[x]

RuinsFallen, desecrated -
The windows to your soul are stained;
You would kill to be a mosaic, but
You are no Roman empire.

The windows to your soul are stained -
You were never high beloved, no
You are no Roman empire;
You have crumbled under the weight of the world.

You were never high beloved,no -
Fallen, desecrated -
You have crumbled under the weight of the world...
You would kill to be a mosaic.

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.

SensesTo: you,

saying Sundays are never beautiful
counting fallen meteors as wishing stars. we
dream the inconsistencies of space- timid
chemistry mapped between your rough skin
and my boneless fingers, breaking outlines of isolation
in constellations, dwelling in the abodes of time lost
beneath tearless skies.

To: me,

living amid painted strokes of genius, between
colors communicating to trebles and records in collective
urgency. let us crush the aftermath of our damaged
liberties, breathing the dire fumes of cremated guitar strings as
Van Gogh enters the centre of the last field, aims his cocked
gun and forms the sixth instance o

leslieleslie folds her fingers over each other

& lets nothing in or out;

hoping someday to hear the sound of butterfly wings inside,

instead of a suffocating sigh.

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.

dead1.

i hear these words
and something happens
in the yard;

it doesn't fit
a poem
or planet.

i see it squeeze
into the slits
beneath your shirt.

i feel it fly the smooth
of you
from off your back. it turns

and hides behind the acres,
stock frontiers
of jagged rooftops,

kept far and safe
and free
of me.

2.

the squirrel
has left the limb
as light would leave
a photograph.

i’m staring into its absence
and some new kind of animal is made;
one where
only
its reversal is alive.

it doesn't move or breathe.

the park is wintered over, and i don’t go.
the poppies
are all gone.
and when they do come back, they never chan

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

once in the afterlife,breathe
and b r e a t h e
and
breathe...

inhale

what
was
left

& bury

the
deep
rooted
ashes

beneath
the earth
e n g r a v e d
in heaven's
lungs.

Another Pretty Little Thing"pretend she is made out of ashes and paper thin words—mourn
the loss of her innocence, her freedom, her control.
cast her out into the ocean to dissolve among the waves,
find her a god dirty enough to still believe in her."

She was young. A child cocooned,
waiting to burst forth with fresh
gossamer wings - vibrant and ready
to fly her into the sun, but no
one thought her worth warning, they-
pretend she is made out of ashes and paper thin words-mourn.

Another pretty little thing to
gawk at and unravel, peel away
her protection and paint her chains
to look like jewelry that doesn't
weigh her down - an illusion to hide
th

(it is not a dream if it is everyday)i no longer have the gall
to write letters to my universe.
it’s stony quiet,
all around.
it’s possum eyes in headlights,
abandoned chandeliers
frozen
in Victrola dust.

some tireless pamphleteer
has wrecked this room
with motorized felicity!
there must be
at least
one bill for every breath,
paper
mountains
of indifference.

and now, i see
you are the same.
you’re no magic
planet. i will
get up,
some time tomorrow,
mid morning, when the bugs have died,
and drive to work
and i won’t think
there’s anything
that ever came
before that sun.

and there,
i’ll trade in shibboleths
and type in pointy let

systemhe said that one day I,
who have grown accustomed
to accumulating moons,
drawn like moths
to my Venus-brightness,
would meet my match.

he told me I would be
captured by the brilliance
of a star,
a Betelgeuse, a behemoth:
supergiant turned supernova turned
supermassive black hole.

he informed me, peeking out
from under my gravity,
his erratic elliptical orbit,
that one day I would be
swallowed up

and that it would be poetic justice.

WyattWhite-knuckled as water
hemlock hanging
onto Queen Anne's
lace perception,

you waver like a screen door, rusty
springs all choked, twisted
inside you. Roughhewn son

of bluegrass summer, flutter forth
on rotten wood heels. Eye
the thin-thin creek so nervous,
while poison wires you

ripe to run.

In The Land of WarCobweb bones,
Gossamer skin,
Stained-glass eyes,
Hair like serpent's tongues,
And a mouth seething war -
She was born of unrest.

Her people knew only of unrest,
It burrowed in their bones;
Their hearts beat out like drums of war,
and no manner of painted skin
or trained tongue
could hide the hatred in their eyes.

