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PeriwinklePeriwinkle
is a patch of open sky,
a gingham plaid skirt,
the slate of your eyes.
It chimes tiny bells when you speak
and startles birds into flight and runs
thick like heavy syrup
on cottony pancakes
that taste lighter than air
and leave my mouth dry,
empty,
hungry,
for a flash of pale blue in summer.
SuffocationI found a vintage denim jacket
in the bottom of my mother's closet,
underneath a black-and-white montage
of shoebox photographs with burned edges.
Like she had been trying to asphyxiate
the memory of my father
but kept coming up for air.
Off TopicIt takes twelve minutes
to assemble sixteen desks
in a perfect circle.
Or as perfect as I can get it.

Then it takes another hour
for the first stragglers to wander in, seating themselves.
The professor always arrives seven
minutes before class begins.

He sits on the left side
while discourse flows easily among
the discordant voices.
The exchange rate on ideas
is ten seconds of silence for a halting opinion,
unsure of itself,
but backed up with a quoted passage
from page one twenty-three, read aloud then cut off -
contradicted by a second opinion.

The first voice breathes easy;
the spotlight eyes are elsewhere.

In the
Tyrian PurpleTyrian purple
lips match the blue
fingerprint bruises wrapped around
her throat like the latest fashion.
A thump
and a gulp of air
rushes into the silent stage
of a delectable crime scene.
They prod her body like sushi with chopsticks;
the air tastes stale, unused.
One uniform brushes fingertips
across her velvet skin while
another admires the glossy black hair
missing a single lock.
SeafoamSeafoam
is the hush of the ocean,
the glossy paint on your car,
the gleam in your eyes.
It's the ruffle of parchment in the glove compartment
of your susurrating '57 Thunderbird
as we leave the last rumble of brontide behind
on a salt-crushed highway.
Traces of powdered sugar noses
and mint milkshake lips
were cold reminders
of warm nostalgic days
when summer could melt the tarmac
like my bones under your gaze.
Intergenerationali.

I scribbled unicorns for my mother
and colored in mandala patterns
for my father,
but rarely got an extra glance
for my artistic endeavors.
I put them on my bedroom walls
instead of our blank white refrigerator,
where I could be proud of myself
(since no one would be so for me).

ii.

He’s late on the first day
of class, and I’m not sure
what I’m getting into. It’s the only class
that takes the full hour and a half
and doesn’t even touch the syllabus.

The room is too large for us;
he swings an arm and invites us all closer
before diving right into the first book
of the semester.

I still don’t know wh
One Leftxi.
I saved all my best words
for you.

(You deserve so much more.)

x.
You were angry
before I could have a chance to explain.
Had you stayed, I could have told you;
I only meant that you were a puzzle.

(I just can't figure you out.)

ix.
You've been where I have,
but you were never in this deep.
Or at least you never told me about it.

(So please;
don't pretend to understand.)

viii.
I write about space
to fill it with all the stars
you never look at.

(Stop watching your feet when you walk.)

vii.
If I'm holding too tightly,
it's only because I'm afraid.

(Everyone leaves.)

vi.
It's a cliche;
but it's not me.
It reall
Seafoam and Ash IIA girl once told me she was conceived by the ocean. "By" not "beside" – her skin was the color of new seafoam and you could follow her green eyes into the deeps and drown there. She had a soft, papery voice that sighed in and out and dark hair that cascaded past her shoulders like dried seaweed.

She was born along the sea strand, where the ocean met solidity and pounded it into tiny grains.  Perhaps she was delivered in a clump of seaweed or crawled her way out of a pink conch shell and learned to swim before learning to walk. She carried an air of calm serenity that rippled around her like an aura wherever she went, content to flow ins
it is hard to forgetsomehow i have just now remembered
that i have forgotten how to sing.

~

i hear distant whale song sometimes,
in my dreams, and wake with peripheral
melodies, soon to be fading memories.

~

i want to tell the tune that taunts
me like a horror movie ten o clock
every night: i don't need notes
to write a song.

my song is not born from flute fingers,
or guitar mouths,  piano teeth
or belly drums, trombone limbs or
triangle eyes. no.

my song is the crater dimpled
meteor smile, the hot spot
sun blush. my song is the simple
silence of sitting on crescent moons
fishing for wishing stars because
i know birthday candles w
Accidentat the corner of boone trails and owen
she learned the brevity of flight:
glinting bumper for launch pad
trajectory approximately 5 feet
across the median.

she pirouetted
as proud, as swift
as any prima ballerina
but the landing
proved rough.

this I keep for her -
the listless weight of limbs
defying gravity, the beastly beauty
of a body bouyant before
its death.
InheritanceHe plucks a bitter C note
on a two hundred year old violin
that belonged to his mother,
his grandmother,
and her grandmother.

The strings have never fallen flat before.
55 Word Stories - Part One1. Roulette

Logic dictated that he had to die eventually. By bullet or bullet train, he didn't care. And end was an end.

