[x]

summergirlNow read aloud over here. Do give it a listen, won't you?
i. summergirl,
you are crowthroated and tumbling
through the aspen grove
hair on fire with sunrise, lungs
full of sky.
eyelashes like wildflowers
and every morning brings
a new spray of freckles
and a sharper curve to your collarbones.
the cornfields hold no shadows
for your lighthouse eyes
and there are no endings in that
surefooted smile.
ii. you have grown
so fast.
autumn finds you with broken ankles
leaning on an oak branch
and watching the skies.
crow to sparrow--you are quiet.
summergirl, there is peace in silence,
perched treetop,
fallen antlers in your hands.
you will come to mourn your deer.
keep them close.
iii. by winter you have paled,
and like the streams
your eyes have frosted over.
you feel the chill--
there is no need for sight.
summergirl, th

10 Monthsi.
He looks at me with smiles
crystalline in eyes as big as the sky
but more blue.

&.
He may be fascinated by
everything,
but he doesn't love anything
as much as he loves
me.

ii.
He wears joy on his hands,
and his mouth opens wide to the sky
when it rains.

&.
I wish anything was
half as beautiful to me
as everything is to him.

Breaking BurdensThe unspoken rules of society:
when your hands can mimic birds
at 4 am,
tell me your stories
and defy the sky.

It only lasts a little while.

Untouchedquestion marks rest
on his parted lips in eternal curiosity -
unconditional love's open-mouthed kiss;

flower petal cheeks
and poster child eyes for the hopeful -
I pray he never sees the world for what it is.

you asked me to write your eulogybut darling, do not ask such things of a poet.
We live with death and feathers
in our bones, and you—

clouds have purpose, and one
is seldom alone in the sky. To
say, smart or handsome or
funny or caring, it is the lid
on the trash, never appreciated
till missing, and you—

undercover smell of well-water
and thick terra cotta clay,
a fallen angel left in smoke-screen
somewhere below the salt, the heart
still beats, and you—

a mythology come-to-life.
Hellion and savior, black-tipped
like raven wings, always more
in the right light
than

WelcomeI'm ready for a romance to ravage my heart and tear apart my
dusty limbs, I'm waiting for someone to take my breath and
never give it back; I'm prepared to sell all I was for a trip
somewhere new - beyond the paper mistakes I sailed away
down the river long ago. (even rocks and leaden thoughts
won't let the truth sink.)

I left my being somewhere under a waning summer sun
when the trees hummed melodies of moving on;
my soul still stays there, porous and pining and
lost. Dying stars don't lead home.

I suppose
it's more than just losing
your words, it's losing
you

too.

I am someone who mourns Sunday morning for another lost
w

O FevraleWitching hour, welcomed with a sigh,
bare-breasted and ink-stained in the night.
Half in love in this half-life half-light;

pisat O Fevrale navsnryd, dreaming
of the gods. Wanderer, today I died and
died again, and whispered prayers

to clasped hands… until the nestled
droplets fell away like sunrays at dusk;
and when moonrise came, I sang again.

lovesong for sailorboyRead aloud and explained (somewhat) here.
i have always loved words as you love the sea
but i have grown to hate
prepositions
because i have always had words
about you
with you
to you--
but never for you.
words for everything
except you.
but i have words for this, so
i'll take them
one by one.
about.
the ocean was your first love and
i could always see it in your eyes.
most would call them blue--just
blue
like a swell over a sandbar
blue like the spring sky over a poppy field.
but i don't think anyone
got as close as i did and they're not blue
not shorebound and
safe--
they're gray like the steelbellied sea itself
like the horizon at dawn as it
encircles you
hems you into an impossibly vast canvas
like a demarcation line
or a promise.
one you always chased.
with.
maybe i had a streak of ocea

lukewarmshe had the kind of voice
that seemed to be stuck
in the hour of four o'clock
in the morning - soft
and tired and luring,
mumbling her way through
subways and tunnel lights
all pale yellow with noise.

there was tea and long baths
and longer absences,
hiccups of breath
the best
she could do.
long springs and
longer falls,
one equinox to the next
and still the bad
was never that bad
and the good
was never that
good,
and she continues to hum
the birds continue to sing
the apples continue to
grow and
sour and
fall,

and bury themselves
again.

Mea CulpaI.
I thought you were the rain, but no,
I was the rain. I meant to drown you. I
wanted you to be inescapably drenched-
your trachea clogged, your mouth an 'O'
of desperate gasping, your lips parted
and blue. If I wasn't enough to die for,
I wouldn't ever be enough.

