[x]

enamorHer body like that of
a fawn,
trembling
unconfident
hesitant. He lays her
fecund bones on
the bed, plants them with woolen
fabric under the
covers
drapes her with skin,
his
and falls into her,
enamored
sonic sound

she is

embryonic,
amazonian,

but he
folds her like cloth
until she is but
a thin line
blanketing the astral
phenomena that is
his heart.

CrystallineThe pavement is accustomed
To refuse
But not the eggshells
And half-smoked cigarettes
Left outside the French doors.
Snow comes and covers this –
It cannot cover you.

You wear a paper hat
That I made
From the poems I wrote.
You always knew
Whom I wrote them for.

I see you doe-eyed,
Snow lands on your lashes
And in my hair.
The ice between our lips,
As we kiss, melts.

The SiegeThe first mile is always the easiest.
—Kyle Lynn to me, circa 2006

Tell that to the ghosts,
men soaked in sand and blood spray,
storming the shores of Normandy.

First Infantry's sprint through coastal
trenches, up bluffs, under ruptured drays.
Tell that to the ghosts

huddled in half-channeled holes,
a captain's dash through shrapnel, gray
storm on the shores of Normandy.

A German boy adrift in the compost
of his legs, his elbows' grand flail.
Tell that to the ghosts

ripped in four by mortars posted
over Omaha. Dawn's evenly keeled decay
storming the shores of Normandy

I Am EyesI am eyes, that unholy duality.
There are six deer in the dead field
who have survived late fall,
with its plague of men and guns.

I am eyes, turned to the pregnant sky.
There are pockets for hands,
thick wool for feet,
but eyes take the cold head-on.

There is clamor far away. There is cackle and bray.
There is grumble and wine, there is raw meet.
Handed over like suspicion, taken like greed,
like gold from the cocoa-skinned hide-hidden
lesser gods, there disappears my world.
But I know nothing of this. I am sleepy.
I am eyes.

StarsFat and fuzzy stars tonight, baby blue comfort
Singing lullabies, soothing through the cold clear night
Promises of spring;
Windowpane lookers, abandon your sorrow
Wide-eyed children, believe that tomorrow
Unseen, the stars
The stars still sing

Staphysagria.you read me a novel,

it read that I,
sweet like
'sorry',
was angry

and that when we
fought, spat
and trembled

I told the
truth,
boiled and
we did not

comprehend
each of our
sins

-

you hurled me back
to the prelude
with mis-
understanding and I

fled, my past in my
mouth and I

scratched and bruised
like love-bites,
overwhelming my
skin

-

climax;
a scream when you
applogised in
the kitchen,

fell to the floor

and we needed a
mother,

pappa and mamma
came to comfort,
infuse
comprehension

-

we are the mountains
around my home,
pouring and foggy
and relentless

and perhaps mamma
was right, perhaps

stille w

Renga Tree - limping hometell me old friend
why am I too limping home
at this hour

strangeryou came clinging to the grace of a summer storm's
underbreath, came cold hands and tired eyes
and a bruised lip i'd longed to kiss
when you stumbled on night listing
too far to the left
cross my thistledown garden by old dusks
that wilt between, i'll keep my door open:
your lady in sepia doesn't live here, only
the ghosts and i -- and Grandmother,
in the far-between wanders when she can
remember --

but i've a place where you can
lay your wayworn bones to dry, and
if morning should come calling, i'll not
tell her where you sleep. and stayed awhile.

leavetakingi.
the world is brighter where
dregs of strangers' revels remain --
i keep this half-light for my own.

ii.
i'll stay until the wind sighs a scotch-and-smoke
cliché, til the Muscadet's slipped from the lip
of my wayward
hello.(i know you're there before you do.)
iii.
your night is told in
patchouli-pulse wanders; mine,
in whorls of liqueur-breath. come
close and i'll find the warp
through the weft, the trails telling tales
in synaesthesia --
Platinum Blonde's been 'round and gone.

iv.
(-- closer, find syllables strewn
in an exhale's wake; stolen from my throat-
ful of careless farewells, spin and sway

Le Cle I smiled, once upon a time,
As mother's frantic eyes
And pinkened dimples sponsored
The morning's proceedings. Have you seen
My keys?

Softer ShoresOn softer shores, in open pores
I feel your waves rush in.
Take me over, blood and bone,
Into a lover's hymn.

Movements slow and thoughts are numb,
Taken in by the sea.
Ashamed to be so compelled
As to let you consume me.