He's heard of this condition before – Quantum Immortality. One multiverse incarnate that would live forever. Him. It was just his luck that he would be saddled with eternity.

He sighed and reloaded the gun.

2. The Chase

There is no scientific name for the delay between lightning and thunder. The light flashes across the empty fields of gold followed by the crash of sound racing to keep up, to catch its always faster partner. The thunder never quite reaches its elusive lover.

I guess what I'm trying to say is come
HalfI learned about flowers
by splitting apart their stems
with precision and an Exacto knife;

but I learned about fractions
from the boy who kept one half of a red chrysanthemum
and gave me the other.
WhisperEyes solemn as pinewood
The touch of your hand
The river's at half-tide
They don't understand
The night is still falling
Don't know you like me
When sun breaks the morning
By sunlight you'll see
We whispered 'mongst spring-blooms
A promise to keep
When we were both yearlings
The valley is steep
My hands through your mane now
As sure as the day
Fly free as the meadows
Where grass finches play
Our eyes are still keen and
Our hearts don't know grey
With these limbs like greenlings
I'll take you away.
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
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More from =SilverInkblot

A Soldier's WishlistDear Santa,

It's been a while since I wrote;
just give me a moment to clear my throat.
I'm a little out of practice
so forgive me if I seem quite callous.
I've got some complaints you've heard before,
but let me leave those at the door.

I watched the NORAD radar blip
but never got my Battleship.
Haven't believed since I was nine
but sitting here on the front line
I've got a wish not just for me
but for the men in my cavalry.

If it can't fit into a sack,
if such a load would break your back,
then I'd settle for a smoke and ticket home
but while I'm writing here alone
here's the list I never sent;
peace on earth, goodwill towa
Seafoam and AshA girl once told me she was conceived by the ocean. "By" not "beside" – her skin was the color of new seafoam and you could follow her green eyes into the deeps and drown there. She had a soft, papery voice that sighed in and out and dark hair that cascaded past her shoulders like dried seaweed.

She was born along the sea strand, where the ocean met solidity and pounded it into tiny grains.  Perhaps she was delivered in a clump of seaweed or crawled her way out of a pink conch shell and learned to swim before learning to walk. She carried an air of calm serenity that rippled around her like an aura wherever she went, content to flow ins
Rainy Day Waltzi.
The missles fall
like rain in a water-starved world
quenching thirst with blood
that runs wasted in the gutters.

ii.
The rounds fire in 3/4 time
while civilians waltz delicately in circles,
brushing steps with Death and his dance partner
Life.

iii.
The grenades flash like the snap of a camera.
With the click of a pin
Time freezes -
caught between two futures.
In one I die;
in the other

I wish I had.
Two Wolves Walk Into A BarCharacters:
Albert (Little Red Riding Hood Wolf)
Jack (Three Little Pigs Wolf)
Bartender
Foxy Lady

Sitting at the dimly-lit bar, The Kinky Fox, drinking away the day Albert and Jack discuss their own unfortunate events.

BARTENDER: Why the long snouts boys?

JACK: It's a dog eat dog world out there.

ALBERT: You're telling me, today's security systems are way up the wall. I can't even get into grandma's house anymore.

JACK: I know, these modern houses don't even have fire places. Chimneys were my game.

ALBERT: Did you get chased by a sociopath with an axe today? I don't think so.

They take another shot and continue with their conversa
One Leftxi.
I saved all my best words
for you.

(You deserve so much more.)

x.
You were angry
before I could have a chance to explain.
Had you stayed, I could have told you;
I only meant that you were a puzzle.

(I just can't figure you out.)

ix.
You've been where I have,
but you were never in this deep.
Or at least you never told me about it.

(So please;
don't pretend to understand.)

viii.
I write about space
to fill it with all the stars
you never look at.

(Stop watching your feet when you walk.)

vii.
If I'm holding too tightly,
it's only because I'm afraid.

(Everyone leaves.)

vi.
It's a cliche;
but it's not me.
It reall
Fatherly AdviceMy father always warned me; stay away from vending machines. You never know what's going to latch on to your arm when you go sticking your hand into dark holes. Unnatural, he said, machines spitting up plastic bottles like a bulimic dolphin. Coin stealing bastards, never even give you the right drink, I said I wanted DIET Coke peabrain. Don't waste your quarters son – use the soda fountain like nature intended, and all will be well in your life. Keep your ice cubed and your soda lidded when you drink. But who listens to him? He's afraid of vending machines.

Featured in Groups:

:iconthewrittenrevolution: #theWrittenRevolution
The words are the spark. :iconlove-literature: #Love-Literature
For The Love Of Literature!

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April 5, 2012
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[x]

Digitigrade II

:iconsilverinkblot:

The human foot contains twenty-six bones
for running and dancing and spinning
pirouettes in neat circles,
starved
for grace.

