[x]

A Petal Fired By MoonlightA petal fired by moonlight’s glow,
Pure white, translucent as a pearl,
Discarded on a portmanteau,
With velvet in its curl.

A poet’s hand upon the sill,
With ink about the fingertips,
With blood upon the ragged frill
And ice about his lips.

A knife upon the dusty floor
Lies scattered in a pile of scraps,
Of gems discarded, ancient lore,
While on the window taps

A raven of unnatural gloss,
In iridescent cerulean,
Come to remind him of his loss
And stare at him and preen.

A carmine trail begins to stain
The woodwork on the floor,
And seeps into the weathered grain
And trickles toward the door.

A moon upon a sea of

MapsRed and blue and green and black veins stretch
across pages, spider-webbing out across expanses,
across golden fields, green pastures,
and evergreen blanketed hillsides
that reach towards mountain tops.
The cardinal nor the rose can claim us.
We are more free than these boundaries insist upon,
free to break through their dashed lines;
it's all just an illusion, like so much else
between destinations and dreams.

We speak of wants and desires so freely
until we submit to being folded into creases,
never neatly, and always with a struggle
to open up and expand beyond outstretched arms.
Our seams will never touch like this, never

SequoiaA soldier stands alone in a field,
His feet firmly rooted to the ground.
He hears the birds fly far overhead,
Though he utters not a single sound.

He's fought many battles in this field,
A veteran of a thousand wars.
He stood strong 'gainst his enemies' knives
And sheltered the helpless from the storms.

He dueled the one who whispers sweetly,
Stood his ground against thunderous cries.
Still he plants his feet so deeply,
This soldier standing tall and ready,
Soaking in the rain so steady--
In endless quest for cloudless skies.

What I'm Left WithPlucking along the curves of the sunburst electric guitar
Becomes the skip of so many grass clipping sighs
On the walk back home from her house
All those apple cores rolling back and forth across books in my bag.
The steel guitar strings now filthy with song
Like the black tatters of my favorite sweatshirt
We used to take turns wearing week after week
Until every seam threatened to unravel.
And when they finally did I sealed the shreds away
In a box with duct tape that sits now in the closet, always
Shut even though I'm sure there's still a strand of her blonde hair
Wrapped somewhere in those black folds.
It resonates on the t

Elysian AutumnThese are
ginkgo days;
and we,
autumnling,
Arcadian
asphodel,
blooming
away from
the sandals
of shepherds,
who trample;
myrtling victors
and wreathing
the walls of
sea-lucked caves,
Arachne-webbed
and dew-bedecked,
where
jewel-rosetted
nymphs make
play;

and is it because
you are not
quite as
gentle
as me
that I
fear and despair?
chastity chaos
but never was
one so
considerately
fair;

it's simple
to love when
you're watching
the world with
such grace
from a place
in the
grass by
a lake far
away.

forestfire exhalationher verses burn silent, in an existence lost in forestfire's exhales
a wildfire waltzing inexorably over her naked forests drowning in untouchable glass.
she crowns me queen in the city of desertfire,
they burn blackholes over scientific studies; (over the skin that wraps me,)
like an empty gift burning in the smoke that rises,
over star-reaching treetops:
wastefull consummation to the greatest.

[ her porcelain hipbone
is my perfect canvas
to ink all the beauty i know ]

we are the earth's nonbiblical scapegoats,
questionmarks tremble over our complexion—
asymmetry and contours of a shadow-city in the comas we l

I Belong to The HurricaneI belong to the hurricane –
the screaming, untamed maelstrom that cleaves away puppet strings
and sharpens its teeth on misconceptions.

I belong to the harsh cold winter of an aching truth –
one that beats a drum like a heartbeat under the graveyards,
whispering things that our ancestors knew (but we have forgotten).

I belong to the hurricane –
yeah, that's the one – the same storm that broke my back and scratched at my eyes.
It flayed open my chest and showed me my own diamond bones.

I belong to angels with battle-torn wings and voices raw from howling!
I belong to war –
and to the air that sings a dirg

immortaland i used to lie beneath the winter's still morning,
watching the cornflower-blue gently bleed through cloud.
there's something that glistens in your eye, so subtle
but i don't want another lover, don't let me take your hand.

and i used to need you always, my lover, oh butterfly
flutter by me so softly, like silken stolen kisses
we used to hold hands by midnight candlelight but now,
i wish you would not return, for i will not survive you.

there is something secret and untouched in your story
something that stones will turn their heads to listen for;
you were the beauty ground up into dust, darling-wilde,
and i don't want you to be

YouI want to write you.
I want to scoop up all that you are: a lovely, bubbling, primitive, raw being,
and lay you in the margins of my paper.
I want to scrawl you with idiosyncrasies and lies and flaws;
I want to weave you a beautiful tapestry of imperfections to choose from,
because that is what makes characters come to life.

I want to know every aspect of you.
I want to know every lover's name and trace every scar,
and I want to know your stories.
I want to erase the beginnings and write only the ends,
because you have forgotten to tell me who you are,
and I want to know what happens next.
I want to etch you into my mind, darling

Memory1.
I will take one flower a day.
I do not know their names
but they are brighter than anything

else I found under the sheets
of conifers. The clotted colours
sit dubious, dew collecting on stems

I hate to fracture. I love
the tenuous ease, an entire plant
ascending from thin soil. An excavation

uncovers roots like fishbones
with their message, an infinitesimal
howl. In frantic pulse of tattoo they plea:

"Remembering is destroying"
But still,
I wallow.

