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Stranger LoveI am not the sunlit wing-print
splayed out on the bedroom wall.
I am not the dark mass forming
in a corner of an airless hall.
I am not the viscous vengeance
where you sink your spinning wheels.
I am not the leaky bucket
hung up on your wishing well.
You are not my soul mate missing
wandering a winter's night.
You are not the sound of angels
singing by a candle's light.
You are not the rasp of fingers
fumbling with a hasp of steel.
You are not the tattered towel
soaking up the things I feel.
I am the oblivious child,
dancing where the wildflowers are.
You are my unwitting captive
lighting up a jelly jar.
TrickoletThe ambiguities he hides
between the ever-changing lines
of poetry; our romance rides
the ambiguities. He hides
emotion he creates decides
the meaning but never defines
the ambiguities he hides
between the ever-changing lines.
WantsI want the time to write about
the beauty, the newness in nature
I want to share with you. I want to
catch each individual snowflake
with shutter snaps and take them home
to decorate the windows. I want to watch
the river don its icy finger-gloves, to consider
lines and angles shifting, indifferent, softening
under winter's lofty load. I want to snowshoe
on some not-too-frigid night with a full moon
illuminating night to noon-like with blue-
white light or when there is no moon, only
innumerable stars, impeccably brilliant,
impossibly far away against the ebony
of New England midnights- I want to know you
see these things that bring me to my knees.
Stranger Things HappenCome, child- I know
you do not know me,
and you've been taught
you ought not talk
to strangers, but
sometimes that which
is most familiar to you
is far more dangerous. Herd
mentality: Sheep follow their leader
endlessly until overcome by exhaustion
if one is senselessly startled by an unknown.
Luckily, you are no lamb. I understand
fear, am not unaware of its sheer
magnitude.One must come
to one's senses to avoid
repeating idiocy. Be the one
to free yourself from
such a dull existence.
Believe. Lead. Force
feathers, albeit bent,
your wool. Afford the dove
the value of her teachings-
soar above humanity and be
the earthling you were born
to be. Scream and be heard.
Trust me, child. Be one
brave enough to change
the world forever.
Cooking In The BarnI would wear a mask
to obscure the obvious
irrelevancies, but I can't
make the children listen
to the flavor of my bronze
thoughts.They all sing copper-
bottomed songs and I don't know
them, so I don't play along.
How's Your Game?Darling lime-light lover, lips curled
firmly around your noisy enjoyments,
how enormous, your orange ego's glow,
but where does the energy go, when
disconnected from its adoring source,
when there is no affirmation nor outlet
for your emotion, and all grows violent-
ly silent, and your mind finally nests,
still as a pinball in the lowest corner
of the maze you make of it all?
The BeachIf my grandfather’s brother hadn’t been murdered
then maybe he wouldn’t have hit you so hard,
seeing bare feet and hard times and
the violence that repeats itself over and over
because tragedy sends shockwaves
that still echo when you’re grown.
I know now that when you scream at me
you’re not really my mother.
You’re fourteen again
being punished for a crime that happened years before you were ever born
mourning for a life that vanished like footprints on the beach
and left a lonely child
trailing through the sand and never finding someone older,
never finding the right way home.
I know I have it lucky –
kids in those decades used to disappear like air
I know I have it lucky
one bruise is better than three or ten or thirty
I know I have it lucky,
it’s better to be sad and scared and still alive.
I know I have it lucky here.
Out on the beach there are only bones.
FiniteI sometimes wish you were small—
so small you could sail this little model ship
into the clouds and never have
to look at a bowl full of put-out cigarettes again,
or make those oh-so-obvious
black paper hearts that you tear
down the center only to
band-aid back together
when I assure you, once again,
that you’re not worthless.
Remember the license plate you had
on that old blue car—
the one that said DANCE?
I wish you’d do that again;
I wish you’d do it in the middle of that abandoned attic
with its weathered beams and emptiness
like we did as children, without shame
and without purpose.
You once said that everywhere you went
places looked desolate, as though the desolation
shadowed you, clinging to your heals,
encasing you like an egg you were
trying to break free of, your arm reaching
for the immensity of the sky—
for a butterfly of hope.
“I feel as big as the world.” You said this
one morning as you purposely spilled that cup
ConfessionI couldn't keep up the pace
when the accusations leaked into
so I retreated
inside closed eyes
where the darkness showed me
while my losses won the war
filling the deficit with their valour.
Now my shoulders bear the burdens
and the scars prove an
yet only remembered when I
drown my sorrows,
feeling tears appear only to fall down
and escape the obligation to share in the guilt,
of the grand old scheme of things written in the sand
with bullets, from a pen
onto paper made from heroes.
reaching youEverything that reaches does so
both inward and out. I can’t reach you
without going in up to the shoulder
of what I am, without pressing my face
to something crying out
to be both wild and asleep.
Old HandsGrandpa was always the one to do things
-with his own hands.
He built his house,
our playhouses, tepees and dream castles
with his own hands.
Age 70 he was still climbing our roof,
(the one of the real house)
with his own hands.
So the worst thing
the worst thing
the worst thing was
when he had to watch our hands
-we all had come to help-
tend to his beloved garden
while his hands could do
The worst thing was
when he died
-on the inside-
'I am so useless.'
And I wished,
and I wished,
when all the world is sleeping. i have midnight talks
with the moon
over a steaming cup
of chamomile tea
he never responds
he always listens
and that is all that i need
hey newton, gravity's flawedi.
starting anew from the flutter
and the sputter of lungs.
a vacant sea filled with feathers
and tumultuous clatter,
ribs in a treacherous pattern
resembling exiting rungs.
i want to wrestle the angels,
your tendency is the ladder.
involved with full indiscretion,
trading lazy for lace.
unspool the curse of the long-
limbs in a languorous flexion
i like the stab of the ankles,
you need the curves intersected.
opting to cull my extents
with trans-dimensional vigor.
spent my dysphoric corrections
on reconnecting lax ends.
lips in a spurious accent
feign a passionate rigor.
i tie myself to the anchor,
you extricate and ascend.
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More