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ExileDexterous turn of phrase -
silver moonlight, summer's lake,
illuminating nothing.

10.04i.
She sits all alone by the sea
before the empty stretch;
whispered winds wandering through,
without any hope
of a realisation.

ii.
The hush of skin on skin,
such submission in her posture
to shimmy past boulders and pebbles alike
into the vast emptiness --
what a wonderful death it is. To drown.

iii.
Wooden clunk of boats
rocking against the gentle, rippling tides;
brightly painted sides
and glowing edges
and well-ripened lichen and a lining of barnacles
which soothes the onrushing memories.

iv.
Gravel-like hiss of sand on the
sloping route up wooden stairs,
creaky, crumbling boathouse;
faded outlook under grey-blue c

We see the sky where it is skylessNot the crystal with the bluish tint,
nor the dark wisps rising from cigars.
Another realm entirely. There,
day ends in royal purple, fiery orange.
Gray walls hold those colors for an instant.
Air places dew drops upon grass,
as if to say the world begins afresh.
Birds fly together, each supporting the other.

Now the sound of change striking the sidewalk,
the smell of dirty pigeons collected.
Noting the white of the closed blinds of hospital rooms.

blue and gold are not just colorsshe had been blue-sighted
since
dawn cracked her forehead.
it was the dress she wore on his funeral
the color of her school flag
the shine in her father's eyes;
she waited in blue and gold.

no, she refused to set a bar
because
life didn't just come to her.
she earned her place
in her mother's womb
when each blood vessel questioned her
each nerve ending, if she could live
and each antibody, if she was worth it.

see, she doesn't need new dresses.
she has a memory
for each of hers in her locked closet.
she may not wear all of them
(and most she cringes at the sight of)
but her heart
jumps enough
every time bits of her old

DisappointmentOver before it started -
my long sigh a gentle, slow exhale.
That knowledge fit perfectly into the world,
notching into place.

You couldn't escape your old habits.
No helmets or seat belts,
only the comfort of Jim Beam.
Smoking around a gas tank,
even thinking the image itself
cheats its star.
Caution cast out:
proof of you is your
arm wrestling Hercules.

There is nothing to say.
But, like code, there are solutions.
Find an elegant line that fits -
risk in order to know -
and we can begin the process
the picture
of friendship.

all poets are used to deceitare you still savoring
the taste of deceit
off the edge
of your limerick tongue?
you know what i mean
you "poet of unusual sorts,"
with your
chaotic green eyes
and skin of pale misfortune
leaving scents of sweet seas when oceans
begin to spite you.

yes, your silent panthers,
loyal only to the sound of sonnets
of broken piano chords
and keys and torn six-strings.
those slithe things will
prove to you
once,
that betrayal is just eight letters
of pleasure undercover.

it's these little beauties that
will make you see;
every liar was an artist
and every poet was a whore,
just till the point
they owned you no more.

ever

Let the Sparrows InI.

Blackbirds are resting on the power lines,
Their silhouettes form the notation to
A dawn song set on the sheet music of
Telephone poles contrasted by the sun.

Curled leaves are land mines littered
On the lawn where imprints of twigs
And a nurturing robin's tracks collect.

Branchlets and leaflets stem from
Porch step railings and mailboxes;
The numbers read even on the
East side of the asphalt:

Seven-seven-thirty-six.
The engraved letters on
The siding reads, "Davis."
This house is home to family

So let the sparrows in.

The house,
With its branching hallways
And
Overhanging décor
And
Furniture rooted to the floor

whisperscuttlethey whisperscuttle across the ceiling
like spiders, black hairy legs and peppered
poison and squashed letters under

barefoot dances with heavyhanded
secrets like broken branches in a summer
storm. they burrow beneath

fearstenched skin where the purple
strings wait and my collarbone creaks
as they crawl inside with pink marrow

and dirtyblinded tales of betrayal
because the word friend tastes just the
same as love and they both leave

the lingering scent of mould like
winged nightmares, with dusty
surfaces and thin dying flights out in a

tissuewrapped world. they whisper-
scuttle across burnt walls with black
edged paper crumbl

Stepping StonesI rip pages
out of poetry books,
the titles of
Shakespeare
and Plath
and Dickinson
littering the floor
like trash,
and I wonder
if we don't all
wind up stepping stones
in the end.

mosaics.sometimes unique
is not loud;
or bright, alive and raging,
possessed of a hunger for the atypical,
up front and too close,
or thrice-pierced and drenched
in the rebellions
particular to the latest generation.

