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How Laura met her HusbandHey kids!
“Yes, Aunt AdriAnna?”
Do you want to know the story of how your mommy and daddy first met and fell in love?
“Shut up, Tone-tone. You don’t count.”
Be nice, mini-me. So here’s the story:
I knew your Mommy Laura for a few years, and so I happened to be there when she and your Daddy met. Actually, it was partly because of me that they met at all.
It was during my boxing days, and the alter-reality days, when Laura and I were gallivanting across the country selling clothes, jewelry and other handmade things. Good times. While in New York she was showing me the family property. This led to an impromptu skinny-dipping session and…
Shut up, Tone-tone. So we were swimming, and splashing, and all-around just having fun when suddenly we heard a man’s voice. ‘Doth mine eyes deceive me? Yon maidenly nymphs cavorting as free s
Becoming Someone Else"How," she asked, "Could I be anyone else?"
So honestly puzzled,
I didn't have the heart to break
To the ease of switching personas
like parasitic plants.
Each lashing its roots into the skin
until bare nudity
as well as impossible.
What is Blood?Acrid copper coats my senses
with a hint of iron for flavor.
Once again my white skin
is awash with my red flowing blood.
It spreads like a stain,
an unwashable blot
forming an 'I' on my face
rather than a scarlet 'A'.
My blood must hate me.
It's so eager to escape
that it bursts out at every opportunity,
even flooding my throat at night,
until I awake choking and gasping -
spreading red droplets everywhere.
Unless this is a birth?
My drops like seeds or fish eggs
sent out into the cruel world?
Life and death in crimson flows
and it alone knows the difference.
Mrs Mcrady and Mr PeabodyMrs. Mcrady was secretly a murderer. "As you are in your heart, so you are in truth," and nothing enthralled her grandmotherly heart so much as the notion of doing off with Mr. Peabody, the family chicken.
Mr. Peabody was, technically, a Miss, but just try to convince a set of four-year olds to change a name. Little minds can be the most determined. And once they become a set of five-year olds and continue to seven-year olds...old habits die harder than a smugly vengeful red hen.
From the moment Mrs. Mcrady stole Mr. Peabody's first egg, enmity flourished. Unlike other chickens who drop their eggs thither and yon with no more thought than molting, Mr. Peabody took a certain pride in ownership. The eggs would never hatch - there being no rooster to coax things together - but that did not matter. Those eggs did NOT belong to Mrs. Mcrady!
So it was not quite the innocent mistake it seemed when Mrs. Mcrady's best shawl was f
Healthy DichotomyMy new favorite visual poem
also my definition of 'dichotomy'
My mother walking in the night field
service poodle in one hand
guiding her careful steps
Right hand holding
the skinning knife and
the fresh and bleeding heart
All the quarter-mile home.
The Moose is LooseSo this moose walks into a bar in the middle December and just before opening time. The front door had been left open for carrying boxes in, and then with customers walking up there was no point closing it in their faces. The bartender figured shoveling the back door would have prevented the whole problem, but not even customers cared what he thought.
Since he was the one plugging in the ancient jukebox by the doorway, he was the one the moose saw when it sauntered in. It looked at him with big brown eyes, like those of his dog or first girlfriend.
He stepped aside and with dainty steps it declared itself a patron. It looked around, bemusedly, like any other first-time customer without friends. There was something appropriate about the brown fuzzy animal and the stained wooden boards.
"What's that thing doing here?" His boss tried to whisper but from across the room it became more of a loud croak.
Larimara and PrincipeThe third night, after she finished her dance, he lay her down flat on the mattress and gently covered her with the sleeping bag. He lay down beside her on top of the overhang and smiled.
It was a surprisingly gentle smile.
His face was scrawny, his beard was straggly and there was a gap where a front tooth should have been, but he looked like a little boy on Christmas morning hoping against hope that somebody remembered him.
