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*Scarlettletters

Brendan
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About Me Premium Member ScarlettlettersMale/United States Groups group avatar #Word-Smiths
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Given by an Anonymous Deviant
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Swimming Tiger

Sleeping Lion

The Bird King

Bounty

Bounty

:iconscarlettletters:

This gorgeous glut of bounty
buried beneath heaven's gate
in golden goblets
and globes
of summer fruit -
honey clings in wisps
and ripe figs
bend the boughs of trees
where you shelter from the crowd
turned out to feast
upon the landscape.
And I shall bring you bread and wine,
the warm day's haze of flesh
swelling your belly
under my fingers
like the galleons
left guarding the late summer wheat
in the harbor.
53 Comments
Bounty January 17 53 comments 252 favourites

Sometimes The Clothes Do Not Make The Man

Sometimes The Clothes Do Not Make The Man

:iconscarlettletters:

I am not the man
left hanging in the closet -
the patterned plaid
of slip knot
mother sent for Christmas
or the herringbone
caul of wool
that shrouds my skin from winter.
I am not the grey flanneled stride
that steals the sidewalk
from children jumping rope
or the cable stitched fisherman
stalking the wharf
and crumbling pier
when dusk comes calling.
I am but a bonescrap
and a dream,
a plural
of nerve and tendon
that keeps a distant profile,
coaxes living
from these garments
and owns the face of many.
61 Comments
Sometimes The Clothes Do Not Make The Man January 23 61 comments 110 favourites

Poetry

Sometimes The Clothes Do Not Make The Man I am not the man
left hanging in the closet -
the patterned plaid
of slip knot
mother sent for Christmas
or the herringbone
caul of wool
that shrouds my skin from winter.
I am not the grey flanneled stride
that steals the sidewalk
from children jumping rope
or the cable stitched fisherman
stalking the wharf
and crumbling pier
when dusk comes calling.
I am but a bonescrap
and a dream,
a plural
of nerve and tendon
that keeps a distant profile,
coaxes living
from these garments
and owns the face of many.Sometimes The Clothes Do Not Make The Man by *Scarlettletters
Bounty by *Scarlettletters
Creeper Peel the glass back
from my cheek -
my eye hanging like a lazy fool,
watching the air,
slippery with whispers
descend upon this room.

I said I would grow on you;
my last words
curdling the milk
left in your cup
as the curtains yawned
and walls wept
behind your chair.

Trust comes easily -
flat and distended,
disturbing the dust
left growing on the porch,
pulling up the roots
rotting in clay pots.

And you just watch
dusk roll over us -
Virginia Creeper and blind men
with a slice of grey -
holding up the ceiling
where the paint bleeds
and startles the moon.Creeper by *Scarlettletters
Fishermen by *Scarlettletters
Maelstrom I smell winter
in your bloodline,
the thick throttle of crimson
trapping the snow
and the crows' last laugh
stretching out the wires
taut and high over me.

I smell the cold
in the trees
where your face still hangs
caught like antlers,
weed-boned and blank
in the thin sunshine
of a drowning man.

And your kisses
still reek of snow -
frost chewing through my tongue,
cleaving to your smile,
blemished and beaming
in the surly light
left dying under your thumb

caught in my maelstrom.Maelstrom by *Scarlettletters
Trees by *Scarlettletters
Retreat I have abandoned battle, savored peace
and lost my weapons deep in sacred ground.
I have sought sweet mercy - God's own release
and prayed for his swift justice to abound.
I have walked past the soldiers in the street
and heard their cries run shameless without sound -
the tired, shuffling resonance of feet.
And in the morning's chilled and angry blast,
I recognize the music of retreat
as if I saw the ghosts that knew my past
gathering at the tables for a feast.
Then God allow these thoughts to be my last
for I have hopes my blessings will increase
and the dark  symphony of war will cease.Retreat by *Scarlettletters
The Lady of Astolat by *Scarlettletters
Absinthe Leave me then to dream in wormwood -
those malignant little demons
spilled in the mind-drift of my nights -
and steal me from my fitful rest.

Those malignant little demons
slip nightshade through the windowsills
and steal me from my fitful rest -
the cruelest jest, a poet's fears.

Slip nightshade through the windowsills
and leave the emerald juice to rest.
The cruelest jest a poet fears
is madness come home to roost.