Words tender and eyes closed,
Shadows along the sand,
Watching us spiral, float and tumble towards each other's land.

1 in 5It's easy
To be ivory white
To tower yourself
To plug yourself in

It's easy
Sleep through
Work commute
Sleep until
TV watch
Sleep
Repeat

It's easy
to preach
Abstract charity
It's easy
To write
Long range cheques

It's easy to forget
The starvation country
At the corner of King & Bay

we let our worries gowe let them go
on the neck of fall,
because they worried us -
shaken cans on fishing lines
over streams gone hoarse from summer -
instead, we took up a pelt of
hands,
black and ochre,
and blue,
from crawling the caterpillar husks
of drains,
finding a city of water skin echoes,
a handbag of skies
ready to be kicked open -
and in the sound
of leaves crunching
we let them go,
clipped our hopes
to a jacket of skyscrapers
flinging their arms back
and waited for a comb of bees
to swarm up into a smile

November 24thNovember 24th

I'm ok –
That's the best I can ask for.

The girl at work
Finds me with her eyes
And smiles,
I am in love.
I don't want to be like this –
Attention starved
Without nourishment.

I'm still longing for
Memories;
This is painful.
No amount of encounters
Can change what has passed.

open casketfrom the first time at age twelve,
when my dad had his final heart attack,
i've never looked closely at the departed.
it felt intrusive into his peace,
his final exposed defenselessness.

the struggle was over, the contest, the race,
to be accepted in dignity, and grace;
see it portrayed, upon the somnolent face.

each person's death, timely or not,
fulfills an obligation to the universe,
and to its endless random ricochets.

to play, is to someday lose;
or we might consider it as simply
an always anticipated culmination.

death feels personal, but is not;
the final nonzero sum outcome -

as life resounds
from beginning to end in echoes,
an e

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Cosmic SymphonyThe notes build up deep within you
burning at your core
snaking through your veins until your skin hums red-hot with fire.
They say the sun is hottest
when you are just barely out of reach.
It is there you shall ignite.
But if I managed
to slip past your blistering corona
past the halo of light that surrounds you -
and stroke your scorching surface
would I find the right
to burn with you?
And maybe
I could learn to play you
like the instrument you are.
Helios, god of the sun,
your surface shudders with sound,
melodious vibrations
unfit for such ears as mine.
Yet still I wonder what you would sound like
if my hands would not

This Strange World That No Longer Contains YouThey say I'm like you. I hope they're right. They've been saying it for a long time.
My parents always wonder how they ended up with such a polite, demure, sweet, pure little thing. Though of course you and everyone else know what a hellion I can be. But I certainly didn't get any of those aforementioned positive qualities from them. I have you to thank for those.
You raised the entire family and handfuls of our friends. You are Grama to the entire town. But you're my Grama, (even if you're really my great-grandmother), and I was the lucky one out of all of us who seems to have taken after you.
They tell me I'm positive. I'm strong. I'm resilient. I'm not sure I see it. But they said the same about you, and I certainly saw that. They say I'm taking news of your death positively, because I'm glad that even though I was not present, my friends were, your other grandchildren, yours because they were mine. Or perhaps the other way around. I'm sure your cooking earned me more than my

Sehnsucht - The Winter FaeKatie stormed out the front door about a minute after arriving home. Her parents were at it again. The argument had progressed to the point where neither one was making any effort to keep their voices down. It didn't matter that Katie had SATs to study for. There was no chance of that with her parents screaming their heads off about - what was it this time? Katie listened.
Oh, God. The hairbrush. They're fighting about the hairbrush again.
That was enough for Katie to slip back out to the porch, pull on her rollerblades and go. She didn't want to be here if the cops showed up again.
Her friends liked to make fun of her for rollerblading.
"Who still does that?"
"You should try skateboarding instead - at least then you might attract some cute skater guys".
"Rollerblading? Seriously?"
Katie tried to ignore them. They didn't understand her need to escape, not just her house but her life. To Katie, rollerblading was freedom. It

Saltwater VeinsWe chased unfamiliar coastlines,
crossed a continent of earth,
abandoned Northwest shorelines
like broken shells upon the beach;
drove straight ahead, towards looming Atlantic,
laid down roots in an East Coast state
without a shoreline.
But I missed my rocky beaches,
crashing waves swirling sea-spray
against wind-reddened cheeks,
breathing life into salted lungs.
So we chased the Atlantic northward,
up the coast, snaking up Route One,
a wending wave of rocky coastline.
I leaned to touch the water,
and it flowed fast from my fingers -
'til I turned, and
the Atlantic chased me up the beach,
caught me fast in its swell,
froze me in place as seafoam
lapped hungry at my heels,
swallowed ankles seasoned with brine.
My feet sunk into sand
locked between sea and shore
unable to move for fear of falling,
of being swallowed whole.
Then gentle waves released me
sopping wet against the sand
And now I feel the pull
of coastlines east and west
tides rent me from within,
s

It's Not About FameThese words within me,
singing just beneath my skin
are not just mine.
I'm going to unleash them
upon the world
and make them yours.