"Do you like stories, Larimara? I bet you know lots after being around so long. But you can't talk." This made him frown a little. He stroked her hair wistfully. "No new stories." He repeated this, then suddenly loomed over her. "But you can listen! I'll tell you a new story. And you'll always remember it."
He settled back down, with his right arm under her neck and his left resting on the sleeping bag above her stomach.
"There was a little bab
Captured AngelHe sat her upon the unsupported mattress and faced her cross-legged on the bare floor. The zealous reverence in his eyes made the dingy bed with its sleeping-bag blankets on par with alabaster pedestals carved with angels.
She sat still and silent, hands clasped in her lap and eyes staring into the unfocused distance. Even when he got up and arranged dresses and frills around her, tributes spread like flowers, she did not move.
He sat again to stare at her like a miner seeing the sun; hesitant, wondering, pained yet pleased. "You're my angel," he said. "I've always wanted one, so I could leave. You're going to take me out of here, and you'll never leave me, just like I'll never leave you. Right?"
He paused and then continued as if she had spoken.
"The other angels left me. I wasn't good enough. Or they weren't strong enough. Just like mother. She didn't want to leave but she di
The Crane's DaughterThe crane's daughter loved to dance. She would step lightly, fanning her sandy-white wings counterpoint to her slender legs and red-tipped crown. In the fields and upon the marshes, she stepped and stretched and danced.
In the fall the flock decided to leave for the winter grounds. But the crane's daughter swayed among the frosting grass and refused to leave.
Set after set departed, but the crane's daughter stepped through crinkling water and would not fly.
Her mother and father pleaded, red feathered crowns bent in supplication, but their daughter would not stop dancing.
The flock leader came and heard them. He told the daughter to fly. She danced.
So he plunged his beak into her heart and freed her parents to at last take wing to the winter grounds, leaving their red-tipped daughter posed flat in the summer lands.
it perches on my rounded lips
as a bird prepared for flight.
I will fill it with my soul
until it's bulging - days stretched
so thin they hardly separate
and butterfly mornings blur
into strawberry eves.
In a blink it will be gone,
a breath too hard and
Autumn in My BloodLustrous morning jeweled with dew
Spirited brown sugar winds
Summer's haze is stripped away
The sky shines like crystal
Every tree a tapestry
A masterpiece of color
Lively air spices my lungs
And whips my hair around me
The earth is awake with every fiber
A festival of roguish splendor
SeptemberThe page hasn't turned
The sun tilts on the edge
Before it falls
You have caught it already
Trees with a hesitant shudder
Shake leaves that aren't ready to die
The breath passes
But when you look up
The clouds are pulling back
They have smelled it
They are leaving the thick air
Near the ground
To escape it
But you have to stay
And when you feel it again
There will be frost
Cigarettes and AutumnsAll these cigarettes and autumns are piling up
on me. Dead leaf at dusk from a
hoary apple tree.
Eden's falling with each
tick of the tock, measured by periodic
fingers counting down an imaginary clock.
I can nearly see the golden leaves
dancing on the breeze while the
incense smell of burning fronds
waft tenaciously through the trees.
It's a good time to be alive.
Soon enough the frost on the window's
going to hide the impending
autumn happening outside.
So presently I'm exhaling stale smoke
on the window, lamenting summer's
passing with a clear view
of each hue of a burning bush,
of each push towards doom
already intent on being reborn.
Fascinated by the symmetry.
Fascinated by the symmetry.
Mother NatureThere is a soul,
That seems to flow,
Beneath the gold,
Of the suns glow.
It flows within,
It floats within,
You feel its breath,
In the wind,
You feel its death,
With every sin.
It does not think,
It does not hate,
It only loves,
It doesn’t berate.
