Creeping down the spine of this language I gather its words, and find myself f a l l i n g with loss. I arched too near the sun in the joy of flight and my words ignited. Those intricate rules and numerous hours of linguistic theory, melted wax and smouldering rib. Conversations whisper a w a y delicately grain by grain. Blown like pillars of s a l t down across cities and towns. With this loss I become the shaking wind, invisible, only able…
A rework of an old piece. For some reason to means a lot to me. Behind her the roads washed out again, and we'll be stuck here for days waiting for the county to call themselves God and send someone out in chains. The sky washed out too. She's looking into the distance and I know she can't tell the washed out road from the w a s h e d o u t s k y. She keeps on smiling though, the only thing that…
Done in the style of a shadorma
Winter birds shiver in the trees chilled bone deep yet they sing for a miserable sun hoping to raise him.
One by one they die through the days as he wakes song by song their bodies lining his spring. He climbs with warm joy.
That dark desert engulfs the highway and my mind. The coyote's blue moon rising high over the mountains cools the road, and creosote tastes of life, a reminder of moisture. She and I on these journeys, become a single desert animal. Pursued by the night she and I race past Florence toward Tucson and home.
Those garish city lights lick her hood and drag across my face. The night tastes of dust and wetness as she and I roll in and so do the clouds from…
Based on the idea of thriving on a barren island where you have to bring everything, even the dirt. The people have survived for hundreds of years on the Aran Islands, perhaps thousands if the ruins are any indications.
Quietly the birds sing at the end of the world, their lyrics and words snatched away and devoured by a ravenous wind as it brushes against the cliff's teeth and strokes roiling, reaching indigo waves, and we survive here on these desperate storm-battered islands. We thrive here.
The swan flies a long road over the ocean and waves to the lake of her childhood, her cygnet curled safely on her back.
Tired and worn, pearl wings do not falter in the brilliant moonshine, eyes never drift shut.
Fire touches the cold horizon and burns the appearance of land as the moon sets silently into the silver ocean.
Past seas reaching for the land, the swan flies over the lea, purple and pink in the dawn, her cygnet still sleeping sound.
The last star…
moon in the tree
on budding branches -
pushed out by the wind
ripples in the pond -
a dragonfly
lands on the moon
Trembling, we the ragged dress can no longer cling to the huddling frame. Hole by hole, we lose against the wind and darkening season leaving limbs shivering and uncovered in morning frost. I, the ancient fabric, moth-eaten and skeletal fall, and leave a naked form.
The second largest the country has to offer, and the city only blinks once a week. Thursday night, the streets surge. Music pulses steadily onto Oliver Plunkett Street knocking drunks flat onto their backs as they send colorful curses skyward each accent associated differently, D2, Limerick, Killkenny, Cork itself. Lonely and longing the rest of the week, the city watches and hopes for another Thursday as the sole Irishman stumbles blindly, blindly along the Lee.
Born in Mexico, the monarchs twist on a road ingrained. A memory born and burnt indelibly into a black and orange patterned mind. Twirling through Tucson, past the mission of San Xavier they know the path. I, the monarch. You, the path. Always we twist in unison.
We need no green pea soup to speak of possessions, nor do we need a priest or even holy water. Merely our pens, our pencils, and our paper to protect ourselves from these fiends.
No hard hat is needed to understand what is mine belongs to me! Yes, that's right! Me! Me! Me!
What's yours need not be mined - it may come from anywhere. You're the owner of that which is yours. Yes, that's right! You! You! You!
Jack and Jill, he and she, well,…
Each day I wake. The mirror says look. I do. I hate. the mirror. "Maybe, maybe, baby." The mirror teases me. If glass could smile it would. Because it loves to be cruel. That's the nature of glass - to be sharp, and to cut. Then I realize it's not the glass that's cutting me. My own reflection stares, angular and jagged, lips whispering. They tell me to look. I do, and I'm the face that I hate.
Rainbow-colored tears dripped down from the earth's chin and slid down the sky up toward space. Wishing the night good-bye red tears, blue tears, striped tears rose upward into the flamingo sky as I shot across the landscape in a little VW Rabbit wondering what it be like to ride in a tear and rise into outer space and leave my schoolbag behind.
