[x]

ButtermilkButtermilk
and white trim walls
hide behind the towering stacks of books
cluttering his kitchen.
The cat purrs on the windowsill,
perking his ears when
the kettle begins to whistle.

He slathers the toast
with butter - the real kind - and
takes his tea with too much sugar,
just the way she likes it.
When the day falls cold,
she leaves with a warmth
growing in the bottom of her chest.

The Watchmaker's Lover - RevisionYour clockwork appendages
were cold to the touch.
The industrial complex of your mind
was grating gear against gear
where the unoiled works
kept clacking away; your atrium
was a tick-tocking machine
that counted the hours while the rust settled in.

The mainspring spiraled round
your mechanical heart tensed
so tightly it showed in your face,
in your quivering hands,
your troubled eyes.
The unlubricated escapement never
released, oxidized into place
from ages of neglect.

Your lonely footsteps echoed
under orange gaslamps submitting
to the glare of red lanterns.
Used parts are yours for the taking;
here, a hairspring; there, slender
legs unde

One Way TicketI have always known that I will die on a train.

I used to wait for Death at the railroad tracks. Some days I would kick off my shoes and balance on the rails. Other days I would lie on the tracks and count the stars. He never came for me, but it's okay – I understand.

I saw him once through the window of a passenger train, scythe leaning against the glass. He was reading the newspaper. He glanced up long enough to see me waving and offered a nod in return. I watched him go as long as I could, until the last car was a dot on the sun, and I finally turned away to find summer was now autumn and my shoes were full of dust.

I crunched my t

Hardback TextbooksIn retrospect, Gender Studies wasn't the best class for a non-confrontational student. But it was too late to drop now; there was no way she'd get her deposit back. She pretended to study her textbook very hard, trying to filter out the class discussion going on around her. Why did the professor have to use discussion circles?

"I'm just saying, if a chick is, you know, wearing fishnets and a halter top, mini-skirt halfway up her knee, slinking around all skanky, you can't really blame a guy. She obviously wants it - if she looks like she wants it – "

The book snapped shut. That was enough. She gripped the textbook in one hand and threw

Chalk WhiteChalk white
phalanges strung together
compose a bone necklace
that grips her throat
like a rasping phantom.
Her lace petticoats rustle
like the hush of leaves
when she rises to greet the honeycomb
moon shining on apple orchards
and dead pumpkin vines
murdered by Winter.
The soft glow of distant
lanterns beckons – she forgets
all about the arsenic in her teacup.

ScarletScarlet
nails drag
lipstick over dirty lips
tinged with rust.
The unoiled hinges screamed
when he burst through the door
like a cannon;
she spits the copper taste away
and watches the drain slurp
the pink-lemonade residue.
The long mar on her jaw burns
even as the sensation fades
to a dulled sting,
not unlike the first needle prick.

Time Enough at LastI never wanted accolades or Escalades;
I’d be just as happy in the stacks
watching all my time elapse
as the world around me dilapidates.

Will-o'-the-wispShe wears a necklace made
of bones,
ossified phalanges gripping
her throat
like a rasping phantom.

Her heart is hard
and heavy,
full of dust and debts
unpaid.
Her corset is laced
too tight;
her ribs are being crushed
by lace
and internal pressures crawling
up her throat,
where the necklace chokes them all
back down.

They never found her
lover's head,
guillotined under train wheels when
he tripped
over rails hidden from the pool
of light
cast by the cast-iron lantern.
The railroad
men said it was a tragedy.
She said
he was pushed.
They carried
her by the arm, back to her porch swing
and left.

The hushed glow of distant
lanterns
beckons;

Last Rites1. The First to Go
You were always the first person in class, binder open, pencil poised over the page. Always first in line. Always the first hand in the air. The first to understand how fucked we were when the asteroid came.
You liked to get a headstart on everyone else. I guess that’s why you checked out early.
2. Hippocratic Oath
The trajectory cannot be changed. No science will change the facts – Earth is doomed.
He is not a man of faith. He’s watched too many die while under the knife, while waiting for transplants, waiting to live. He slides the surgical mask over his head. Here or hereafter, his patient needed a new heart today.
3. Green Thumb
It was too hot for petunias or geraniums. They didn’t live any longer than a day now, no matter her care. The asteroid had already killed off entire populations of fish and marine life. But she was always one to take life in stride, and bought a few cacti to lavish her green thumb upon.
4. N

PaperI asked a published author what the greatest accolade they ever received for their work was. It wasn't being on all the bestseller lists, or the fans, or winning the Pulitzer. It was the one person who bought a dozen copies, ripped out each page one by one, and wallpapered their home with his words.

The Darkest Evening of the YearThey had met at the café before, but this was the first time by happenstance. He spotted her first as he opened the door, just as the barista was passing her what he already knew to be hot chocolate. Autumn got the exact same thing every time they met here on the darker side of the year; hot chocolate, made with milk, don't hold back on the whipped cream. He didn't have to wait long to be noticed; he barely had time to call out before she had already seen him.