She was a monst[h]er[o] in their eyes -
Met with countless days of unrest,
She fought foreign tongues
and lived in a cage of bones;
with thick, weather-worn skin,
She knew she was born for war.

It wasn't only her war.
It was the horizon in the children's eyes
and the brands burned into their skin,
leaving them to

the song of a roamerAnd darling, I've been gone for a long, long time. Your eyes
are still that steely gunpowder blue, but your hair has grown long,
and there's a softer curve to your waist
and freckles on your shoulder I don't remember,
and I think,
God.
What have I missed?
You tell me about the weddings
the divorces. You tell me
about the babies
and the losses, and how last year
your dog died--easy, in his sleep--
and there is a hollow lack in you,
a space reserved for things that won't come back.
Long ago, was there a space like that
for me?
When did it collapse--when did it
fold in on itself
under the weight of things that matter more?
I tell you about Cambodia. I paint
the jungles for you, breathe the crushing wet heat
of it into your lungs. I tell you
about the kids in Africa
and how the heat is different there--
belligerent and fierce.
I tell you how much you would have liked Barbados,
and how much you would have hated Rome.
And I remember all the things I
can't tell you--all the things I don't hav

north pacificAudio version thisaway.
icewater and tumblestone beaches, and i wonder, clifftop,
if the fog tastes like forest.
the ocean carves its histories
in the driftwood--creation stories and
lullabyes worn smooth,
bleached to a polish.
it might be sand shifting but maybe--
maybe i can feel the whalesong,
low and deep
thrumming in the hollow spaces of my bones.
i envy the seabirds
who have more room to feel.

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More from *RiseandBe

On MovingThe wind blows;
I am a leaf caught
in a new gust.

WaywardWind-whispers ghost through
treetops; an owl hoots her
guidance to the damned.

MemiorsOld typewriter,
Click-clack of nostalgia
from bones to paper.

Sweet Summer NightAll things glow
the pearl moon rises
crickets chirp their praise.

I Only KnowThere are at least
thirty-seven thousand ways
to get from here to there.

here,
where your body fits
next to my body, your breaths
match my breaths; your
escape-
paradise, sanctuary, utopia-
surrounds my escape.

there,
where you and I are not
the same; where your edges
break against my smooth,
your rises coalesce with
my falls, your
d i s t a n c e s
clatter against my presence.

thirty-seven thousand ways
at least,
but I only know one.

I only know the way the thumping
of your heart leads to the pressing
of our lips-
I only know the here and there that
pales, insignificant
to

the you and me.

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.

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Willow Weep

by *RiseandBe, Dec 19, 2012, 7:24:29 AM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Traditional Fixed Forms

The trees on your back
will never burst forth into wings,
no matter how filled with birds.

They shade you from a lack-luster sun,
while you allow their roots to curve along your spine;
you never had tree trunk skin.

Gather rain water in your cupped leaves;

pretend you are fulfilled.

Willow Weepby *RiseandBe

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Traditional Fixed Forms

©2012-2013 *RiseandBe

Fear will only ever hold you back, not protect you.
You need to have a thicker skin.

Thanks to Guild Wars 2 for the inspiration.

Day 19 - Indriso

~violetense Feb 20, 2013 Student Writer

The trees on your back
will never burst forth into wings,
no matter how filled with birds.

Love this. Could easily stand alone.

Reply

*RiseandBe Feb 20, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you!

Reply

*bloodawni Feb 13, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

Why must you write so much I love?!

You will get sick of me 'spamming' you with comments of adoration!

Reply

*RiseandBe Feb 14, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

lol Thank you! I doubt it!

Reply

*bloodawni Feb 14, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

Hahaha, you say that *now*...

Reply

*nawkaman Jan 20, 2013

Purely beautiful.

I know nothing about Guild Wars 2 but find myself curious as to how it inspired this poem.

Reply

*RiseandBe Jan 20, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you!

One of the species you can play in guild wars 2 is the tree people, at the beginning of their story the first boss you fight is a giant wooden dinosaur-like creature with massive trees on its back.

Reply

*nawkaman Jan 20, 2013

Haha, that makes sense now

Reply

*RiseandBe Jan 21, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Reply

*edge-of-psychosis Jan 19, 2013 Student Writer

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