has 20 pieces in our gallery to date! They are all wonderful and I encourage you to check them out.
The striking alliteration and consistently
wonderful aesthetic quality to this narrative poem
leaves the reader with the sense that they have
dreamt of a fantastic voyage in wild colors.
The technical skill visible in this piece is just amazing.
The imagery is just breathtaking, with everything from
nature imagery to rival Wordsworth to pictures that
ground the piece in things we experience everyday.
Though it's a long piece, it is well worth sticking with it to the end.
Only as Old"Frail bones predict what fragile minds can't detect,"In the words of `Halatia: `NicBelroque
He trailed off slowly, "And my bones are achin'."
The air around me hung low and depressed,
Sticking to the back of my throat like a stormy syrup
I'd tried to swallow down.
I peered out the kitchen window
And caught an inklet of patched-over-grey sky;
I wondered what was in store for the day.
Impartial to the gloom outside, we stepped out onto the back porch;
Grandpa wobbled out with his cane in hand and we waited.
In the hushed stillness the trees traded birds
Robins, swallows, whippoorwills, and cardinals.
If you squinted hard enough at the sullen shrubbery,
You could spot the caterpillar creeping to the underside of the leaf.
That's when I looked at Grandpa,
And saw through his eyes nature receding
At his prescience of a storm.
"Grandpa, how do you always know?"
He chuckled and simply said: "The world tells me."
It was left at that, but years later I have found
That the world is only as old as the person to whom you speak.
presents a well-detailed
snapshot of a life-altering moment,
and has a truly wonderful closing line.
The author dedicates this vivid, enveloping
piece "to all the artists who have ever
worked with color, and who know what a
blessing or a curse it can be. If only we
could just find that other color."
CompathyI've been told it's irrelevant;In the words of =angeljunkie:
An acquaintance is a friendly face
Whether I reckon I hold them
As confidant or coincidence.
An acquaintance is a friendly face;
I hail friends from crosswalks
As if a confidant or coincidence,
In reference or in reverence.
I hail friends from crosswalks
Whether I reckon I hold them
In reference or in reverence;
I've been told it's irrelevant.
This elegant example of a pantoum
(a tricky thing to pull of in itself)
echoes the often sketchy
definitions of human interaction.
The Cuts on the Back of my HandsOn my Saturn-ringless fingerIn the words of =LadyofGaerdon:
I have an accidental cut identical to one
that was indexed on another knuckle;
the cuts heal at different rates.
On the finger I point at couples with the cut
from cuticle to wrinkled knuckle now has
the seamless texture of skin, but with
the mark on the finger the ring slides,
the marriage of incision
and post-op still lingers.
The digit I point with is always busier
than the ring finger I plan to use,
someday, every day.
And whether it is the scientific method
or a quirk in my hallucino-genetics
that has inflated my interest
in the cuts on the back of my hands,
I consider the possibility
that healing doesn't come with time,
it demands action.
And the far more active I become,
the faster I will not recognize
the clean-cut look on the back of my hands.
An original, thought-provoking
metaphor exploring scars,
healing and the passage of time.
The Gospel in the GroundTaos hum hymnalsIn the words of =AzizrianDaoXrak:
With banjo twang,
And raspy voices,
Of backing vocals
The skeletons can't sit still
When the gospel in the ground
Is the only sound in the sod.
The use of sound and rhythm in this
piece is simply delicious. I just love
the use of alliteration. Such a
delightful, rich piece in such few lines.
Let the Sparrows InI.In the words of =LadyofGaerdon:
Blackbirds rest 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 odd on the east,
even on the west side of the asphalt:
The engraved letters on
the siding reads, "Davis."
This house is home to family
so let the sparrows in.
with its branching hallways
furniture rooted to the floor
family, friends, the occasional
out from home.
Let the sparrows in; let
Let the door's
loosen—let the door stand ajar
be let open
the night owls and
let the doves
in pairs in the iridescent
Let the sparrows in.
Framed on either side
Subtly brilliant, with imagery crisp enough
to taste, quiet yet forceful emotion, and
a gentle, pulling rhythm, that pulses
throughout like the heartbeat of the poem.
In the words of `TwilightPoetess:
Blending beautiful language with an intense tale
of the pressures that young romances put upon
takes readers down a trail
that many relate to easily, and reminds us that
even the people we dream about aren't perfect.
Drift SestinaDoce me quod est verum; quis amat in amatores?In the words of =LadyofGaerdon:
Before the sun has stretched its rays I have drifted
Upon her. My eyelids fall open and note her palms
Are curled in crescents as if a lighter and its fluid
Needed sheltering from a breeze or breath. The balm
On her hands shimmers a lunar blue; I'm kindled
To awaking her by the twitch and vague resistance
Of my calf twisting around her heel. I cautiously resist
Brushing the bristles of seductive words into her drifting
Dreams and speechlessly talk her awake with kindly
Offerings to cup her hands in my curling palms.
Drawing my knuckles into her in spirals, the balm
On her fingers feels cold and flammable, like lighter fluid.
Matchstick fingers grasp the flask of lighter fluid
On the nightstand's edge; she has taken steps to resist
Fumbling for a candy cigarette: the sweaty balm
On her hands becomes a wax and her breath is drifting
Inward, exhaling the cotton-flavored candy into palms
That cradle the smoke as if to make signals with
A wonderfully ambitious and effective use
of the sestina form, where subject and
form perfectly compliment one another,
seasoned with intriguing use of Latin.
Disposable KitesI don't wait forIn the words of =angeljunkie:
Kites are sheathed
In moth ball plastic,
To reels and wrists,
Breezes and drafts.
The lived-in rooms
When the kites
In the early evening.
On the backyard patio
Kites daubed with
Is stretched over
A spinal framework,
Porous, the kites
Are acutely aware of
The barometer's breath;
I handle the mast
And sails like steering
Wheels in a skid
When a breeze propels
A kite and I towards
Patio steps, expediting
A passerby parent
A familial crew re-
Construct a childhood.
Porch lights are turned on;
Are motioned closer to
Porch lights by a non-
Of a sun still
Past the patio
Kites are banished
To the night breeze,
Tethered by a
I run until I'm far enough
With his trademark line brevity, Nic leads
the reader through a nostalgic reminiscence
that delivers its punch smoothly and
unexpectedly with the last three stanzas.
It's a complex poetry with the relationship of both the artist
and poet between thoroughly explored. The interchange of the
imagery and structure are absolutely brilliant.
As put by the author:
Hayling, the title of our story set about two hundred years in the future,
centers around a satellite repairman, Carter Riaz (Rise), who deviates from his
tasks one day to investigate why one satellite has never been put in to be repaired,
despite its state of disrepair. What he uncovers sends him into a realm of an
abandoned project turned experiment which he will not be able to escape
without the help of Hayling, whoever or whatever they may be.
Please check out our Featured Gallery
, which shall be hosting all of `NicBelroque
's submitted works. Please also peruse his gallery for yet more awesomeness and remind him on his profile of what an amazing writer he is. Oh yes, and please
this article to spread the word!
Until next time...