Leave the emerald juice to rest.
Spilled in the mind-drift of my nights
is madness come home to roost.
Leave me then to dream in wormwood.Absinthe by *Scarlettletters
A Mother's Letter Dear Son,

I'm afraid it's just as bad
as was reported -
that your Uncle Sven has been deported
for unspeakable crimes
with the neighbor's cat.

Also, you should know that
your fiance was found undressed
with your sister's boyfriend, Fred -
no one but the family knows.

I hope this letter finds you well.
Oh, I forgot to tell you
that your father has to sell
his gun collection
to make bail
for Uncle Tim,
whose chasing tail
will be the death of him.

And your sister, Alice,
has grown so thin.
We think it's all that heroin
they laced the Girl Scout cookies with
(it's just an urban myth
that they're a leftist group).

A Mother's Letter by *Scarlettletters
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January Art

Journal Entry: Tue Jan 24, 2012, 8:51 AM
Paramour Cavalcade Paramour Cavalcade

Slipping through the streets
Of hometown withering
Into necropolis
Where bodies don't matter

Nor do faces
Those I see reflected
On wet pavement -
- Pillows to the hopeless

I may try to turn my head away
But this time of year
Even treetops resemble
A fish bone union, pitchforks and tridents

Stabbing the sky
That bleeds rain
In a desperate attempt
To clean Augeas' stables

Abandoned by their holder
Who left his herds to run wild
Or rot alive
As they please...

I run for life
And meet whores holding hands
With preachers
All stepping aside

They make a corridor
For paramour cavalcade
 Love's Cure She was the sister of tigers,
black stripes of battle lining her limbs,
appearing like a rash when anger sparked.
She was a devastated desert,
dunes and disaster, decimated, dangerous.
She was screaming raging songs,
tearing through sound, heralding heartache.

She is an orchard of oranges,
sweet-smelling and bright citrus light.
She is the twin of mirrors,
reflecting, revealing and reverent, responsive.
She is the crying violin,
the somber strains, the vibrating notes.

She was the warrior's pain-
death on the front lines.
She is the pureness of water-
the giving of life.
In between, she found a delicate heart
and held i A Moment Noted There is no tomorrow
for a world without love.
A rustic scaffold awaits
the head of many hopeless
dawns.
Forever a young child, who,
daily, encounters the docks
to catch the fish to feed himself,
he, will not look back to see
what he has lost.
Troubles come from that which
is truly a pity, that which
is a little girl with a pink dress,
with a small doll, and maybe a
dog at her side, though
we see her we know we will
rape her of her ability to
see what is pure in anything.
For some to find glory,
they may take the homes of mice
and critters of all gods,
to shift it from warmth to gold.

Now that the mystery is known Lost Norse Wolf Lost Norse Wolf

It was Stockholm syndrome
When first we met,
You were the hostage
And I the captor.
It was a cold August
That cannot compare
To your Nordic frost
As I revised the role of thief.

My shadow re-enacts my bodies sway
But lacks the certainty
To take your hand
And confess to you my love.
You, unknowingly, planted this inside
It lay dormant until I realised
With your return it grew
And I became the hostage then.

And like an angel to your angel
I fell so fast and hard
It felt like pain
And down came the rain,
I become the pauses in the pour
Waiting outside
Shivering a name
Waiting to come inside dry.
Murmur I only knew you in the whirlwind of summer.
Your likeness was cut from the shadow of an oak tree and
I buried myself in cigarettes.  We imagined black ice-
prayed to fall through.

This is a prison of familiar days. We visit my many faces but
they are silent in your presence.  
Can you smell my tired mind?
Labyrinths filled with people who refuse to fight you.

Meet me on the surface.
It will never be enough.
I know exactly how much a
blind heart weighs. The Taste of Regret The taste of him is bland on my lips.
I miss the spice and fire of her,
How she made me burn with such heat I thought
All my senses were gone forever.
Now, in comparison his touch chills me. Eternity Here is my prelude to ceaseless evenings
of beginnings with no end, of redemption.
I've given you, a swan song, bid them
farewell...farewell to mortality and farewell
to purposeless monotony.
Now bleed the colors of your abhorrence,
and now breathe the darkness,
your eternal light,
and mine. The Ephemera the cat is sick with life in her.

she looks up at the ceiling,
as if sensing a universe that mothers things.

together, my loneliness and hers become unbearable.
as soon as she dozes
i leave the rooms
and go down to the water where i can breathe.

the ephemera hides behind birds
and i'm spared.

reaching into the water,
i pretend to know things.