And her breath,
We have a peaceful death
Last Days of AutumnDays grow shorter, the air more chill and crisp
Sweaters will be replaced with coats in a matter of days
Awaiting the final leaf of autumn to fall
Cool breezes shift gears into frigid winds
Gray clouds blanket the once blue sky
The sun hiding its shy face behind the the dyed cotton puffs
Rakes and leaf blowers emerge from hibernation in their garage dens
Wildlife gather the last of their food for a three-month slumber
Soon rain will be substituted with snow
As the last days of autumn come and go
Opening welcome arms for Christmas, for school holidays, for New Year's
Bidding farewell to autumn and good day to winter
Everyone Forgets the RainThe lightning tore into the clouds
Their pale, innocent faces darkened and their eyes shut
Their eyes shut and their blood turned to water
The water, their blood, their tears, poured down upon the earth
The thunder cried, loud wails echoing across the sky
And the lightning grew brighter, prideful in its massacre
And as the lightning swelled with pride, the thunder
That poor, poor mother, cried for the loss of her children
She cursed the lightning, cursed the man that would dare take her children from her
And the clouds, those poor children, those happy, innocent children
They withered as they cried, as they bled out in the sky
And as I looked upon the spectacle
As I stared up at the sky
As their tears hit my face
As their blood drenched my hair
My own tears joined in the mixture of their blood
Their sorrow became my own
And as the clouds finally dissipated
As the thunder quieted, her grief stealing her voice
As the lightning vanished, having stolen the lives of his children
I was blind
Beauty, Concerning a Spider WebDew drops catch the first light
From the rising sun, still stretching
As it awakens for another day,
It’s routine tasks unchanged.
The shadows shrink as the new day dawns,
The heat of day lighting up everything.
Not much is hidden from its scorching rays
As the day burns on.
The web, now devoid of moisture,
Is hidden from view, remaining
Invisible to all who pass it by,
Its beauty unrecognized.
As the sun starts it's eventual descent,
The world becomes restless as the
Light it adjusted to for vision
Starts to fade.
Shadows stretch across the ground,
Darkness slowly taking over as
The moon graces the sky, taking watch
Over the world below.
Soft white light bathes the world,
Dancing along the surface and
Adding a sense of wonder.
And the spider web, forgotten during
The day, now catches the moonlight as it
Dances along it's threads, bringing it to life.
Nature then readies to repeat its melody.
How I was BornTake a muddy handful of dreams
and mold them into bones.
Tie them together with sinews of love
taken from roots underground.
For nerves take fine spider-silk
and lay it with the muscles
which were formed out of tireless hope.
Cover them all with heartwood
letting the inside of trees
be the outside of me.
Robin's eggs make fine eyes
full of hopeful happy light blue skies
And river reeds for tangled hair.
Color my lips with cranberries
And lastly: a breath of poetry
to awaken me and serve as my soul.
To depression, for creating days without endWake up to the realization that you've been awake
for seconds, minutes, hours.
You've been awake in this warm, dark room
and you don't know how long it's been
but now you're conscious
and it starts again--
the pain, strong and steady, in your chest.
You gain consciousness in this too warm morning
and your thoughts whir in endless loops
because it's either that or face the weight in your chest.
Light breaks though the window, soft and unwelcome
but you take it as a reluctant gift--
a new distraction from the feelings awake in your chest.
Awake, but not conscious.
So you think yourself in circles a little while longer
waiting for those quiet pains
(the constant reminder)
to gain consciousness.
IowaIf you visit Iowa,
you'll call her fields empty,
but she wasn't born that way.
A part of her was carved out
when she was ripped between Virginia
and the purple mountains of New Mexico.
Her gold hair, she tore it out when she realized
it didn't make her a princess.
She laid her locks strung along every road
leading somewhere else.
White hairs on her cheeks
are scars from winter.
Her hair darkens with the dampness
of summer rains.
The storms are never silent,
but neither is life when there's a tear
in your childhood where
a parent ought to be.
I've been flooded by Iowa's sorrow.
The only way I can distract her from her own voided landscape
is if I hate myself harder than she cries.
She just wants to fly
and I want to bus or train,
not because I fear death, but because
I want to take living slow.
It's the only way I ever feel.
From the air it's hard to watch Earth's hips move.
But Earth can't compare to the country.
That's my girl.
Full grown even when harvesting season's j
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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