[x]

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.

Harvest MoonThree a.m. moonlight
across lazy dust motes; a
tree scrapes the window.
Your arm weighs on my hip like
whispered promises of love.

scar-crossed(my fingers are colder than the solemn blue
buried in her eyes. so much dead beauty,

like an ocean without waves).

she is fading and i cling to her,
and in this tiny little moment
between breaths

we barely even exist.

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

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 Hundred and EightThe
soul
of a
poem is
not found by clapping
iambic pentameter beats
but, sometimes, the syllable count does, in fact matter.
Only to make a point concerning the folly of equating numbers to meaning
where there may not be any to be found. The caesura in the middle is just that;
a caesura. That you may interpret as you please.
One hundred and eight syllables
may, or may not, mean
a damn thing
when the
verse
ends.

Flash FloodIt only takes four inches to drown
your sorrows in a glass tumbler;
four more to push aside the clouds
and four more to numb the world.

But never enough to forget four inches
of lukewarm bathwater is a flash flood
death sentence.

Let the Sparrows InI.

Blackbirds are resting 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 even on the
East side of the asphalt:

Seven-seven-thirty-six.
The engraved letters on
The siding reads, "Davis."
This house is home to family

So let the sparrows in.

The house,
With its branching hallways
And
Overhanging décor
And
Furniture rooted to the floor

FirefliesWe kept cicadas and caterpillars in mason jars, but never fireflies. My brother still has a cicada from three years ago, sleeping away under the lid. Grandpa says it'll stay that way for 17 years like all cicadas do, and it's okay to keep them safe.

But we don't catch fireflies; they don't live that long. They say light travels faster than anything, but our bugs are fat lazy things that travel nowhere in a big zigzag. The tall grass lights up with tiny little flashes every night all summer long and all is dark not two months later, but for the time being they don't even know they're dying.

Lighthouses and Rockets1. Lights Out

He lived in an abandoned lighthouse. Always said he'd get it fixed up, be a light for lost souls, but he never did. He always ended up spending his income on coats and shoes for the homeless.

We buried him at sea last week. It was a cold, grey service, but our feet were warm.

2. Lost

I drove from San Francisco to New York, Seattle to El Paso, down every back road and blue highway, all the late night diners and greasy
spoon truck stops, checked into every hotel, motel, bed and breakfast inn, and campsite. Then the neighborhood library closed down and no map could lead me back home again.

3. Pink and Yellow

His first word wa

ForgottenMy brother moved out
suddenly -
cleared every drawer,
took all the coat hangers
and stuffed everything in his car,
leaving the bedsheets a tangled mess.

The only thing left was a photo of his son
on the dresser mirror.

astronomerswhen we're together
dusk is containable; the moon in my palms
and the stars on your ceiling.

we lull the city to sleep
with our theories of life; my tongue curling
into speech.

do you remember,
when Jupiter was a silver wick, lighting its countless moons?

that night,
you balanced a cigarette off your lips,
and I watched the vermillion flame burn life
as a newborn sun;

stars forming,
planets moulding and constellations snaked
above our eyes.

i imagined
what it would be like to be curled
inside the embers – creator and destroyer
of worlds,
so close to your lips.

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.

What We're Here ForLawrence Bradley was grading papers when the door knocked. It was muted by the heavy wood of the door, or perhaps the person on the other side simply wasn't knocking hard enough, but there all the same.

"Just a minute," he called. Finishing the last of the comments on the current paper, he capped his pen and went to get the door. He was surprised to find Autumn on the other side, textbooks in one hand and a small wicker basket in the other.

"What can I do for you today, Miss Fanshaw?" She was looking far better now than the emotional wreck of last night. She gave him a smile.

"Nothing today, Professor."

He nodded at the basket. "What's th

Dead Man's BellsIced bluebell petals.
Belated winter footfalls
crush the rites of spring.

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Failure to ConformA new town. A new country even. It was time to start again. Jake nodded affirmatively. He could forge a new personality here. No more "going with the flow;" it was time to push against the grain, rebel against authority, walk confidently, wake the fuck up sheeple! He threw open his closet and grabbed his favorite Hot Topic T-shirt ("You laugh because I'm different; I laugh because you're all the same"), ready to take on the world.

