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RestlessThoughts on endless repeat,
The orchestra self-composes
in its sleep, and in itself
finds too much to think.
Ideas are repeated,
Rehashed and rediscovered
so that the words themselves
might speak, and find they too
have breath within them,
to somehow be unique,
And like the rest of us
fall short and yet succeed.
They tumble from my mind
like rain onto my feet,
and I scramble to write them down,
Before I too fall from my waking mind,
and into sleep
Most hated friendGlimmer, Glimmer,
Oh dark star of the night.
Reflect my soul,
My anguished stare,
Shine on so glaring bright.
That we should fear so much,
From something so small,
Seems an unusual plight,
And yet as I hold you in my hand,
I know my friends are right.
And yet to put you down seems ludicrous,
Just do not run across - shine on bright,
My glistening friend - lest I cover you in red.
Generation ZI find myself surrounded,
By humanities peak.
The latest generation,
By the best and by the meek,
And whether our doom or our salvation,
They’re most certainly unique.
Those who still read and can speak,
The intelligent and great.
There’s the socialite few,
And the rather incomplete,
The arists and musicians,
And the scientists that teach us -
And least of all, there’s me.
I wonder what my role is,
In this brave and weird new world,
I’m afraid I’ve missed the forest,
Because I rather like the trees,
And there’s no room for the philosopher,
Because Google’s all we need,
And poetry is quite useless,
According to scientific studies.
I’d hope to be remembered,
So maybe I’ll start a war,
Or maybe here, at societies end,
We’ll find a use for words once more.
Jazz ClubThe heavy warmth
Lies on me like sleep,
And sleep is catching.
Symbols crash, and brass trumpets
Glint and wail, half cast reflections
Of the dancer’s sparkled spinning tail.
I lie back, seeing the club so vividly,
While the aroma of dark coffee wafts in,
My mind intoxicated by swinger’s pack.
YoughalThe wind was calm and warm,
Though the clouds seemed foreboding -
But when didn’t they?
I sat on a grey wall,
And looked out at a grey world.
The Atlantic Beast churned,
The dry ground ordered a retreat,
While Neptune’s forces rallied.
I fought back with stones,
But they skipped of the ocean’s back.
In the silver sand I had
Written my name with stones,
Then buried them deep entombed,
For future archaeologists to find,
And wonder who I was.
On Youghal’s coast I sat,
And wondered who else had
Stared out across the Ocean
And was lost to thought.
And the grey was never dull.
Paper PairingsThere is no difference
between words written on
a page, the tangible
scratching of graphine in
rage, lust or love, to
the endless zeroes and
ones, imprisoned magnetically
in their metal cage.
The page and pencil
I now hold are yet
the same, as a glowing
screen, the cursor’s aim is
to replicate a person’s hand,
and clicking keyboards
make a noise like tarnished lead,
if only it’s sharper replica.
And yet it feels not so.
My aching, creative soul
bleeds for the roughness
of a paper host, and the
sweet nothings of a wood
rubber and leaden love,
doomed to disappear in time,
Just like the rest of us.
Perhaps it’s for my own
sakes, but the smell of long
lost paper is sweet, and the screech
of graphine as across my page it rakes,
and the muddy, smudgey
ink blots can never be replaced.
In paper I can lose myself, while the
world waits in a corner to be clicked.
ApolloA shaft of light escapes the horizon
spilling over the world’s table
as the sea sways and the forests hum
a deep-throated ‘C’- the balance of nature
held in the rise to the seventh
the fall to the G
a saltwater tonic made sweet
by the rhythm and the rhyme
and the passage of time
when waking, the men remember
the years to come
from their dreams
and add their words and songs
to the lull of the ocean waves
in the whisper of the woods
as their God approaches in kindled fire
to destroy the dreamtime darkness
Light upon her skin.I want to be
In love with someone
And watch the light
Dance on the tips of her skin.
Like the sea,
I'll be the ebb,
And she'll be the flow
Moving together in perfect rhythm .
I want that feeling
Of confusing, alternating, maddening
Love to fill me from within
And to know how it feels,
To hear the words –
O FevraleWitching hour, welcomed with a sigh,
bare-breasted and ink-stained in the night.
Half in love in this half-life half-light;
pisat O Fevrale navsnryd, dreaming
of the gods. Wanderer, today I died and
died again, and whispered prayers
to clasped hands… until the nestled
droplets fell away like sunrays at dusk;
and when moonrise came, I sang again.
Her love was bone white,
[ but never like diamonds. ]
Truth then became water to
pruning fingers and splitting lips,
while she drowned
in the mouth
of a liar like me.
NaPoWriMo- Day 5She used to try and catch butterflies
until she realized their beauty
rubbed off on her fingers;
but she will always be loving you
with those digits.
20 years from now
when even the love on her arms
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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