i hold my life.
as in cherish.
as it hides inside my handful of sand and water.

the cold lake kneels in its green pew and prays to itself.
the hour sounds on distant bells
but this is pure space.
for now, there is no time.
just stillness growing and lapping further up the At your side Small gestures, so charming,
and the smoke ascends towards our eyes
we are blind now, but not by love
just blind towards the other worlds
which exist beyond our own

At your side i learned
the importance of watching my cigarette burn
focusing solely on that moment alone
letting all black melt within the blue smoke,
letting your soul nest closer to my own Sack of Potatoes I remember my father, no I remember my mother, I remember my mother as she dropped off my father at Plant 2 in his '60s suit. '60s, when my father wasn't expected to know his daughters, his wife, not in any significant way, but only to be dropped off in his suit (by my mother, me tagging along), dropped off like a sack of potatoes with a goal, a purpose,

but in the dream, he fights easy dismissal as a fish fights his way upward in a stream. He stops and he stands (though fish of course can't stand), he stands in his business suit, his gills flapping for a different type of air. My mother scootches over to the passenger side of the street, Winter Fell Winter fell in an instant
Without word or thought
For Summer's warm charms
Though his temperature not

She danced in the moonlight
Awaited his heating bliss
He said not a word, but
Left her with a kiss

Winter fell hard
And Winter fell swift
Summer could not bare
His love to see drift

So through seasons they danced
Through seasons they sang
But alas, Winter began to weep
And melt from spring rain

Summer stood strong
He held her tight
Wished for only a moment
To keep her one more night

Winter was fragile
So he took her away
To another cold land and
promised to return one day

And there Winter stayed
Awaiting h The Magnolia Tree The Magnolia Tree

Two hummingbirds with thirsty beaks
And with lust for life so to speak
Both abandoned their peaceful creek

To go world's beauty see

To freedom they were meant to fly
And dive into depths of the sky
They've dreamed but of getting up high

One of those two was me

They danced and sang in light of day
With soft clouds little claws did play
I wished they wouldn't go astray

But some dreams don't come true

When fell down thick shadows of night
They lost each other off the sight
And then began my lonesome fight

My journey without you

Through storms I flew, in coldest rain
Tormented by most Ophelia often, she is left marred
by his lonesome nothing, in charred memories
of patterned streets embedded in
trembling cobblestone breaths. sometimes,
she drowns herself in self-driven forlorn desires. her
rosebud mouth drinks half-formed
mystic mutterings, stealing willow patterned puddles
in revolution around adolescent sun-dreams of
morning glory, wrapped with forgiving
oak trunk solid earth bastion,
forever lost to live in his silence. For Those Who Lived Walking dim-lit places
    in a minds-eye nation
I can but imagine; those who lived

Gnarled hands, their cracked and broken skin
Adorned with scars and jagged nails
Still flecked with darkened blood – the gore of viscera
Stripped from prey

Ruddy children
Hardly less weathered and sparse than their elders
Make play with stick and stone and bits of bone
To shunt aside the thoughts of hunger
    – a long three days
Their mothers scrape and chew those last-meal pelts
For cord and comfort at the coming winter

One crippled clansman sits, a watchman on a knoll
Spies the weary Chemical Reaction Winter solitude:
A hard chemistry lesson
Sans glass measurements. Save Us From Ourselves The drugs are failing, they know not why,
And speak in numb last-word weary lisps,
But just to re-live that no-good first high,
They choose, "It is my life" and do, to die;
And from these last-word lazy whisps,
I could only make sense of little sense,
"Zthere's a sthomething ōfer my hehd . . ."
And quietly to themselves,
They would schmooze,
"Lhord zave uhs frhom ourselves,
To pull these tomes recording our lives
From off our shelves!"
And of other things no schmoozer
had ever schmoozed before,
With all the seeming to've had
one-too-many booze.

Save Ye from Thyselves.

Sucking on a 'Mope Stick:' Hēwf-mm-puhf,
"L sonnet of a changeling child stale pumpkin spice and cinnamon alight
upon this cold expansion of damp air
this untouched day before it trips the snare;
what simple turns can mark the fae's soft flight.
and of this changeling child on wheat-bare earth
who'll flit from fold to field at merry whim?
a swaying dance upon a tree's high limb
will beckon over every call to hearth.
today a brisk and rapid north gust flings
him from his perch within the sweeping oak:
a fallen boy with bruises fresh, and yet--
what mother's hand can pin his fledgling wings
when swath in autumn's auburn leaflined cloak
he'll flee: a seed, a passing silhouette. Salvador Dali's Mustache Did Salvador Dali's mustache die with him?
Or did it ascend to heaven solo?