She wandered the woods helpless with glee. Further and deeper, further and deeper than any child should go she used up all her breadcrumbs and slipped into the night. A little faster to get past those wolf howls and laughs, but wolves run faster than little girls and she fell in the flowers, their scent mingling with blood while she died silently in the mouths of her friends.
In patterns black and white the days drizzle down passing clouds in an endless storm. Then color, a microburst of passion for a moment wind and a torrent of rain. A feeling, freshness amidst the bleak, and relief.
Inspired by Frost.
Golden hues merge into blues and stretch into common green, infinite in our day's views. Lost only to time between.
An hour of morn, hour 'fore eve, nature's finest embolden but cannot coax out one leaf more that rare color golden.
Falling through the sky we know each other for seconds but it's enough. That warm touch baring the lifetime of loneliness that remains as we circle one another, riding on the thermal updrafts.
Death woke me from my dreams tonight and beckoned me after into the moonlight and down the dark ribbon road.
Death led toward me to his gray mare, its black eyes sunken in, and it huffed softly, and in desperate fear I ran.
The day slips over the mountains and the night slithers into the sky calling all the stars to curl against her back. The night whispers sweetly, sings love songs to the moon and coaxes it into her arms. She caresses its silver warmth and watches the dark land; below the coyotes howl, fireflies flicker towards the sky longingly but only she holds her moon.
Laundry night tonight, and it's my turn. I'm tired, but I'll do it. Your socks, my shirts our underwear. I get home and the dryer's spinning. You're folding shirts and you smile. No words, just smiles.
The desert is cold tonight with no moon stalking the earth. Stars mutely twinkle, dying lights over a chilled land, and a sharp wind shrieks along grasping at an anxious, empty riverbed.
These dreams creak in old bones, moving like terrorists. Each one, each one they whisper quietly and gather and ask why they're just husks gathering dust.
Spirits and cherry blossoms weave over the pond with the wind carp and lily pads gossip below, whispering amongst themselves. The wind stirs ashes from the grave of a hidden, long-dead fire and watches the dance of the spirits and blossoms and ash.
After dying for him I am reborn for myself suited like Viola and ready to walk, to work among men no matter how foreign the shore. Courageous and passionate, I am also Cordelia and unwilling to compromise my feelings. Yet sexy like Rosalind, commanding and running life as I like it. I have slept, and I will dream and choose to be.
Infected and affected by your words, I jam them into my wide mouth. I would suck at your whispering brain and lick your soft fingertips for residual rhymes, or a little lingering stardust. Alas, empty skulls gather and still, I am not sated.
I suppose you think me cruel for forcing you to burn brighter and suck down all the air but someone has to feed the fire and protect you from the rainy days.
Bright reds and yellows, tulips seemed a strange thing in an international airport. Couldn't buy `em - customs waiting in New York. Wanted `em anyway; to assuage compulsive worry. Pacing and watch-checking, and that heavy feeling of a lack of air in the chest. Watched ladies playing cards and stared out the windows; Fog made the airport an island and me, I was stranded.
We lost each other in the way of sandstorms - as the sand rose, swirling and stinging. You begged me to wait, and I did, hoping for your touch. Yet, the moon rose and the storm broke and a new path appeared.
Years later after the storm had ended, and we let each other see only dull sand-scratched eyes instead of the oases we fell into. I promised you a card from a trip abroad, and if I had known the postcard would have gotten lost...
Holy crap! Do you have any idea the migraines you get when your hair is long enough to serve as a ladder? And, Dude, you would think the prince you'd get out of the deal would be freakin' awesome, but he's not. I think he's maybe that prince who got turned into a frog at one point and then got turned back by a kiss. Except whoever turned him back, well, they did a bad job because he still looks kind of like a frog. Maybe…
AN: Don't know what this is. Just a random thing I wrote.
So, I walked up the downtown in the middle of the night kind of thinking about the way neon looks when it's reflected in a rain puddle and kind of not. The prostitutes in leather and fishnets gave me a lot of strange glances as I hurried past them. I did not match the night.
I was a fairytale. My clear plastic high heels tapped down the street and my bright blue dress bounced…
As inspired by the Canterbury Tales...
