vile being, a voice that was just as
He was the perfect soldier, like a white
pawn on an inky board. Innocent fray:
'Unstained', they named the better man
Who swore to find the other side of Day.
He followed every order graven in
Cold stone. He never broke the dusty chains
Of honor, twisting close around his heart;
The iron singing thunder in his veins.
He dreamed about Tomorrow, the other
side of day. Tear-streaked morning never came,
Rain-washed. The only dawn was drowned in blood
And ringed in coiled dragons: rising flame.
The tide of blood that stained horizons, weep-
ing, splattered gently on his brittle face,
He buried, dead, in rushing water deep.
His hands were clean, without a traitor stain.
His men lie around him, dead at whispered last,
The light of life drains out behind their eyes;
(The clanging horrors of his dreams, cracked glass,
Were false. Despair in icy silence reigns.)
The only color left to him is red,
To mock brave, innocent and silent white:
An afterglow of symmetry he once
Believed could end the sc
awaken from this
you’ve become a servant to the ocean,
obeying its every command –
succumbing to its demanding beauty,
hypnotised by the tranquillity.
(rising and falling.)
(falling and rising.)
you fragile, broken thing,
a beautiful golden fool –
your frame filling with
bones stiffening, skin wrinkling
blood turning blue.
you’re visiting the ocean’s depths,
welcoming the cruel world below;
but those lungs of yours are burning,
and those soft eyes are questioning –
you ocean captive,
open your eyes
swim to the top –
and breathe the air,
Jelly Beans and Chocolate Rivers
It’s out of place, even ridiculous. She removes her coat and shoes, placing them, a black marker pen, and an aqua pad on the nearby bench. And she steps onto the frosted grass with bare feet, only a snowy, floaty dress for protection against the winter sting. She stands at the curved edge of a frozen lake, staring out at the icy expanse, thinking that if it was shattered into innumerable little pieces of cool crystal, too small to put back together, that might be an appropriate metaphor for what was gone, how life moved on, how she had to move on with it, surrounded by boundaries.
With closed eyes, she raises her head to the cloudy, grey sky she is unable to touch, taking a deep breath and spreading her arms wide, as if ready to embrace the solid liquid like it was a relic of the past. Humming a seamless melody, she begins a delicate dance, her black hair swaying, her dress floating around her like choreographed clouds.
She was no longer a child. What was that fantasy world, but