It was such a glorious mustache
Too grand to die,
with its waxed TV antennae ends.

It makes me sad to think
his grand mustache is gone forever.

I have a mustache.

When I die, will my mustache live on?
Will it go where Salvador's went?
Perhaps it will
Perhaps Jose Marti's mustache
will be there, too
In Mustache Heaven

I wonder if there is a
Mustache Hell, as well...
Stalin and Hitler,
with their distinctive evil bristles...
In spite of the eternal flames,
never seem to ignite Gamer Till Death Doth take our Controllers Social awkwardness,
a choice not to follow societal rules,
a language I didn't understand,
it's all geek to me.

A special breed,
an awesome species.
Dress how they please,
labels by the wayside.

Unless it's Magic, and D&D.

Unconcern with fashion,
love of House (the music, not the man)
disdain of rap,
is pretty ordinary.

Calluses on their thumbs,
focus in their minds.
Gamers till the end,
trying to explain.

Bring it on amateur,
cause we're sure to crush your soul.

Cuteness,
when they see a non-gaming girl,
awkwardness briefly reigns.
The sweetest guys,
with a large dash of perverseness of course.

Girl The Right Side of Trinity The Right Side of Trinity

The fibreglass bath was warm underfoot
As it retained the temperature of tepid water
That you bathed and shaved in.
After you had finished,
Through the steam I saw the mirror
And wiped it to see my face.

I held the shower head above me
As there was no fixing.
Washing my body I thought of you
And him
Wondering where I fit
Between or outside the two of you.

When dressed I pushed damp hair
To one side of my scalp
And emphasised my eyes with black liner.
I wore my tee-shirt loose at the neck
And my jeans low on my hips
For the bones and hair
To show.

Beside the fish tank I saw you
Kneeling l Struggle The first time it happens,
you will hold me.
You will dive into
the fog, and snatch me up,
pull me through the adrift and the
listless and whisper that everything
will be okay.

I'll tremble and sob and scream in my sleep, but -

The tenth time it happens,
you will grab my hand and
walk with me through the dark,
wordless. When the light turns
my eyes gray, and I look at you,
you will remind me that
I am okay.

I'll lash out and crumble and beg for patience, but -

The last time it happens,
you will sigh. And you might
hold me, hug me, hear me, but
we both know that weary lungs
eventually quit. There will be a
soft s Others Drink Drown my sorrows in a flood of noise,
Let my lazy head fall on my chest,
Saliva dripping from the corner of my lip,
Damping my shirt.

Clear my head of all coherent thoughts,
Leave me dumb and confused,
Numb and irrational,
And overall lost in the world.

Scream at me all your troubles,
Leave a list of obscenities in my head
And bang on the drums until a headache forms,
To take the place of my aching heart.

Drown my sorrows in invisible liquor,
Fill me up with meaningless emotions,
Take away all my hope for a feature,
Because being drunk is so much easier. Watching a Kurt Cobain Biography It wasn't your best work;
The modern day classic
that twirled
around the youths ears,
dancing with their drums,
whispering, luring them:
"I understand you."

It wasn't your best work;
The riotous shows,
passion visibly taking talent
by the neck,
strangling it until dead and everyone
is sweaty and no-one
realises they've just witnessed a murder.

It wasn't your best work;
Your legs shaking,
chattering like joke teeth,
your head splintered into a wreckage,
alphabet spaghetti brain matter, blood,
shotgun shells, all tagged against the wall
like a silly excuse for a painting.

It was your best work;
With all of your bea swallowing butterflies to dream... it must have been in my dreams
that place in between heaven and the moon
   where I thought I saw you
starless and dusted of smoke

it was the time where you first touched me
   where you folded the sky to make cerulean blue cranes
and lulled the sun to sleep

it was the time where you first allowed me
to feel the persuasion of your fire
   to swallow my butterflies
and chance the reality of a dream Silence, . . . when words should be spoken,
is to a relationship like, . . .
dark skies to a flower garden,
drought to a rain forest,
and breathless lungs
to
a bloodless
heart.

