Every now and then I do pure poetry, but prosetry is far more to my liking. You won't find much in this folder, but I'd deeply appreciate any critique you have to offer.
I've been doing a lot more poetry since taking a Creative Writing class :XD:
Sub-Galleries 9
Literature
Slate Blue
Slate blue clouds cloak the dawn, crepuscular rays creeping round the blockade to wake songbirds and squirrels. The mill house wheel clacks and tumbles; yeast rises like a whisper. Only the blueberry thicket knows that the taste of sunlight keeps the bread warm.
Color Poems
41
Literature
Architects paint with light and concrete.
I dreamt I was an architect,
a handful of doubts and
corrosive intellect.
The clock tower has the most lonely
view of the industrial sunrise,
rising like the old Indian song inside.
From where I sit, sunlight
drips like honey fresh
from the earth over concrete elegance.
Sometimes autumn feels like winter.
Once a classy hotel
and now an urban puzzle,
consumed by kudzu creeping
all along the broken windows,
choking the windchimes.
How do cities understand
what soul sings behind their windows?
There’s so many different suns
desperate to connect;
the light through a dirty
windshield; the sun in an empty
room; something ordinary
Untitled is just a synonym for lazy
13
Literature
Open Mic Night
Q: What do you call a God with self-esteem issues?
A: An atheist; He doesn't believe in Himself.
God does ordinary things
18
Literature
A pear tree full of apples
I have been gifted with bushels
of knowledge, sometimes packaged in hardcover bindings,
but more often baked into kind words and high esteem.
I have peeled the skin from your pips of insight
and found learning sweet, if sometimes tart.
You have cast your charity upon this apple tree
and labored underneath its branches
for pittances and frustration,
but yielded crops of students ready to do the same.
Seeds for trifles,
childless but fruitful.
My pear tree is full of graceless curves
that have fallen, still green, into the shade
of your undergrowth where you have allowed them to ripen,
indifferent to the bruised skin.
My boughs and sprigs hav
A Poetic Education
5
Literature
Pain
These are your crimes,
sectioned off by barbed
wire brutality: looking
the other way; getting
used to the smell; living in
denial, denial, denial.
Your crimes are passive
as the photographs
of the bodies you let pile
up, covering for war criminals
but never for refugees.
Homonym Poems
8
Literature
Apricot
Apricot
clouds roll over the Dolomites,
the blush of sunset whispering
its secrets to the quietly
waiting ear of dusk. Her
mouth is a plum, glazed
with pink lemonade; his collar
is stained with sangria.
Grass prickles their feet
as the last warmth shines through
gauzy clouds, parted like her thighs
underneath endless heavens.
Erotic
11
Literature
micro spring
i.
butterflies alight
upon white petals;
no breeze moves
their tiny feet.
ii.
fallen apples;
metal bat;
applesauce
iii.
I have no name
for these tiny violets;
only appreciation
and love.
iv.
honeybees
kiss the butterweed,
glowing in gold.
v.
the rainbow ends
in a field of daffodils.
Haiku and Other Short Things
60
Literature
The only sorrow I have left
Should your loss feel too great to keep at bay,
call up all the gains that fill your missing
piece - what could bring the smile back to your face
easier than a memory, misting
in your eyes? Simple but not simplistic
masonry, built brick by brick, but a glass
house breaking, its foundation intrinsic
to the whole, already knitting up fast
together. Decades, piled like dominoes -
the fall can't negate the joy in building
your tower high. The grief will come and go.
The joy will buoy you up unyielding.
So when it comes for you, feel not bereft;
the only sorrow left is for yourself.
Form and Rhymes
15
Literature
Birthday Magic
March in Arkansas is a whirlwind of sun, rain, and potential tornadoes, depending largely on how important your errands for the day are. The surest way to invite the rain is to wash your car the day before, or plan to be outside for, say, your nephew’s birthday party.
