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meetings“Hey. Are you alright?”
Summer was buzzing in his ears when he turned towards the voice; a chorus of insects was accompanied by the flapping of wings overhead and, somewhere not too distant, a stream gurgled. He saw a girl with black, unkempt hair – there were holes in her jeans and her t-shirt was splattered with mud. His gaze travelled to her jaw, bloodied and grazed.
“I think,” he said, tilting his head slightly, “that you should worry about yourself instead.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
HitchhikerI stood at the side of a
dusty road, thumb raised,
sun shining on a reddened face,
and when the car came to a halt, said that I
wished to journey on eastward.
Compliance: she was headed the same way.
Her radio crackled tuneless songs
and the seatbelt was too tight.
I saw a creaking apple tree
but she would not turn; her orchard grew
more fruit than she could ever
care to eat.
I saw a sculpture of ancient stones
but she would not turn; in her room she had
a corkboard peppered with pins and a
postcard of the same scene.
When – at last – my feet touched ground,
I could not speak with sincerity.
She tapped her nails on the steering wheel
humming that if I yearned my own route,
I should not sit
in the passenger seat.
You have sewn stars to your sleeves.I talk about stars quite a lot (do I not?);
I’ve described them as stitches and grains of salt,
I’ve written of distance and said with a smile
That travelling through space
Takes a while.
I don’t need to go that far.
You, dearest, in the stretch of one stanza,
In the breadth of two heartbeats
Can dazzle the world.
Love and compassion thread through your verse:
Your sunshine brightens your words.
You have sown splendour where cracks used to meet.
I want to watch gardens grow at your feet.
the miracle isAnd I do not know this feeling in my lungs
only what it resembles:
nostalgia, creeping up from the depths
of a yesterday
(forgotten / lost)
tapping on panes with
seeping beneath the door.
But hardships pass
become embraces – fleeting,
trapped between the pages
of books with gilded sheets
and spines so strong that they are
The smoke disperses.
We are left with emotions
which heal and cleanse;
we wrap ourselves in golden love
remembered / found.
you're very dear to methey are not words that I speak often
but ones I carry
in the core of my chest,
and with you, I am grateful
that there are never those questions
about which of us loves more
or which of us loves best;
there were days
where I felt so fragile
that even a smile
made me stammer and cry,
yet you extended a gentle hand
and with the simplest strokes,
taught me to fly
upwards, into that peerless blue:
on the cloudiest days
my sunshine is you.
You do not know what it is to feel love so deep that your heart contracts in the centre of your chest. You have never experienced your organs inflating at the first thought of another; I say this, Dearest, because you do not love You and thus know nothing of my pain.
I want to seize a star and trickle its dust from my hands into yours. I want the clouds to paint your name on the sky’s summit.
But for now, I shall be content with dreaming of you. I hope that incense sweetens your sleep. I hope that the rain soothes your spirit.
declarationi studded my fingers with glitter
and trailed stars across your brow.
because i want you to know
while it matters
that this is my love.
that i cannot climb mountains
or traverse oceans for you
with a fleeting touch,
remind that i am here:
i am near
and will not dissolve.
my words are never grand.
i pray they are enough.
CardigansWhen the world slowly rolled towards evening, I leant over the balcony railings and watched her stand in the communal garden, flat face uplifted, eyes closed as she basked in the sun’s last warmth. It could have been like the sinking star in storybooks – a brash vermillion – but it was always golden. Once my mother heard of my disappointment, she scoffed,
“Life is rarely like a storybook.”
Those words did not leave me. In autumn, it brought me no delight to look for squirrels carrying fruit. In winter, I did not waste my time with searching for identical snowflakes. And in spring, which was the heaviest with folklore, there was no hunt for fairies.
Summer arrived. My mother returned to her old pastime. She stood outside, pale hands clutching her thighs. Her cardigan sleeves had frayed. The hem of her skirt swept the concrete floor.
It finally occurred that her words had been a warning. She
homecoming.i cannot escape the irony
of loving the words listen and
i’m overflowing with thoughts.
here they are, stuck to grooves in my lungs
twined around bones
i drink them and i give them away –
they drain me, all these
they clamour and
beg to be heard.
i will fill myself to the brim.
bucket thrown into well
drawing from spring;
i will take them
let them trickle through
for verse qualifies me
rainfall revives dry plains
i am quenched:
watch as i dig a trench and
line it with verbs.
Six Second Poem"We're all the same," she said. "Friend, tell me," she asked, "how are we different?"
For six seconds I paused, then I said:
Some of us ..
love more than we hate,
laugh more than we cry,
work harder than we play, but
live before we die.
Some of us don't.
And that, my friend, is how we are all different.
EasterRemember what you love,
you with sand in your teeth
and the feral burn of hunger
in your eyes.
God sends his regrets.
He made you grasping and slow,
in a late hour
when the wine washed low.
Remember what you love.
Fall to your knees in the toss
and the swell, quell
the appetite of the cold black sea.
Beg blessings for your home
and the salt-sick trees.
Reach what lies near:
the fat-faced child, the sweet-soft lamb;
tether the tantrum, trickle the blood.
Offer psalms to what is holy,
whisper the name of what you love
as it bobs in the bleak mad sea.