He sauntered down the street, smiling and giving a nod to every eye that caught his, and the ones that didn't as well. Sometimes he offered a cheerful hello and a jaunty wave, but only to the cute girls. He snorted

CafuneShe had seen it coming somehow. The way his face shifted in no noticeable way; she was still seeing the exact same expression, but it was accessible now, softer. Inviting. His fingers were teasing her hair, combing it back and letting it fall again while she quietly treasured the sensation of his fingernails barely brushing against her scalp.

She remembered having short hair when she was young – it had never suited her face. She wasn't made to rock the edgy look of a bob or any severe cut really. The sudden airiness when all that weight had been cut off had been disconcerting. Besides, she missed the drama of long hair in the wind.

Now

Little ManShe considered herself a feminist, but when her man wanted her to do something, she did it. It didn't matter what it was, when he called she was there in an instant.

She tiptoed into the room, careful not to wake him and peered into the crib where he slept soundly with a Pikachu doll.

Seasonal ObligationsAaron McGreggor hated parties. Especially office parties. Double for office parties around the Christmas season. As though a sprinkling of tinsel around the cubicles did anything for the horrid florescent lighting and beige walls of the IT department. A few swigs of alcohol and suddenly all the men thought they were smooth talking Bond clones and the women were giggling nitwits feeling like they were Beyonce. He scowled into his drink from the darkest, farthest corner of the room.

Pressured into coming by the boss, he had worn the usual grey slacks and matching jacket that clashed a bit oddly with his tan skin. Even old Johnson had at least

ButtonsDO NOT TOUCH.

English was his first language. In fact, it was his only language. He could read and had been doing so for many, many years. Even his button pushing compulsion was lower than most.

Which was why it seemed extremely unfair that he got the lightning bolt when someone else pressed the button.

ExcessiveShe hadn't forgiven him. She'd just stopped being angry.

People change they said. Cut him some slack. She did understand that – a few rounds of alcohol made a completely different person. And it was his bachelor party. She had no business crushing his last night of freedom.

Still, the can-can girls had been rather excessive.

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Inferno

by =SilverInkblot, Sep 8, 2012, 11:21:37 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

_{September 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.}

Infernoby =SilverInkblot

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

I think when I post a stanza or two of a WIP, I'm more motivated to get the real thing done.

This poem came about in two parts:

Part one was the day before my birthday. I've been having various issues in nearly every facet of my life (school, family, dA, finances, take your pick), and it was worse somehow because it was so close to my birthday. So I got really depressed. My favorite professor noticed however, and spent most of the afternoon trying to coax me out of it. Then he sent me this wonderful e-mail telling me to smile, which is the subject of the last stanza. I had trouble reconciling the modern sounding "phone" or "e-mail" with the Dante references though.

Part two was two days after all that when I was back in the English department, asking him for some advice on my tutoring internship. He was about to leave anyway, so I walked with him down to the parking lot.

Having spent much of the summer in the department, nearly every time we left he had something to say about the weather. It being so hot, I was already in the mind of Dante and connected it back to the e-mail two days previous, one of Dante's most famous lines being "Abandon hope, all ye who enter here."

And thus concludes my long-winded explanation of how this poem came to be.

_{I'm still in love with that first stanza, the rest isn't nearly as good and I may use it again one day.}

[EDIT] Annnnd, now it's a DLD: [link] With thanks to =DrippingWords

Read aloud here: [link]

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~Shadow-Fox168 Oct 14, 2012

I saw it on DLD it's amazing... this piece clearly has a definite reason why it's on DLD... kudos!

=SilverInkblot Oct 14, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you

=Sammur-amat Oct 13, 2012 General Artist

Congratulations on the well deserved DLD, dear friend!

=SilverInkblot Oct 13, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you

=Sammur-amat Oct 13, 2012 General Artist

You are most welcome, as always, as ever!

=DailyLitDeviations Oct 13, 2012

Your wonderful literary work has been chosen to be featured by DailyLitDeviations in a news article that can be found here [link]
Be sure to check out the other artists featured and show your support by

ing the News Article.

=SilverInkblot Oct 13, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you!

*MeFlyingFree Sep 11, 2012 Professional Artisan Crafter

Very nicely done

=SilverInkblot Sep 11, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you

*MeFlyingFree Sep 11, 2012 Professional Artisan Crafter

You're welcome

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