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in the seams(a) when I was young I was a robin that stole the eggs from another's nest.
fitted upon my stare there was a warning –
personal's too personal for me, well i
would not use wings if i had 'em.

a child of rye with a silhouette spoiled by the sun, I was, I am.

and sometimes I see some vengeful sparrows still under my fingernails;
their glistening beaks snap melodies that rib a hundred bird-bone cages,
so light you could blow 'em away with a twist of your lungs.

and there are still words jailed between my teeth and my tongue and I do not speak of,
do not think of
them,
but they rattle between bone and flesh and I
drown them s
if only, if only.i.
we drove nowhere
and we spoke a language
that nobody understood
underneath a foreign sky
blanketed in the scent of pine.

ii.
you told me
my eyes were like envelopes—
because they were always
opening
closing
fluttering to the sound
of breaking seals
and ink stained fingertips.

iii.
i told you
we should run away
to a new land
with new faces
because
i was enamored
with people i had never encountered
and places i had never gone.

iv.
you laughed at me
and said that
if i didn't spend
so much time with my head
buried in world maps
i would realize
that i was living on one.

v.
i remember
it rained that day
and the tea went cold
but the
Like petals and leavesWhen she thinks of him, she thinks of tree branches:
spindly fingers spread out, stretching
in angles wide for handfuls of sky.

And she thinks of him.

She thinks of him digging his toes
into soft, damp sand,
wading in shallow depths before
being carried by crescents of the sea.

She thinks of him in a blur of curls, in the
warmth on her waist and the coolness on her lips,

pressing the memories and the maybes
like petals and leaves
to paper.

And she thinks of him.
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.
grassy field with rustgrassy field with rust
--------------------------

I'd heard about the old car, three miles out of town and all alone. I just had to see it. It was time. School was over for the summer, my friends were at camp, and I was bored. I set out Thursday morning for a hike, following directions that Uncle Will had given me. As the heat was still growing with the climb of the sun, I found the field and wandered around looking, and looking some more, trying not to be distracted by bees buzzing in the flowers, and butterflies and baby mice. Then it was there,  just a bit upslope from the bottom of a natural swale, and just below the sky at th
SolsticeOnce upon a time, when you were still sunlighthouses and shimmering existence wherever you were needed most, you found him. He was November, shaky on his first last legs, and you saw through the mind-twistings he feigned to the mind-twistings that were really there, knotted up in his dreams.

You were still birdsong then, and thunderstorms, and your bodyheat melted the frost claws that held him tight. You held onto him as his November deepened. When he howled, you howled with him, and the wind played with your voices and pressed the softness of your lungs against your cageribs—and then against each other's.

November became solstice, and
This Common BloodI am young when I first hear the word 'adoption'. I am so very young, perhaps three, maybe four. I accept it easily when my mother sits me down and explains that I did not grow beneath her heart, but rather in it. I nod my head, smile big, and ask when I'm getting a little sister. My mother kisses me on the forehead and puts her hand on my head as she stands up. "If you wish on a star, Sarah, maybe she will be here very soon." I practice my wishing until night's companions wink merrily in the sky.

Dear Anna,
I turned seventeen just recently. I thought of you when I woke up, and I wondered if you were thinking of me. I like to think that you
IfWe can
draw lines and give them names
like elements
as they are discovered

Or etch into our skins
this soloecal desire
until it is impossible to tell
where words stop
and life begins.

I would

Find a common rhythm that includes
you in my arms, my hands
and lungs and thoughts
tracing the outline of you
entangled with me
colliding like two lost particles
locked in a shared gravity
drifting through the vacuum
of space.

  I could.

Exhale, and
remember
sentence structure.
mosaics.sometimes unique
is not loud;
or bright, alive and raging,
possessed of a hunger for the atypical,
up front and too close,
or thrice-pierced and drenched
in the rebellions
particular to the latest generation.

sometimes it is a girl with
mouse brown hair and eyes
the color of weak tea,
who stands with her schoolbooks clutched
to her chest, in uniform shades of grey-blue
like the midmorning autumn sky

who has a wide mouth prone to nervous smiles,

pale lips and pale cheeks
and words that don't always come out
the way she means

who holds the universe
in the intricacies of her fingerprints
and laughs in treble clef notes
and u
for unseeing eyesladen with sky
we stumbled
and painted mockingbirds
on loveless branches
folding in our slender limbs
and ducking under our own
voices, fidgety and frail
against the wall of night.

between the dipping blades
and drawn shoulders
we learned to craft our words
steady-soft,
a drumming rain
that carved canyons
in open hearts and
drew the sunshine to
our supping lips.

keen-eyed, we watched
remembering the weight
of unseeing eyes
and scalding remarks
and we learned to slip
the noose-knots and slide
through the soul-cracks
and somehow
build kingdoms under
upturned noses.

with lyrical uncertainty
and tender determinat
RosesYou love too much, I am told by a man with a briar heart, thorny sinews and collapsed ventricles bearing down on him, hardly beating in his tight chest. He looks at me with flat, slate eyes, chipping and eroding. His hands are dark with cigarette burns and rough with calluses; I feel them on my shoulders as he looks down at me, face collapsing in at his eyes like a dead man's.

For the first time, I realize he is dead. His briar heart dried up when winter killed his rose; my father, he is all thorns.