I've ForgottenWhen she died
I tied a knot in my stomach
so I would remember
but I've been so busy
trying to remember her dying
I forgot how to forget.
how to let go -
and the doctors said
they would cut me open
and snip her out
a blade between the bows
and the pain, would be gone
but I've forgotten
how to let go -
and I still don't want to.
I willI will love you
all the way to the place where ladybirds go to die,
to the lushest corners of the earth
that hold the secrets no man was meant to see
and we will find them, and know them together.
I will love you
all the way to the place where bubbles are made
at the bottom of a glass of cider
that blisters the glass with condensation
as we trade hats and laugh at the way the air smiles.
I will love you
all the way inside a branch where buds dream of Becoming,
where those one-day-flowers stir wooden hearts
into an uprising, into a blossoming life
and we will plant our ambitions there, in the blooming place.
I will love you
all the way to the square brackets that hold our boxes
because you are my best friends, and you will be
as we fold papery hands around paper-cut wrists and cry
and mourn eighty-odd years flown by too fast. Even then.
Even then, I will love you still.
love didn't matter, but home was with youi.
there's still shadows left of you
even with the
little that remains. i wish
sometimes the light
would stop it's singing long enough
for them to grow,
my heart spends enough
time aching when
just the photographs
show their faces.
you took me
to a wedding once - it was a cold
night, and the
of stars in the sky made
it seem like God's
breath was reaching out
to earth. i don't remember
the names of the two who
indefinitely, anymore, not
when the wind's taken
in it's hold; but i remember crying because
love's just so damn
hard to find, and you
found me instead behind
the rosebushes that
were too stained to be called
me that sometimes
love doesn't matter, and
i (did)n't want to
you asked me once if anything
mattered, a lighter
gracing one hand and a
cigarette lining your
lips. i wasn't
sure back then
and i don't know
if i am now
(but i think i want to say yes).
my body never felt
unarticulatedtonight I ask myself:
where are you going with all these names
in your pockets? syllables that taste
unauthentic in the desperate American
repression is a series of images
earthbound angels breathing
flame, starving hands speaking
in tongues, glazed eyes
asking are you fucking okay
pale skin becoming moonlight,
reflecting and refracting and
the quiet understatement
Diamond TearIn silence
I observe them
Laughing and having fun
While I'm in my corner
I feel out of place
I don't belong here
So I leave
And no one notices
Now I'm out on the street
A dark and silent one
Enjoying the breeze
Lost in my thoughts
Suddenly I hear a sob
And I look around
I see a girl
Sitting on a bench
A single diamond tear
Running down her face
I don't know her
No one else is around
I could just leave
But I can't
So I sit by her side and ask
Without looking her in the eyes
For a moment
And then she takes my hand
And we look
Into each other's eyes
And she whispers
The Elephant ManHe had elephant hands; swollen and tendered
by old age and wiping away childrens' crying
so they were leathered and carefully painted
with a veneer of the dust made by old books,
but when he read to me the pages didn't shake
and his throat didn't contract about the words
like they were enemies to be spat out, bloodied.
Lungs didn't shiver and eyes didn't milk, then.
Now, I see love ephemeral. I see love half-dead
and carving its riverbed path, slowly eroding;
until it can rejoin oceans once known in heaven.
Now, I see him ephemeral. I see him half-living.
I see the fear of burdenship as the only thing
that makes his eyes flicker how Pernod used to.
I see a beautiful, crumpled drawing of my hero
as my grandfather slips, wearily, back to sleep.
SafeI clasped my hand tight shut around my mothers.
I was a possessive oyster wrapped around pearly fingers
bitten white by the freshly whisked air.
We braced ourselves against the frozen metal frames
that, although unmovable by infantile hands,
were not a substantial enough barrier against a tempest.
The sea lashed out its limbs in a fury
and the sky’s face paled grey with worry
at what that grasping anger might achieve.
It rose to greet us, stood on mighty churning haunches
and collapsed heavily around our shoulders
with the dramatic violence of a dancer
crashing down upon a splintered Tibia.
It drenched us, filling mouths and ears with water.
My mother’s hand squeezed mine, comforting,
and as the sea drew back again,
preparing to strike out at us over and over
until its very exhaustion point – and over once more –
As it readied itself to slash our raincoats,
with the force of an evening spiralling into true darkness,
over and over –
for a moment the smell o
recuperatemaybe the world isn't so frail that it'll break
the moment we touch something;
and maybe there's a little part of ourselves
(deep inside, perhaps, or close to the surface)
that's stronger than what we give credit for,
because, after all, we burn with the vision
of growing stronger.
i enjoy watching pretty things
like kerbs where teens sit with knees pressed together
feet in the gutter --
stitched to their sleeves.
i relish a name etched into a tree
and boats folded from leaves.
little things, which whisper that people still love
even when purses are emptied of coins,
even when patience
like flowers surviving monsoons;
like ants who carry huge crumbs;
the way the moon is so far
but still blushes at the light of
i want to tell all who tread on hard soil
that even stones soften into the beach,
that the lullaby-cry of seagulls is soothing,
and clouds, now distant, were once of the water
that's cupped in your ha
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More