Grace
balanced on one foot before two,
starved for attention with every broken
bone.

"Ballet is more than dancing,
Grace," the en pointe trainer balanced
on one foot and named every bone
supporting her weight.

Grace spins one
perfect
circle on the hardwood floor:
her eyes land on the barre mirror.

She doesn't see the atrophied bone
ribs through pink gauze,
but only imagines herself as beautiful.

Weeks of anorexic binging display the remains
of weak structure.
One more skin-and-bone
cygnet remained an ugly duckling
as the starved light of dawn danced across the sky
on bleach bone toes.

The empty theater seats fill up
while en pointe sylphs
count their ribs backstage
at the memorial performance
where grace fluttered,
and faltered,
and starved.
:iconsilverinkblot:
A revision of a piece I submitted yesterday. Fastest revision ever :XD:

Yesterday was a product of trying to churn something out for NaPoWriMo; after you give up and realize there's no way you can possibly do a poem a day, the process becomes much easier and the writing just flows the way you need it to. This is far from perfect, but it's much closer to what I want it to be in the future. This is a good start :)

I've been struggling with this theme for quite a while - since about August in fact - and it's nice to finally see it beginning to work on paper, even though it still doesn't fit the initial prompt from way back when.

Fact: one in five ballet dancers are afflicted with anorexia.

TWR critique: [link]

Questions: Stanzas and line breaks - too arbitrary, or is the emphasis in the right place?

Is it too choppy, or is the flow alright? (This could concern either the story, or the writing itself - I'm interested in both.)
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:iconneurotype:
^neurotype Jul 29, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
I really liked the beginning image, I think you should have 'bones' be a dominant theme in this more so than G/grace (although it's a nice counterpoint and I liked where that went). I'm fairly useless at poetry, but to be honest I'm not feeling the line breaks so much here. Maybe more wordplay and use of poetic device would make those necessary. Otherwise, I get the sense it would read the same wtihout them.

I know you've mentioned it before, but remind me why the tiny font size?
Reply
:iconsilverinkblot:
=SilverInkblot Jul 29, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
I would like to revise it at least once more because it's not quite where I want it to be. I do want the bones and anatomy images to be more prominent, but I'm not sure how to get them there right now.

The smaller font gives a sense of quietness and intimacy to me - like you have to lean in to hear a whisper. It's a subtle thing, but it would sound different in the regular font. Given how limited dA is with fonts, I have to work with what has been given to me :XD:
Reply
:iconneurotype:
^neurotype Jul 29, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
Hmm. Maybe start with the images you want to evoke and build to the motion and emotion from there?

Huhh. I had this in big font (my eyesight is craaaap) and I still got that sense. Honestly, I don't think you need it. Also, if you stashed it you could always add a font on top...but make it readable ;p
Reply
:iconsilverinkblot:
=SilverInkblot Jul 29, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
It always sounds different to me when I try different fonts :shrug: I don't choose them lightly, even in Word :XD: I like playing with the presentation of the thing almost as much as the actual writing.
Reply
:iconneurotype:
^neurotype Jul 29, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
I did that in high school because I hate working. Also fonts are awesome!

I don't get that from fonts--I get it really strongly from word choice--so when it comes to fonts I just go with 'readable', which actually means I have to convert everything to size 12 when I send it out. However, I could see wanting to pick different fonts for stuff (although the whole thing in cursive makes me want to punch walls). :nod:
Reply
:iconsilverinkblot:
=SilverInkblot Jul 29, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Ideally, I'd like to make a chapbook at some point, and all my visual inclinations will finally be useful :XD: 12 point Times New Roman or whatever just looks boring to me.
Reply
:iconneurotype:
^neurotype Jul 29, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
:eager:

I like 10pt TNR on the screen, but when it comes to fonts I constantly return to Trebuchet MS.
Reply
:iconisabellamichel:
~IsabellaMichel Jul 20, 2012  Student Writer
There is nothing too arbitrary. I am absolutely mesmerized by this piece, in fact. It might be the fact that I absolutely adore dance and wish I were ten thousand times the dancer I am, but this poem captures great images and such grace. The first line with, I felt, could go anywhere. What a way to start a poem! Absolutely lovely. This is both sad and lovely at the same time. Somehow, it doesn't even seem too over dramatic or anything like that. It's just dance, captured.

:heart:
The flow is absolutely fine. Stanzas and line breaks are fine.

Have a lovely afternoon.

Bella

:iconthewrittenrevolution:
Reply
:iconsilverinkblot:
=SilverInkblot Jul 20, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
I didn't know anything about dance when I started. Looks like all that research paid off :D

Thank you for the fave!
Reply
:iconisabellamichel:
~IsabellaMichel Jul 20, 2012  Student Writer
Really? It was absolutely magical! I quite enjoyed it.

You are very welcome! It was well-deserved!
Reply
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