29 Comments
  • Mood: Obsessed
  • Listening to: Young the Giant
  • Reading: Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep
  • Drinking: OJ
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*Scarlettletters
Brendan
Artist | Literature
United States
Current Residence: Cape Hatteras and New York
Favourite genre of music: All of it
Favourite style of art: All of it
Favourite cartoon character: Bill the Cat, Oor Wullie, Snoopy
Personal Quote: They're taking them out in little green bottles again, and they all look like you.

Blogspot [link]
Interests

Do you believe in selfless acts, or are good deeds the product of ulterior motives? 

85%
328 deviants said Yes, people are capable of selfless acts.
15%
56 deviants said No, people only do good things because they are hoping for some kind of reward.
84 comments, Previous Polls

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~Calin-4:iconCalin-4:
:boo:
Fri Jan 27, 2012, 9:48 PM
*spriggan-62:iconspriggan-62:
Thank you for the :+fav: on "divine intervention"
Thu Jan 26, 2012, 3:20 PM
*EmmaSloane:iconEmmaSloane:
Thank you!
Thu Jan 26, 2012, 7:03 AM
~LavenderMystt:iconLavenderMystt:
Thank you for the fave. I am thinking in poetry all of a sudden.
Tue Jan 24, 2012, 10:10 AM
~MissMiroque:iconMissMiroque:
thank you for faving "Snowlights"
Tue Jan 24, 2012, 9:23 AM
*eqlrytes:iconeqlrytes:
Thanks for faving 'Restless'. :)
Mon Jan 23, 2012, 2:08 PM
~TheMagicianLord:iconTheMagicianLord:
Wow, your writing is absolutely amazing. It captures me and takes me away to another world! aaaand your digital art is pretty wicked too. ^^ Thanks a million for adding me to your watch, I'm sort of honoured.
Sun Jan 22, 2012, 9:36 AM
*Villenueve:iconVillenueve:
:heart:
Fri Jan 20, 2012, 12:11 PM
*lovebonovox:iconlovebonovox:
Thank you once again for your support!
Wed Jan 18, 2012, 6:06 PM
*EmmaSloane:iconEmmaSloane:
:heart: thank you, Brendan!
Tue Jan 17, 2012, 7:04 AM
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:iconintellawolf:
~intellawolf 17 hours ago
Thank you very much for the multiple favorites.

It certainly means a lot.

--
Well SOMEWHERE in there, there's SOMETHING about a chicken! - FOTR

~~~~~

Sometimes two people will regard each other

over a gulf too wide to ever be bridged,

and know immediately what could have happened,

and that it never will. -Roger Ebert
Reply
:iconhandswouldweave:
~handswouldweave 1 day ago
Thank you for the favorites on "House of Maps" and "Animale". I've been really uncertain about posting the dubstep poems (such as Animale) because they are much grittier than my normal work. Do you have any advice on that? I don't want to pander to my watching audience, but the pieces are significantly darker than normal.

--
365 Pieces of Writing in 365 Days (2012)
Reply
:iconobsidian-nightfall:
*Obsidian-Nightfall 1 day ago
Thank you for the recent favorite(s)

--
Please buy my book - [link]

My blog: [link]

'A poem is a naked person. Some people say that I am a poet.' Dylan
Reply
:iconvikingjon:
*vikingjon 1 day ago
Thanks for adding Timing [link] to your favourites! :)

--
The rusted chains of prison moons are shattered by the sun. / I walk a road, the horizons change, the tournament's begun. --King Crimson
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:iconjaybird101:
~jaybird101 1 day ago
Thank you for the fave :)
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:iconsula88:
~Sula88 2 days ago
thanks for adding "dexter" to ur :+fav:s :aww:

--
:peace: :heart:

“The virtue of the camera is not the power it has to transform the photographer into an artist, but the impulse it gives him to keep on looking”. - Brooks Anderson
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:iconbeyondjen:
*BeyondJen 2 days ago
You spoil me with the faves, and I thank you muchly! :heart:

--
The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places. -Ernest Hemingway
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:iconcallerofcrows:
=callerofcrows 2 days ago
Thanks for supporting me with another fave!!! :heart:

--
And I am done with my graceless heart, so tonight I'm going to cut it out and then restart.
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:iconafter-eden:
~After-Eden 2 days ago
Thanks for another fav :)
Reply
:iconerziban:
*erziban 2 days ago
Thanks so much for the fav of "Forgotten Joy"! This was one of my more "Real" creations, so your appreciation of it was welcomed!!

--
love costs all we are
and will ever be.
Yet it is only love
which sets us free.

~ Maya Angelou, "Touched by an Angel"
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