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He doesn't write poetry anymore.He doesn’t write poetry anymore,
even if he still collects it, reads it, saves it, treasures
faded verses from his wife the way connoisseurs
savor vinyl over metallic rainbows on disc.
I don’t mind not knowing, but I can’t stand not asking.
The record needle hits the groove wrong;
he stumbles over words that aren’t there,
rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore
and his confusion is strangely endearing.
But there’s a lyricism to his words that I love,
poetic lines inserted between the daily grind
of character names and who said what;
voiceless boys in white and draymen carting the dead to saltwater lakes,
elegiac undertones that haunt historians and forlorn painters.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore –
except when he does.
Wait HereThe wolf gnaws its leg
from a trap
and if you are
looking for comfort
among these lines
I hope you find it.
A poem keeps no secrets
from its author
so I must
7[there's a loudness] you exude. i don't
think these wisdom teeth ever got pulled out
or cared for. while
you only listen to classic rock
brahms's hungarian dance no.5 &
sometimes the woodpecker
trying to work its way
into your heart. i bet
you are less confident than you seem. i
bet you carefully fold
that your lonely nights are nothing
more than salty alcohol & teaspoons
as the violins grumble & louder, louder—
[i know] you wither, wish for the horned man in the night.
The works of my hands.My hands are like that of an old man's.
They are strong, tendons flexing and jutting out, tiny little muscles pulling with greater strength than I have in my whole body, rests in my pinky.
I have filled my head with text books and numbers, happy and sad memories, and I will still never know as much as these hands.
They have written a thousand words, and on one new years eve, writing myself away from lonely, I developed a blister on my middle finger which I named a Badge of Honor.
A few weeks back that same finger developed a bruise under neath the callous from so many hours taking notes, wring essays, still more poetry, but this time I called it a Pain in the Ass.
8 years back these fingers fumbled, clumsily, at fluffy yarn that they now wield expertly to craft scarves sold for pocket money.
These are my hands.
The veins jut out like thick blue cords and even jump about when the powerful tendons flex beneath. And my nails with chipped polish have slightly jagged ends where the wire cut
The Parlour IncidentOne day in July, I believe it was, I found myself sitting with several acquaintances in Christopher's parlour. It was one of those deliciously lazy afternoons which only the summer in her full glory can bring. The room had a wan, listless light to it, relaxing the other guests and myself as we languidly chatted over tea and crumpets. The air was also sluggishly heavy, dulling the senses to a slowly-blended calm engendered by the heat of St. Othniel's southerly climate.
At length, after much stimulating conversation, Christopher stood, producing a book of sheet music.
"What do you all say to a bit of music?" he asked.
"Certainly," I answered.
"Oh yes, please do darling!" Tabitha exclaimed, "he's quite the maestro."
Christopher laughed, shaking his head.
"Now, now love, I'd not go that far."
He strode over to the piano as the other guests urged him on. Ida entered the room bearing a merrily steaming teapot and more crumpets.
"More tea sirs?" she inquired, shooting sideways glances at her
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More