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Literature Text
Watercolours
of finished fisherman,
eyes bright
with brushstrokes
of aqua-blue,
given goldfish pupils,
and draining, seeping garments,
backed by bursts,
salt-watered waves.
No.
I am for the fences,
the stone walled ledges.
I am here, like the King,
for the gold gilt borders,
those intricate
woven edges.
Peripheral parallel,
herding back in silence,
landscapes of thunder,
stampedes of wild Ponies,
still life sacks
of spilling cornflour,
spotted hay, a sunny bay,
and perfect, oiled,
summer days.
Damning all dreams,
surrounding the scenes,
to placate and demarcate,
with a single,
straight-faced
expression,
an ocean of hues,
mere mountains of oil,
piles of precious pigments,
magnifying, surrounding, raising,
a Mephistopheles,
of perfect angles.
Sitting at the side
of painted dreams,
balls and dabs, rubs
and strokes,
spots and smears,
it appears,
I fear,
that
like all things
I am also framed,
by a greater mystery.
of finished fisherman,
eyes bright
with brushstrokes
of aqua-blue,
given goldfish pupils,
and draining, seeping garments,
backed by bursts,
salt-watered waves.
No.
I am for the fences,
the stone walled ledges.
I am here, like the King,
for the gold gilt borders,
those intricate
woven edges.
Peripheral parallel,
herding back in silence,
landscapes of thunder,
stampedes of wild Ponies,
still life sacks
of spilling cornflour,
spotted hay, a sunny bay,
and perfect, oiled,
summer days.
Damning all dreams,
surrounding the scenes,
to placate and demarcate,
with a single,
straight-faced
expression,
an ocean of hues,
mere mountains of oil,
piles of precious pigments,
magnifying, surrounding, raising,
a Mephistopheles,
of perfect angles.
Sitting at the side
of painted dreams,
balls and dabs, rubs
and strokes,
spots and smears,
it appears,
I fear,
that
like all things
I am also framed,
by a greater mystery.
Literature
Entwined
In dew-bright dawn the green sap runs
From ageless roots the cycles draw
The summer bloom from winter’s thaw
Our youth has seen uncounted suns
The moonlight wanes; the known stars fall
Yet still we live and love anew
We rise in joy like summer dew
Return Beyond at autumn’s call
And so we dance the early light
Eternal hearts in time entwined
The turning cycle spinning, blind
Embracing us in secret night
Literature
A Gift
I keep thinking about burying myself in your embrace, my face in your hair. And while I regret the fact that we both seem to be too much of damaged, quietly broken cowards to even talk about that night when we so naturally, seamlessly, gravitated towards each other, seeking warmth and comfort underneath the covers - using our sleep-pliant bodies to protect each other from the night - I am glad that it happened at all. Because to know that it is not a thing of fiction to actually feel like that in someone's arms… I am afraid you will never know how much of a gift it was that you unwittingly gave me. Still, I would give near anything for
Literature
lightkeeping
As you pick up the lantern in front of you, you find it filled with a busy, buzzing flurry of lights. Somebody stuffed fireflies into this one - not the proper thing at all. You unfasten the latch, open the door; the little bugs stream out gratefully. They bathe the wayside in a faint glow for a moment, then vanish in the pitch-black of the Long Night one by one.
You settle down cross-legged and gently put the empty lantern onto your lap to dream up a star.
Suggested Collections
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or
"When the painting frame looked out"
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Word association
Watercolours, cornflour and Ponies
"When the painting frame looked out"
Simply Poetry
Word association
Watercolours, cornflour and Ponies
© 2009 - 2024 brassteeth
Comments23
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An interesting way of telling it. I wasn't sure I understood anything of it until I hit the end. Then things made sense, and I decided I like this.
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