The Prioress smiled as she walked down the street. Nuns were not nearly as common as they used to be in this day and age and that meant that many people, both male and female, afforded her attention she may not have received in years past. Even in countries stereotyped as fairly religious, nuns were declining in population, so that gave her something many men sought: rarity. Her status as a nun also made her untouchable, something that made her…
This is a work in progress.
I often think of Paris reflected in the Seine and I see the color gray.
Clouds and architecture around boat propellers in ancient swells around Javert's bones.
Even the yellow of the city's infamous lights has been tainted, and the grayness risen from the river taints the Sphinx's landmarks, Quasimodo's bells and even rolls down the roads into the Hall of Mirrors in Versailles where it echoes sadly.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sailormoon. Summary: On super heroes and death.
Sometimes I come to the beach when I'm feeling particularly nostalgic. I pull my car off the road and I pretend you're sitting in the passenger's seat. I imagine the wind playing with your hair and your slight smile as we watch the waves crash onto the shore below us. I used to wonder what you saw, what you felt when you looked out across the ocean. I longed to understand the depth of emotion…
Note: I decided to redo this as a poem. The new version follows. There is not much difference, but I think enough to make it better.
Disclaimer: I do not own Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Please do not sue me. Yes, gasp! It's fiction based off a movie!
I am the desert dragon.
I once reigned over endless hearts from the top of the greenest mountain. My life as imperial dragon gained less meaning as I gained more knowledge and realized the extent of my responsibility…
Disclaimer: I am neither Gene Roddenberry nor Rick Berman. I have no money. Thus is the life of a college student. :-P
"Worf," Dax cried as she balanced precariously on two thick branches thirty feet above the bubbling, belching Bajoran swamp. "What in the world made you think climbing through a swamp in the middle of a muggy summer night would be romantic?" She reached out and grabbed her husband's proffered hand, stepping gingerly onto a branch slightly lower than the one Worf occupied. Worf picked…
Disclaimer: Sorry, but the Utena world and its characters are not mine to revolutionize. This is the redone version. Please enjoy. Thanks to Seema for the beta and to Yasha for the helpful suggestions. Hey, fellow writers, want a challenge? Write a story in second person point of view!
You watch the falling rain as you water the roses, listening as each drop falls lightly against the greenhouse glass and then slides downward, deeper, deeper. The rain starts to fall harder, battering itself against the greenhouse…
Today I sat down and I asked myself if I'm a good person or not. I sat and I thought about this all because of you. You were my friend, my lover, my confidante. You said in one hundred words enough to make me consider taking up the knife again. I trusted you and you twisted everything so much that I couldn't recognize my face in the mirror, recognize that it was my own wrist I was cutting into and not yours.
And you apologized. And…
Author's note: An old experiment in description written several years ago that I recently dug up...
Glass shattered. Colorful beautiful pieces fell from the oval-shaped window into the cathedral with a sharp and frightening crackle. People praying desperately in the church near the altar standing in the dim candlelight looked up briefly and brought their hands up in hopeful protection.
Their clothes were dark and concealing.
Past the jagged edges of the church's former window, gargoyles peered in and gaped wide-mouthed at the people. The luminous…
Another old work of which I'm quite fond...
1. The Pit of a Peach
One can't say it's the most exciting life, being the pit of the peach. In fact, to anyone who's been on the "outside" I'm sure it would be quite boring. I've always led this sheltered life though; so I don't have anything to compare. What I do know is that I am no longer with the Great Mother (I think once I heard her referred to as a "tree"). I think it…
Take my antlers upon your head, young one
with me, against me, knock, clash and defend;
Stab me! Kill me! O'erthrow me and learn to bend!
Break me and become king of stag and sun
Hear hooves on the ground and beside me run
La mort is French for death. It is pronounced lah mour. L'Amour is French for love. It is pronounced luhmoor. Disclaimer: I do not own anything by William Shakespeare, Tom Jones, or any of the quotes from the Heart of Darkness. I am merely borrowing various persons, characters, and quotes and no offense is intended.
Lamort adjusted her black scarf as she strode through the crowds in London's Hyde Park purposefully. Most of the people around her talked excitedly and a few sang strange words which…
I want you to tell me
tell me, tell me
where is my house?
Get me out of this heat.
Connect the dirty patches
She
was born of fire
and forced to be
her mother's air.
She sucked
on the air
and drew her faster
toward the ashes…