He squeezes my shoulders, too tight. You look like your mother, you know, he whispers, eyes shifting to the garden, to the yellow rose I plante
When your hands can mimic birdsWhen your hands can mimic birds,
you lose the need for sound.
A flight of words that bear no chirp
are none the less profound.

They don't perch on a pitch.
They don't possess the need .
They fly until you've seen their song,
then silently recede.

No one could find more freedom than
the freedom granted flight.
No one can see more beauty than in
words passed left to right.
don't get tired of elephants yetI've had my crippling moments.
They'd either start in my stomach
with an ache like broken glass
or stab me right in the catharsis,
somewhere near my heart or breath
or maybe my left foot.

I wouldn't know how it feels
to hurt to walk, but I imagine
with a destination like farther,
it's no pilgrimage.
So take the burden off your back.
Life is not a sandstorm
and your lungs are only a mirage
if you expect to see your breath
every time you breathe.
So take a breath

back, just one step

and listen with your smoke signals.
Help is on the way.
I just can't promise
it knows much about this lifetime.
It's the same way I could never promise
elephan
A Pocket Full of SkyWhen I was young, my father would take me to the highest tower of Notre Dame precisely once a year. It would be cold. Freezing. But we'd stand there, and take deep breaths of air, and peer down, towards the tiny ants of people below. Down, towards the sprawling city beneath us. It was always winter, when we'd go. Always cold. Freezing, freezing. But however cold it was, and however dull and bleary the weather, my father would ask one thing, and one thing only: that we adhered to tradition.

"Lucie," he would say, with the fond smile and kind eyes I always remember. "Lucie, my peach. Whatever you become, and wherever your heart and mind leads
mia culpa, mia miasmaI'm still counting chromosomes and odd numbers
still playing hopscotch over the symmetry
of your shoulder blades, your whispers
skipping 'cross the seventy percent water
the one forty proof rum, still running
running sheep
until we can sleep,
we,
that thing they called relationship
something common, like counting
rocks at the bottom of a wishing well.
I am slipping through, sliding into
a seamless cervix, and she's serving
throat lozenges in the mean time,
mean time and mean country
serving time in this union, this marriage,
they served cough and coffee
held the Capricorn, held up the register
held the infant to the sag
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April 9, 2012
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:iconwordeea:
"Did it take long to find me?"
I asked the faithful light
"Oh, did it take long to find me
And are you gonna stay the night?"

I'm being followed by a moonshadow
Moonshadow, moonshadow
Leapin' and hoppin' on a moonshadow
Moonshadow, moonshadow

- Cat Stevens, Moonshadow

[link]

it's always followed me

----

Feature #144 in the :iconlitplease: "The Favorite Project" [link] on May 17.
Received a :icondailylitdeviations: on Sept 17 2012

:bulletgreen: Nov 25th 2012 : I am extremely grateful for this DD; especially to *monsieurwar for suggesting it :rose: and to ^Beccalicious for accepting his suggestion.

Many thanks for the comments and faves and your support. It is very appreciated

:bulletblue: 25 nov 2012 : Je suis extrêmement reconnaissante d'avoir reçu cette DD. Un merci tout spécial à mon ami *monsieurwar de l'avoir suggéré :rose: Tu es mon moteur. Merci à ^Beccalicious d'avoir accepté sa suggestion.

Tout plein de merci pour les comms et les faves. Merci de votre soutien je l'apprécie énormément
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Daily Deviation

Given 2012-11-25
Moonbites - Morsures de lune by =Wordeea Suggester Writes: A wonderful poem. Between dream and reality is another world, the kingdom of the moonbites. ( Suggested by *lombregrise and Featured by ^Beccalicious )
love 8 8 joy 2 2 wow 0 0 mad 0 0 sad 0 0 fear 0 0 neutral 0 0
:iconis-lnds:
~Is-lnds Jan 29, 2013
When the stars finally fall asleep
I become alive with moonlight
Stand on my toes and kiss the sky
Dance in the pale blue light.

Nothing burns like the cold
Of a warm summer night.

that last stanza could be a poem all unto itself.
congrats on the DD. well deserved
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:iconwordeea:
=Wordeea Jan 30, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you !!
Reply
:iconis-lnds:
~Is-lnds Jan 30, 2013
:heart:
Reply
:icon1nkl1ng:
Mood: Love *1nkl1ng Jan 22, 2013
Je suis tellement étonnée que quelqu'un puisse écrire une poéme également belle en anglais et en francais. :)
Reply
:iconwordeea:
=Wordeea Jan 22, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
oh merci ! quel beau compliment :) merci pour le fav et watch aussi :sun:
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:icon1nkl1ng:
*1nkl1ng Jan 22, 2013
de rien! :)
Reply
:iconbeyondjen:
*BeyondJen Jan 13, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
This is lovely. Great imagery and I adore those ending lines. :heart:
Congrats on the DLD & DD -- they are very well deserved.
Reply
:iconwordeea:
=Wordeea Jan 13, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
thank you very much and for the fav as well :heart:
Reply
:iconbeyondjen:
*BeyondJen Jan 14, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
You're very welcome. It was my pleasure!
Reply
:iconbazardelanature:
~BazarDeLaNature Jan 5, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
très beau texte et félicitations pour le DD :)
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