|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
Why I stay1.
every day you wake me
with a gentleness
I did not know you possessed
you are waiting at the door
stamping your feet
on the frozen ground,
with your bone white teeth
there is a restlessness going around,
something I think
borne of this winter air
I am filled with a longing
not lustful, nor painful,
but rather like a constant
from every direction
as if the particles themselves
that compose my body
are becoming detached
tired of the tension, the constant
push to shove
to deserve your love
We are both foreigners in a house we once shared.Reacquaint me:
your mother died last year; my boyfriend has left.
You wring your hands beneath the table, where you think
I cannot see. I refuse
to care; instead I
line up lovers
between bites of toast.
You've taken to staying out
late, I've taken
to sleeping early. We exchange
carefully chosen words-- the ones
clipped of meaning.
here we are, breathing the same city air,
both of us trying to seize our own brands
of happiness. Yet what is that
but a passing shadow of sun?
In the darkening afternoon
it illuminates us
at our prime. We can no more
than we can trap
the loves of our lives
to our side.
Reacquaint me: let us burn, let us shiver.
These days I am closerThese days I am closer to the place--
I've wanted to remember
for years. These days
I can sometimes smell
the salt of the sea
I catch a glimpse of a small girl,
a blonde pixie cut;
I catch a glimpse of her white slip
and feel the cool and life-filled chill
of early morning biting
I see a window overlooking the bustling
downtown street below.
In the quiet of morning
in this stillness of time
I am close
it is hard
for a city to sag
you never see the pigeons flee
& when a city can offer
there is no excuse
holding only a question
from years ago
the words have gone
by too many
it is hard
to trust what is left:
a pressing gust
the smallness of a voice
across the still
Necessitiesthe line dips again
into the foaming wake, its feathered hooks
already thin trails of feces
streak their white bellies
they lunge for freedom but
soon can only gulp
is it wrong
to look away?
there, the high sun, there a gull
there, the racers, their white sails
on the horizon
& for a moment
at my feet
it is wrong
to look away
sonnet of a changeling childstale pumpkin spice and cinnamon alight
upon this cold expansion of damp air
this untouched day before it trips the snare;
what simple turns can mark the fae's soft flight.
and of this changeling child on wheat-bare earth
who'll flit from fold to field at merry whim?
a swaying dance upon a tree's high limb
will beckon over every call to hearth.
today a brisk and rapid north gust flings
him from his perch within the sweeping oak:
a fallen boy with bruises fresh, and yet--
what mother's hand can pin his fledgling wings
when swath in autumn's auburn leaflined cloak
he'll flee: a seed, a passing silhouette.
to Yellow Plumto Yellow Plum (in blue
afternoon's slit of sun slips
between thick curtains
& woos you to ripeness.
it chooses you
not for flecks of honey-russet
held low in your seam of shadows,
nor your symmetry & swell;
you slink in shade, sink
behind green pear & clementine
& cannot hide
from each spear of light
against these lips
a tea-stain stone
the trashbin floor.
It is enough that I sit here gently
rocking, every glass still
undrunk these quiet
hours, my face
unzippered, my skin
discarded on the floor;
the sigh of the fridge, the creaks
UntitledVanquished wastelands, xeric: yesterday's Zion.
Soil, sunbaked, caves and crumbles. Fossilized boughs line the bank and strain deep into the river's hollow belly, feeling phantom water; they do not know the tight rations of survival to last them through such a blight, and stretch and seek with abandon. Each fruitless endeavour comes as unexpected, induces another strenuous effort.
Sunset teeters, ubiquitous.
Like a coin balanced on the rim of the land, it toys with the temptation of the fall. From time to time it is struck by its own delirium, and licks the edge with a soot-blackened tongue-- but does not waver, does not bow its head in the least. It has made a bet with the earth; which will outlast the other?
Nearer, osprey perch: querulous, resisting.
One has just caught a plump fish, a rare event that merits not celebration but deep-rooted suspicion. The fish are few, and t
Stop putting words in my mouthYou shove your fingers
down my throat,
and insert words
I never spoke,
in desperate hopes
to make me choke
my pearly gates
that feeds me
swallow the universedecay remembers you --
fever breath and ocean-eyed ghosts,
secrets that smoke with poison desire.
we wake only to drink, to devour
the naked voices of dismantled stars.
glass kisses turn into granite lips
and pillars of salt; a haunted embrace
melts into the cracks of the universe.
Love is not blindLove is not blind. It can see clearly.
It looks past the boundaries.
It defies the judging stares of society.
It is a force to be reckoned with.
eidolon longingbreath salts open rooms
that entomb my idle hants.
in gloomy aberrance.
when the pulse was flaunted
remain the pursuit
of lanterns haunted.
questions flung like
furtive surface glances
ghost through iris eyelines
with an epiphany;
this search sparked
full body shudderings.
shuttering every window
and portal alike,
a light threatened by
the tending toward pulsatory spikes.
aorta, i spied you
spidering open your eyes
sliding the pursuit of dawn
through your dim sight.
with the sun, beat,
you forge forward for
warded window panes,
a rhythmic wonder repeat.
but eyelids live locked,
a careless cage holding
in this socket shock.
tock and tick that slick swindle options;
your image a lit blossom in a bottomless pit.
i’m reaching, but god, this
isn’t possible when
you’re this obstinate;
i am a fossil you’ve discarded
with hardly a sniff.
snuff me out, i’ll sputter devout and wish
my cardiac espousal had been more
seven.my nights for the last weeks have
consisted of liquid
poison, smoke in
and the chilled sound of
wake up with my
head half off the sidewalk,
surrounded by shards of
and a faint touch of
[ill pick myself back up on my own two
feet.. and stumble back;
eight.sometimes i feel
life's been played like a puppet
on a tangled
[yet still i'm lifeless without you .]
she had come seeking a riotshe found religion in silence.
there wasn't a prophet's bone
in her body, not a holy cell of skin, but
somehow she was something
to believe in. she called herself a woman, not an angel nor
madonna, and the crucifix on her tongue could
not make her hold her words.
they called her witch and called her
goddess, made of something
such as marble, but she said she wasn't one
to be revered -
icons made of glass were
made to break, she claimed she was not
born to die;
(silence is found in the loudest of tongues, for speaking is an art
not all have learned-)
then I am left with the king:
the plastic clicks as he thuds back and forth
and the pawn
who can only look forward
is still stuck
then I must decide:
the quick and painless way
into the pocket of white guards ahead,
or should I instead keep running
in frantic circles,
tighter and tighter?
I see triumph in your eyes and instead I--
lost in the web
of strategies I will never know
losing a game I've never known how to win
I call defeat
there is a metaphor there
and something about life
and the other people
Keep in Touch!
A two-time Community Volunteer for the deviantART Related category, Anne is well-known as a positive, helpful force. She is the community's resident expert when it comes to CSS (Cascading Style Sheets), and her personal gallery offers a wide variety of tutorials for new and experienced coders alike. In addition, each winter she hosts a calendar project encouraging members to create Journal designs for all to use, bringing more creativity to the community.
It is with immense gratitude that we acknowledge Anne as the recipient of the Deviousness Award for October 2014. Read More