II.
Your disappearances were noted with
darkened clouds- thick and heavy, tight
with waiting. You always returned with a
thunderclap, moving me to a downpour of
deprived longing. I was a flood and you
were a desert begging to be a sea. But
flood-waters river into oceans, and
deserts are meant to be dry.

III.
It was selfish of me to treat you
like a boat- I l

confessionalthey say sad girls change their hair color
and forgive their monsters.

i change my morals
and become one.

SenescenseI aged half my life
in one evening:
landed on a fall moon,
full of red and the howl
of wolves.

Harbor womb to a fox
more wild than my birdhands,
my vernal equinox,
his twitter-pated harvest
moon.

feral child, disquiet;
I aged half my life,
wept fifty years;

birthed reincarnation,
hallowed redemption.

Depression.To be depressed is
to carry every unwashed thing
in your life in your
arms.

The dishes you
couldn't clean pile
up with your innards,
jostling for space
amongst the lungs you've
smoked black and the
heart you've loved
thin.

Your unwashed sheets
hang around your shoulders,
gathering dead skin cells and
catching hair you habitually
tear from your skull, a
nervous twitch you never
quite shook.

You wake up one morning
and find that your hands are
still stained with dirt
from that time you buried
your lover in the backyard,

wanting to let go
but discovering that letting
go feels a lot like
giving up and
you're not rea

I hope you are reading thisthe person I love loves music much too much
and the person I love loves that I love the quiet and easy days
loves that I like to stay up late (or early) till the birds sing of morning and
the person I love loves that I love to hold hands and hold a body but only when I know them fully
and the person I love loves listening to my songs and listening to my voice and to my poetry and stories
the person I love has songs to share too and a voice that melts my heart and words that mold it back into something nostalgia old and inspired new
and the person I love loves to look around and take it in once in a while and wonders why we can’t just run away to a secluded place in the forest with a cabin that harbors all of our needs, keeps you and me in a space apart where it rains when we’re sad because we would always be sad together and where the sun is warm on our skin when we are smiling together and laughing together because I made a spectacular pun out of seemingly nothing sp

SpringSummerEach night, an autumn-
Blossoms skydive suicide,
leaving branches bare.

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He's Not Heavy

by *RiseandBe, Jan 20, 2013, 2:46:07 PM
Literature / Poetry / Family Life / Free Verse

1.
Sometimes,
I don't want to be
a mother.
Sometimes, his big blue eyes
are just barely enough
to ground me.

There are nights,
I want to pack a suitcase,
walk out the door,
and never ever look back.

There are mornings,
I want to throw the baby
monitor against the wall,
watch it shatter,
and pull the covers back
up over my head.

2.
Sometimes,
I see him watching me,
silently, in the corner
of my eye,
and when I finally turn
to face him,
he smiles.

Sometimes, he climbs into
my lap, rests his head on
my breast and pats the arm
I've draped across his
legs-

without words, he teaches
me how to forgive.

He's Not Heavyby *RiseandBe

Literature / Poetry / Family Life / Free Verse

For Gaby.

Confessional, and just one of the many things he's already taught me.
Partially inspired by the most recent How I Met Your Mother episode.

Day 20

love 2 2

joy 1 1

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~TheMoorMaiden Mar 19, 2013 Student Writer

This is just beautiful.

I love how raw and honest it is and the way you don't try to hide behind stereotypical ideas about mothers and babies that are floating around in literature. Really lovely piece.

*RiseandBe Mar 20, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you for the thoughtful comment and kind words.

~TheMoorMaiden Mar 20, 2013 Student Writer

You're welcome.

~violetense Feb 16, 2013 Student Writer

without words, he teaches
me how to forgive.

It's funny how the little ones
sometimes know more than we do about life.

*RiseandBe Feb 16, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

So true.

~Taiwanesedreamer Feb 7, 2013 General Artist

Some of the gifts motherhood brings...

*RiseandBe Feb 7, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Mmhmmm...

~Taiwanesedreamer Feb 7, 2013 General Artist

I didn't mean it sarcastically.I mean, being a mom has its moments when all the sleepless nights and responsibilities give insight and meaning to life. If you are a young mother, don't worry, things do get better. Its finding the flow.

*RiseandBe Feb 7, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Oh, I know you didn't. No worries.

Thank you.

*scatteredwords Jan 22, 2013

So much straight-up truth here. So very lovely.

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