2
One quiescent shriek of warning before
the compulsion of alveolar
collapse [my lungs, my thorax,
undone and tightening]
My breath is a bomb.

I am e

i saw god leaving the shoreLast night I dreamed of blue-grey shores
Of miserable black rocks
that pushed back a tide that crawled with the dull wind
And how I moved so quickly,
Towards the salty edge of the earth;
She told me to run,
To kick back the sand as hard as I could
until something appeared.
And I suddenly saw haunting, stone walls
Gleaming in their symmetry
Made of pale, sturdy nostalgia
with deja vu dripping down
Slipping like liquid mercury
I ran towards it eagerly, and chased my own reflection -
But whenever I caught a glimpse of myself
The drops would dribble and scatter away.
She told me to run further
And my heart ached and my spine arched
against the stinging, salty wind
Yet before I knew it, the ocean floor moved
And I ran down shores
at every turn-
each perpendicular to the previous one.
Everywhere, identical blackened stone barriers
They are all the same, she said
Their crashing waves make the

Artist, Take Up--Oh beautiful artist, take up your
Dark materials and sketch
The skies,
Hold this moment and that
Tight; Caress the grass and the
Trees with your pencil,
Let your pen sing love songs to
The curves of this face,
The soft textures of hair and fur and shirt and skin-
Oh artist, take up
The lonely calling, yours and
The child who waches in her own world,
That painting that lies on the wall...
As a lover, woo:
The world, our playmate and nursemaid,
Loves to be flattered. She will
Stand still for you for years and years,
Mountains holdingh patiently for
Many por

Mothers Unrequited LoveWhat's right is wrong, as wrong is right,
The governing thought of the soul,
I can't feel, nor would I wish to,
The sad cries of sickly longing.

To think a child could make me love,
For just its innocence alone,
Love is but a trick people play,
For their own advantage nothing more.

Never will you soften the heart,
Owned by an unwilling mother,
Turning fury into longing,
For such an undesired child.

Friends think I'm cruel, even knowing,
My daily trials and sorrows
An ungrateful youth forced on me,
Its heretical thoughts they say.

Even still I won't give in yet,
To your fake loving, sickly charm,
Why can't they see, why

Tempest of the TemptedTempest Of The Tempted / Bleeding Turpentine / The Encounter By The Lake

The verdant longleaf pines are teeming by the lake.
They quiver with a mournful scream
And wither and forsake.

The fervent valentine is dreaming sin to make.
He wallows in the serpent's scheme
And follows in your wake.

The merchant serpentines a streaming ghost mistake.
So wont is he to buy your dreams,
And haunt them 'til you break.

The verdant longleaf pines are dying in your wake.
They quiver 'neath your piercing eye
And wither and forsake.

why i'm scared of ghostsdear ghost of christmas past,
it's christmastime.  christmas eve, to be exact.  i can't look outside without seeing the shimmer of the snow, like tiny fireflies etched into each flake.  glistening strands of colorful bulbs christen the neighborhood, like they're declaring us worthy of a little light.
i'm shivering like i got caught in a snow bank, and i'm blinking like i'm hoping my eyelashes will tangle together and pull my lids closed.
i was wondering; if dreams are so pretty, why do they shatter like sherry glasses against tile as soon as we open our eyes?  maybe they aren'

Browse More Like This

Download File
HTML, 919 bytes more ▶

More from ~SugarCoatedLollipops

View Gallery

Featured in Groups:

Not currently featured in any groups.

Details

Submitted: July 26, 2010
File Size: 919 bytes

Link

Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 15
Favourites: 11 [who?]
Views: 404 (0 today)
Downloads: 17 (0 today)

License

Some rights reserved. This work is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License.

[x]

Mimi

by ~SugarCoatedLollipops, Jul 26, 2010, 8:04:19 PM
Literature / Poetry / Family Life / Free Verse

Her lips were cerulean; a never melting frost.
The blue blossomed in the corners of those lips
As the white of snow played upon her relaxed face as delicate as moth wings.
The perfectly quaffed hair of an angel she laid in her coffin,
Her boat that would take her on a voyage to worlds beyond.

Reminiscent to the Lady of Shallot.
Her song had sung into those who knew her
In a clear voice that ran through one's soul
As clear as a bird yet soft as a breeze.
Woven with the themes of life,
In each of us she sung her breath, her spirit.
We now carry a part of her with us.
Her story becomes ours intertwining with time through love and remembrance.

She was a storyteller, cantadora,
medicine woman, wise sage,
The matriarch of our family.

Mimiby ~SugarCoatedLollipops

Literature / Poetry / Family Life / Free Verse

This is dedicated to my Great Grandmother who died a couple of years ago at the age of 99.

Poem (c) ME!

~~love 0 0~~

joy 1 1

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

sad 1 1

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~shebledgreenink Apr 5, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Just so you're aware, the word "quaff" that you used in the fourth line means "to drink heartily." You're looking for the word "coiffed," or even better, "coiffured."

=DailyLitDeviations Jan 23, 2013

Your wonderful literary work has been chosen to be featured by =DailyLitDeviations in a news article that can be found here: [link]

Be sure to check out the other artists featured and show your support by

ing the News Article. Keep writing and keep creating.