Carving ConstellationsDoctors carve out constellations,
stitch star maps into my skin,
a web of scars, a path to take
to find myself again.

My scars are sewn of haunted stars,
constellations but half-drawn;
ghosts of star-fire whispering words
that fade out with the dawn.
They took my rib from me,
ground it up, reformed it,
turned it into Eve;
made a girl with my own name:
a girl they say is me.
My fragile face now hers,
our spirit splintered,
she stands for nothing
I once stood for.
Deep scars fade
before their meanings are deciphered;
yet more maps unfold

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Submitted: January 20, 2012
Submitted with: Sta.sh Writer

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Only The Wild

Journal Entry: Fri Jan 20, 2012, 5:50 PM

Out here, eyes are unnecessary.

This is what I say to the children

I've been asked to supervise

this dismal February week,

out here in the mountains -

the woodland -

the wild.

Out here you can feel the trees;

the sheer weight of their presence -

physical, tangible -

envelopes you like snow,

a shiver in the soul.

Biting wind wailing through the branches

raises the hairs on the back of your neck,

and you tremble

like saplings in a storm.

Rain and ice and something in-between

drip down from the leaves above.

You feel its caress against your flesh,

taste the kiss of the frozen forest

against your lips, face upturned to the

pine-bough sky.

You know it's there -

you can smell it:

deep and ancient and

heavy with pungent memory.

Pine isn't a variety

of air-freshener, children.

It is alive with the spirit of the earth.

Pine outlasts this brittle season

when all else cowers from the cold.

Evergreen stands proud

against battering wind,

against rain coating its tresses

with the scent of a tear-soaked sky.

So keep your eyes closed, children;

let the darkness fill your bones

and you will come to know the winter

as only the wild can.

30 Comments

Skin by ~Margarett-chan

Only The Wildby =LadyofGaerdon

Literature / Poetry / Nature / Free Verse

Written for the

and

Blind Winter contest.

Submitted to the

Winter contest - with a twist.

I was thinking about the year I volunteered as a counselor at an Outdoor School Camp for a week in February. It was such an amazing place, and the winter just made it that much better. Most everyone else was miserable, sleeping in cabins and hiking about outside all day in the icy rain and wind. I thought it made the forest come alive. It enhanced the scents, the sounds - it was just magical. I tried to make the children understand this, and I hope I succeeded.

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=Nameda Jan 17, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

you have been featured here: [link] in an extra box for contest winners on my frontpage

=LadyofGaerdon Jan 17, 2013 Professional Writer

Thank you so much!

=Nameda Jan 18, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

its a pleasure have a look at my Journal features too maybe you find some faves there

`FuzzyHoser May 4, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Oh, gosh...this is just beautiful. Poetry like this should be taught in schools, in my opinion. Stunning images, my dear.

=LadyofGaerdon May 9, 2012 Professional Writer

You're so kind. Thank you very much.

`FuzzyHoser May 10, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

I'm honest. You're more than welcome.

=LadyofGaerdon May 21, 2012 Professional Writer

^NicSwaner May 4, 2012 Student Writer

I love winter, I felt cheated this year when Chicago didn't get barely any snow. We were all thinking, is this it?

This is a lovely reminder of what winter should be.

But now I feel ashamed, because this reminds me of one of my poems and I think that's a bit selfish. I'mma show you it anyway: [link]

=LadyofGaerdon Jun 2, 2012 Professional Writer

I really liked Chicago during the half-day I was stranded there a few Septembers ago. But even then it was kind of windy and cold. But yeah, if you expect snow there, I imagine you might feel cheated if said snow is not delivered. Kind of like how people in California take it as a personal insult if it ever dares to not be sunny.

I'm glad it reminded you of what winter should be. There was never a whole lot of snow there, but it was still nice.

Ooh, I shall investigate!

=DailyLitDeviations May 4, 2012

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

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