"Lawrence!" Her face lit up with recognition. "Out for a bit? Leaving your poor cat alone again?"

He knew he was being teased, but he smiled anyway. "You know that furball can't

StrikingIt was warm.

Not hot like she had been expecting – a soft, gentle warmth that saturated her every extremity down to her fingertips. Like stoking the fire of a small heater, one bundle of sticks at a time. She was nestled snugly under the pale blue sheets watching sleepily as the man beside her dozed on. His grey hair looked more frazzled than normal and it was strange to her to see him so relaxed. The sharp intelligence in his blue eyes had always been striking and they were now closed to her.

Dinner conversation had been polite, ranging all over from Shakespeare to the latest blockbuster film; the two were completely absorbed in their

InfernoSeptember is a sultry tangle
of curly hair and corduroy jackets stretched
over broad shoulders that I've been leaning on,
metaphorically.

He won't press for answers
and I won't trouble him with my problems.
So he complains about the weather –
he's never gotten used to these sticky, southern delta summers –
while I hold the door
and press the call button.

The half-lit elevator drops us off above Dante's first layer.
I feel sorry for anyone beneath,
but I've indulgences to buy
and my own hell to return to.

But there's a light in my pocket –
abandon not all hope,
and

smile.

But Only When I'm SleepingSometimes my hand meets my leaping throat
in a fleeting greeting,
keeping sure I'm still breathing,
still beating a pulse in my leaking veins.

JulyThe magnolia tree is the last shade for miles
unless you want to hide in the cornfields,
or spend quality time with the chickens pecking at your bare toes.

Only the mockingbirds truly enjoy the summer haze,
filching birdseed and blackberries
with all the speed their hollow skeletons will grant them,
while anything with feet on the ground simmers like biscuits in the oven.

The mailboxes at the end of mile-long driveways are stuffed to capacity,
because it's too hot to make the trek from the porch swing
and the lemonade will be lukewarm by then.

Even the old barn,
paint stripped by the elements exposing the grayed wood,
is too tired

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FFM28 - MemoriumI remember all the events recorded into my rings, from the snow storms to the lightning strike; I remember the tickle of a knife in my bark and the sting of a lost branch, the concerto of songbirds and the rustle of leaves. I remember the wind and I remember the rain. I remember the warmth of summers past and the dead cold of the snow, but also the beauty of a blank canvas. I remember the world.

And I remember the boy.

I remember his golden hair tossed about by the wind and the strength in his slim arms, a thin, wiry strength that he used to pull himself up over my lower branches. He had sky eyes and a chirping voice, gentle hands and the l

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Celadon

by =SilverInkblot, Oct 11, 2012, 7:36:04 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

Celadon
glazed shards litter
the pale tiles like a million
green apple slices.
The crunch underfoot
is a gunshot;
the long exhale
is salted with tension.
The plum branch is buried
under spearmint pieces
of pottery, smooth,
cold jade on one side,
textured clay on the other.

The blossoms are already dying.

Celadonby =SilverInkblot

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

©2012-2013 =SilverInkblot

More color poems.

The form, for those who would like to try it:

Line 1 - Your color
Lines 2, 3, 4 - things your color looks like
Lines 5, 6, 7 - things your color sounds like
Lines 8, 9, 10 - things your color tastes like
Lines 11, 12, 13 - things your color feels like
Line 14 - sum it all up.

I wrote this a few days ago when I saw Minnick carrying a copy of an old favorite book of mine: A Single Shard. Celadon is that bluish, greenish, sorta opal-ish color you get on some types of Asian pottery. It's quite lovely. The book is an adolescent novel and goes very deeply into the pottery making process and what made the Korean celadon glaze so special; I'll spoil the rest of the book elsewhere when I get around to writing a blog post

=DrippingWords Oct 11, 2012 Student Writer

Ooh, I want to read that book! This is a lovely poem.

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=SilverInkblot Oct 11, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

It's a lovely book

Reply

=DrippingWords Oct 11, 2012 Student Writer

I bet, if you and your professor like it

Reply

=SilverInkblot Oct 11, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

I didn't get much of a chance to chat with him about it; we were going our separate ways when I noticed it. But maybe he'll use it in a future Adolescent Lit. class

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=DrippingWords Oct 11, 2012 Student Writer

Maybe he will

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=SilverInkblot Oct 11, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Weird choice of icons there

Reply

=DrippingWords Oct 11, 2012 Student Writer

Haha, I couldn't find a smiling eyebrow raise XD

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=SilverInkblot Oct 11, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

That still would have been a weird choice of icons

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~DNA-The-Authoress Oct 11, 2012

I've been wanting to read that book! I'll have to skip that post so I don't get the spoilers. XD This is beautiful, though, and makes me want to read it even more.

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=SilverInkblot Oct 11, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

My copy is like eight years old

It's a fast read too. I always enjoyed the sort of technical side to it with the whole pottery/history lesson thing. Not that the story is lacking or anything, but that side does give it all more depth than expected.

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