Writing

Contains blood and gore.

you were queen of the country
and the duchess of dawn
took my hand in the garden
then left me all alone

spent all my waking moments
enraptured by you
spent all my lonely nights
fading to blue

you were a love that didn't last
another page in my book
another faded photograph
that I'd never look at

took a trip down to Wales
right to Bron-Yr-Aur
slaved my way back
with a broken-down car

you were a lover of Mozart
and a singer of songs
you gave meaning to torture
and glory to wrong

the children played in the river
and they ran between trees
came back well-exhausted
with badly-scraped knees

our wedding was quiet
and the church was run-down
you couldn't wear white
but you never did frown

you played on my weakness
as I wove through your life
and you hurt me so badly
when you thought you were right

I remember the day when
you broke me for good
and the look in your eyes as
you then understood

when I came back from work and
you weren't alone
the kids were at school and
I hadn't been home

you clutched at his shoulders
and your nails left their mark
he was wrapped 'round your finger
with your spear in his heart

then I tapped on the window
with a masquerade face
and of guilt, shame or sorrow
your eyes held no trace

I left you that evening
packed my bags and set out
back to Bron-Yr-Aur
to settle my doubts

the country was fresh and
the grass, it stayed green
but I'd never belong there
as you were its queen

I missed our children
but they'd long moved on
and every so often
the wind sang your song

I opened my book
and turned to page three
splashed tears on the pictures
of you kissing me

the queen of the country
you died on the first
the sixth decade of living
you'd done since your birth

This is a gift for Quad, about Nekumbra of The Deadly Trio

To Be Nekumbra

Capture the fawns in silk-shining blankets,
woven tight of gossamer --
Cradle them in your long, long legs
dark and chitin-bound, coated in coarse fur
like the mane of a wild horse.

Dream for a moment of being their mother
of their eyes looking at you for an answer,
of living with them clinging to your smooth side,
unbroken by joints without bones.
Their faint strugles, the shaking of those pretty little legs --
they crash that fantasy open, shake down your masks --
and you can't wear their masks,
deer-masks, spell-masks, because they can't cover you up.

Sing them lullabyes and watch their eyelids droop
over succulent eyes. At last.
Pop them in your mouth like green grapes,
their juices running down your jaws like tears.

The key is this:
Hunt, and hunt, and never have it.
Eat, and eat, and never be full.

Warning: This story contain blood, violence and gore.
Under cut. (:

--

The bee scares me
To put it quite simply
I fear his bite and sting
I fear the buzz of his little wings
I fear the path he takes when flying
I even fear the nest in the tree
Oh little bee, why do you torment me?
Why is it so hard for me to see
Your polite and solemn working?
How can I escape my fear ensuing
Every time I see black and yellow pursuing?
What is it you wish to tell, little bee?
To not give into fear so easily?
To not let my instinct get the best of me?
What can I learn from your generosity?
You wish for my life to be free
Of terror, fear, and constant worry?
And you wish for me to live so carefree
Much like the life of a kindly bee?
Then so it shall be

Next ->

Tonight: Prologue

[=#357EC7]
In a faraway world, there is a grand city, and in that grand city, there is a series of rooms. The walls of the rooms are pale as frost and just as cold; the floors of the rooms are made of gleaming stone and, like the moon, glow where the sunlight hits them. The rooms contain a bathroom, a bedroom, a library, and a garden, and a large, empty room, cut in half by a row of curtains. Everything a person would need. This is good.

The person who lives in these rooms has never left them. The person who lives in these rooms has never dared. The person who lives in these rooms is forbidden to ever see walls that aren't of white stone.

Besides the garden, there is only one place where the floor glows from the light of the sun. It is a little window, by the side of the bed. The person who lives in these rooms loves that window, more than anything else in the world. Through that window, this person can see the movements of people, people who will never see him -- through that window, he can see the flight of birds, and hear the sounds of that grand city -- the children, sometimes laughing, sometimes crying; the old women, haggling out the price of turnips, too high this year; the vendors, singing out songs about how lovely coal is; the carts and the animals being led to slaughter and the loving and the fighting, the crimes and the small street-side miracles of ordinary lives.

Lives that this person will never touch. He raises a covered hand to touch the window. There is nothing about this person that isn't covered by layers of fabric. Only his eyes, blue like the sky he can see from his window, are unblocked.

His guardian, behind him, coughs gently, and the dream of the window fade away. He turns and does not smile. His guardian cannot bear to look at him too long. Not in the eyes.

Still awake and really inspired from the fog this morning when I walked my dogs, and also I wanted to write something in return. I was going to write something about your deer but couldn't find a whole lot of info about him so I hope this is okay.

-------------------------------

Fog and flowers, morning mist
Veiled in beauty, lovely bliss
Here you are, blossomed before me
Though far away no eyes shall see
I traveled afar in search of my light
To protect me from the demons of night
And now here I am, in shrouded awe
To the flowers before me with none a flaw
And thus the curse lifted, my eyes clearing
Gone were the darkness, the demons, the fearing
The fog thus lifted, and petals gave wisdom
So I kissed them for my wondrous freedom
And since then, for every flower that I see
I reminisce of visions and deep endless beauty
So a lesson to us all, shall we always be reminded
Keep strongly the treasures this Earth has provided

valaki tudna segiteni?nem megy a regisztrálcio!

For once, a poem not done in Seed's name, but in my own. I wrote most of this last semester and finished it today. I must have been feeling masochistic, since it's a sestina.

[center]
An Endless Sestina

Freeze-Tag, Post Office, Horses – the things I used to play,
formed of my own body, their genesis in imagination.
I forged them with my friends, casting in flexible gold those games
That occupied a million summers. The swamp became a forest.
My movements, staggered through the mud, had no poetry.
I wandered alone, or guided a single friend: I needed no more community.

‘I rip your throat and kill u’ ‘U CHEATED!’ Is that what they call community?
No, Those Wolfquest WoW worlds are nowhere I could play;
Nothing that spins off of itself for me into spiraling poetry,
Nothing in filling up bars that stirs imagination:
I’d much rather lope in grey wolf shape in that forest .
I have no need for N00b-hunting games.

I freeze in terror at those games
Where I could be isolated from their Community,
Like a tree stomped out of its Forest.
I’d start it up, I’d want to Play
To see what so seizes others’ Imagination;
And I’d run and use that fear for bad Poetry.

Maybe I should just stick with Poetry
Frolic in a Frenzy, Free in Games,
Building perfect moments of Imagination.
I wouldn’t know how to really reach the Community,
But that’s fine. I know how to Play
Alone, making words to trees to Forest.

And then I find The Endless Forest:
It’s wordless. Just deer; A living painting, not poetry.
There, the players cast off words and play
Making names from symbols, miming games
That could be made.

The Endless Forest

Clash of Titans {Possible Rock Hound story}

[ memory book ]

To Be Nekumbra (For Quad)

Rock Hounds; Promise of Protection

Moose vs. wolf ( Rock hound story, violence and gore warning. )

Bee (Poem)

Tonight, a Prologue...

Fog and Flowers (Hushabye)

segitség!

An Endless Sestina