sometimes it is a girl with
mouse brown hair and eyes
the color of weak tea,
who stands with her schoolbooks clutched
to her chest, in uniform shades of grey-blue
like the midmorning autumn sky

who has a wide mouth prone to nervous smiles,

pale lips and pale cheeks
and words that don't always come out
the way she means

who holds the universe
in the intricacies of her fingerprints
and laughs in treble clef notes
and u

Phoenixshe was
crimson epiphanies, molten elegies
enveloped by dirges of the dead, chanting:

when in god's world, sweet child
pray at the altars of silence

oceans bowed before the grace
of earth-worn eyes, reminders:
serendipity's lost cause.

gravitas and
freedom-- absorbed

absolving rays of enlightenment
shedding stardust skin, peeling
layers of reminiscence from
immolated bones

self-sequestered
flames

she is
sanctified white flags-
divine serenades of rebirth.

Achromatic Dreamstoday, god gave me present.

-
i.

stilted windows, white bones
decaying lungs and my mind races
at the rate of a lone moth's jaded wings

we taste better alone

ii.

clemency is earned
by the damned, by the damned
arbitrary sacrifices

we belong to nobody

iii.

and she bowed with artless grace
kissed the sky, shed stardust tears
choked on angelic moonshine

we draw our own constellations
-

today, i gave god presence.

An old kind of loveOne hundred years from now
The paint we picked out
Will be seven shades different,
Or old bricks made wise
By some graffiti prophet.
The note you hid in my mittens
– All I dream about anymore
Is the ocean
And you
(But mostly just you) –
Will be drifting through dream-catchers and
Those sapling hopes with
Roots tangled like our fingers and
Branches trembling with the vastness of our memories
Will be driftwood adventures
Nodding off with the tides
But I know in this heart of mine
That the smooth-bark-rain-soaked Beech Tree
You planted for me (there's a swing on it now)
Will still be there
And it will remember wha

JusticeFor my students – not everything I've learned. Just most of it.

Maybe there's some realm
where you're tougher than everyone
and all recognize, scatter.

More than likely people plot.
The many cut down the one -
a red sun falls and reigns.

"Wrong us, shall we not revenge?"
Over the wails of the sick and dying,
the silence of the imprisoned,

I hear you. I think about her.
How her portly cat rolled,
how she flooded her garden,

how she sacrificed for even the deserving.
I know the final test is not what you do,
but who you are. Why that last moment matters.

ScribblesAnd he hated the way her portrait was painted
on the walls of his mind

so the thoughts would come and go
like little men with suitcases,
rushing through in the flurry of ideas,
in the death and birth of a dream, but they

would always
pass by her picture.

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Birdlike the soul finds

by *akarra, May 15, 2012, 11:26:00 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

Frown of frustration from him;
she savaged the self crafted.
A drop of sweat almost hit the ground,
but the feathery arm was quite a surprise.
Perched, it was no struggle to take off,
and I met you while making loops in the air.

Highly placed,
transfixed by the refinement of brick, wood.
Then, gliding between buildings,
the power of the draft,
the grandeur of building.
Our day ended atop a telephone pole,
seeing the bright orange and rosy pink fade away.

We don't have a song.
All we have is a natural strength
from an unnatural happening.
You almost left your burden in tears
before you were on that skyscraper,
searching.

Birdlike the soul findsby *akarra

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

©2012-2013 *akarra

Thinking about someone. It's a pipe dream at the moment. Let's see if she responds.

More of my recent (creative) writing: [link]

~~mad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~NachoPenguin Feb 3, 2013 Student Digital Artist

Amazing I love it :3:!!!

Reply

~Sigma-Echo-Seven Sep 13, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Every line of the last stanza is flawless.

Reply

Mood: Joy

~Hazyl Aug 27, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Nice imagery!

Reply

~SpadeDiamondHeart Aug 6, 2012 Student Traditional Artist

This is amazing and I love the amount of vibrancy in you're work!

Reply

Mood: Love

=CrematedMan Aug 5, 2012 Student Writer

I love the imagery and the last stanza is fantastic.

Thank-you for the

and

.

Reply

Mood: Affection

*lantern-rose Jul 12, 2012 Professional Writer

I really enjoyed this, I like how I feel like I am reading through the eyes of a bird spending the day courting another bird in a city. Lovely poem!~

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Mood: Love

~Emo-Girl-Loves-You Jul 7, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

I have no idea how to describe how I see this other than wonderfully done.

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~CoatiMonday Jun 19, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

Brilliant imagery!

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~sioraine Jun 3, 2012

"We don't have a song.
All we have is a natural strength
from an unnatural happening."

Reply

~Serelenntidude May 30, 2012

I hope she does (did?). Looks like there's something there.
This is great the way it flows, the words you chose, and the story it tells, it's just great.

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