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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
October 25, 2009
Loss, in five Acts by *brassteeth.
Featured by fllnthblnk
Suggested by KneelingGlory
Literature Text
i. Return
Through a dark tunnel
of bent birch and cedar I walk.
Soft moss on cobblestone. Home.
The tilted bird bath drips with
tea coloured rain. Vines snake up
old walls even as the sandstone crumbles.
Decaying gutters sag with sad, welcoming
smiles, heavy with dead leaves
and the fallout of terracotta tiles.
ii. Memory
On her lap, in the evening, swinging
on the front porch chair. Humming
a lullaby, she whispers softly and
marks with a brush of her ringless finger,
magpie and minor, chicken and hen
and then, soft kisses on my cheek for bed.
At the bus stop, she is squinting and waving
and waiting. At hometime, she is feeding the
pigeons every last crumb from my lunchbox.
iii. Roses
The garden beds sit like unkept graves,
clutching the roots of dead roses. Row after row
of thorny crucifix. Anemic and budless.
Were they red or white or pink?
That memory is dim. Perhaps something
more obscure. Champagne or chartreuse.
A sudden notion. Todays black and grey
procession was as much for those roses
as for anyone. Colourless, flowerless burials.
iv. Home
From the splintered porch, the black-clad
grievers leave. Arms clasped loosely to backs.
Foreigners to me, they mourn a stranger.
Bobbing heads. Beaten brows.
They depart this scene like walking crows.
I do not recall them. I do not recall any of them.
A made-up apparition, a funeral thought. Her,
leaning, two handed on wicker cane,
smiling at the seriousness of the day.
v. Senses
My head reels with a million histories
of youth. Skin, goose-bumped with
nostalgia, eyes full with wet salt and
dead wishes. In the dusty kitchen a tin cup
smells of rosehip and butter. A rolling pin sits
still, old enough to be my father.
She overwhelms me with her truancy. I wonder
too late, if she knows my heart. I wonder if I am
her loss, like she is mine.
Through a dark tunnel
of bent birch and cedar I walk.
Soft moss on cobblestone. Home.
The tilted bird bath drips with
tea coloured rain. Vines snake up
old walls even as the sandstone crumbles.
Decaying gutters sag with sad, welcoming
smiles, heavy with dead leaves
and the fallout of terracotta tiles.
ii. Memory
On her lap, in the evening, swinging
on the front porch chair. Humming
a lullaby, she whispers softly and
marks with a brush of her ringless finger,
magpie and minor, chicken and hen
and then, soft kisses on my cheek for bed.
At the bus stop, she is squinting and waving
and waiting. At hometime, she is feeding the
pigeons every last crumb from my lunchbox.
iii. Roses
The garden beds sit like unkept graves,
clutching the roots of dead roses. Row after row
of thorny crucifix. Anemic and budless.
Were they red or white or pink?
That memory is dim. Perhaps something
more obscure. Champagne or chartreuse.
A sudden notion. Todays black and grey
procession was as much for those roses
as for anyone. Colourless, flowerless burials.
iv. Home
From the splintered porch, the black-clad
grievers leave. Arms clasped loosely to backs.
Foreigners to me, they mourn a stranger.
Bobbing heads. Beaten brows.
They depart this scene like walking crows.
I do not recall them. I do not recall any of them.
A made-up apparition, a funeral thought. Her,
leaning, two handed on wicker cane,
smiling at the seriousness of the day.
v. Senses
My head reels with a million histories
of youth. Skin, goose-bumped with
nostalgia, eyes full with wet salt and
dead wishes. In the dusty kitchen a tin cup
smells of rosehip and butter. A rolling pin sits
still, old enough to be my father.
She overwhelms me with her truancy. I wonder
too late, if she knows my heart. I wonder if I am
her loss, like she is mine.
Literature
A Legacy of Wisdom
You have scribed your words,
wealthy wreaths of wisdom,
on paper never torn or worn.
You have etched your passions
on my brow.
You have left this wallowed world
victorious; eyes resplendent
with the wisdom you wrote and wrought.
Your passions shall echo in my ears
unto eternity.
And should I stray into some
sullen storm, or get caught in
the torrents of the monsoon, Ill know
that Lears been there before, and
Ill not swoon.
And if Hades doors open up
before my stranded soul, and scorch
it with the heat of hell, Ill recall that
I am not the first Dantes been down
there as well.
A
Literature
rest area
my america's a
loss collection
an invention
a requiem
in b(urned bridge) flat
reborn in
insect-peppered
roadside sacrament
leaking dust
to color brush
creeping
climbing
hills
to frame the big empty
it gets me
thinking
pain is just
something
we live with
it ceases only
at the end
of the life
that it
begins with
and I spend
every precious
instant
(in altered states
of existence)
crossing lines
avoiding eyes
creating distance
Literature
The Couplet and the Villanelle
The Couplet and the Villanelle
Said the couplet to the villanelle
"You, for all of your complexity
really are a vacuum and a shell
overwrought and odd, compared to me.
You, for all your cunning and your craft
your metaphors and similes and signs
conjure awkward rhymes that make me laugh
strung together in repeating lines."
Said the villanelle to couplet small
"I know I can ramble on at times
but, you know, you are inside of me
and you are complicit in my rhymes.
What's ironic though, you know... doggonnit.
both of us are stuck within this sonnet."
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
or "Returning home for my Mothers funeral"
Edit: Thanks for the D.D guys, much appreciated
Edit: Thanks for the D.D guys, much appreciated
© 2009 - 2024 brassteeth
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Keep writing and keep creating.