Russ is four years old and this is the party his dad has planned for him – a reserved pavilion at Burns Park and a nearby playground to burn off the cake energy. His nose is already red by the time my grandparents and I pull up, some fifteen minutes before things are set to begin, and it only takes a few minutes of the wind ripping into our clothes to realize March
Other
13
Poetry
Color Poems 41
Slate Blue by SilverInkblot, literature
Literature
Slate Blue
Slate blue clouds cloak the dawn, crepuscular rays creeping round the blockade to wake songbirds and squirrels. The mill house wheel clacks and tumbles; yeast rises like a whisper. Only the blueberry thicket knows that the taste of sunlight keeps the bread warm.
Opalescent
puddles shimmer aside pick-ups
and diesel engines resting
in the lot of a local diner.
The highway rumble fades
to jukebox country and patron
chatter past glass doors
smudged with the syrupy fingerprints
of apple-cheeked children.
There are no leftovers; everyone
leaves full or happy or contemplative,
eyes on the sky or head tilted
down, gazing into oil slick rainbows
and seeing entire worlds.
Quicksilver
moonlight shines past birch
trees, leaving puddles of shimmer
on the wet grass. The creek
gurgles with recent heavy rain,
singing forgotten lullabies
to squirrels and rabbits nestled
in earthy burrows hidden by
muscadine bushes. Bluebells
and blackberries flourish
among soft clover - the first
nudge of winter is a fallen
leaf, crunching under the feet
of a lonely traveler.
Denim
patches don't cover scraped
knees knocked about by road
grit and mosh pits thrashing
at decibels even the dead
could hear. He grinds gamey
venison with yellowed teeth
and washes it down with the burn
of bourbon older than he is.
The smouldering filter hovers
between chapped lips, the bead
of orange the last light for miles
as night falls on the deer stand.
Apricot
clouds roll over the Dolomites,
the blush of sunset whispering
its secrets to the quietly
waiting ear of dusk. Her
mouth is a plum, glazed
with pink lemonade; his collar
is stained with sangria.
Grass prickles their feet
as the last warmth shines through
gauzy clouds, parted like her thighs
underneath endless heavens.
Moss green
fence slats lay decaying
in the backyard, half dried
from recent rain. The squirrels
rustle across dead leaves, fleeing
barking dogs and near-silent
cats prowling for a quick
meal. Pollen saturates the air;
mushrooms grow in the shade
of fallen branches as the fuzz
of lichen creeps over a trunk
felled in favor of a wooden fence.
Jade
had eyes like her name;
clear as an empty Coke
bottle, sharp as the broken
fragments crunching underfoot.
The screech of trains whistling
in the depot burns like citrus;
the falling snow tastes
like ash. She hefts the leather
bag into an empty boxcar
and pulls the wool scarf tighter,
waiting for the jerk
that will take her to warmer climates.
Dove grey
clouds shift and tumble,
playing shadow puppets
with crepuscular rays shining
on church bells in the quiet
countryside. Thunderheads gather
in the distance as loamy
earth prepares to catch sweet
rain. Ozone permeates the air,
metallic petrichor sharp enough
to fell trees shivering
in anticipation, waiting
for the clouds to fall.
Sunshine yellow
filters through the trees,
dappling the gingham picnic
blanket with patches of light.
The clocktower chimes twice;
she can feel the bong
in her chest, heart in her ears.
There are breadcrumbs on her jacket,
butter on her lips - she flicks
orange rind off her fingers
into brittle grass and lays
on her stomach, blanket fuzz
tickling her nose. Below the sun,
she sleeps away the last of summer.
Amethyst
crystals shimmer in her hand;
she crushes them to glitter
with the grind of mortar
and pestle, stone groaning
against stone like thunder.
Thyme joins the powdery
concoction; purified water
bubbles over cherry wood
burning. Soft fur brushes
her legs, prickly whiskers
tickling her calves - her black
cat is hungry again.