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AloneI sit alone and mark the time -
aware of how the hours crawl -
with solitude a friend of mine.
I find my thoughts a careless scrawl,
meandering among the days -
myself the loser in it all.
I view my world through lonely haze,
aware of loss on which I stand
and never think to mend my ways.
There's not a soul to lend a hand;
there's not a man to call me friend.
BluesMorning comes in widow's weeds
settles to the bottom of my cup,
begging to be stirred,
wondering why my chin
has fallen over the rim
and how come my feet
take forever to shuffle
over floorboards and dust.
I am vacant, worn down -
just this mud-bare rug,
heels bleeding gray,
and so tired
I forgot how to say your name
or the color of the walls
when I turn out the lights.
It is just the pain of you
settling in again
with leftover Sunday evening.
WinterA dream of silver coins and gossamer
of frankincense and sacred myrrh
tugging, gently tugging at the coverlet
the draperies drawn,
the candles lit.
Winter's wizened face and beard sent packing
by the blazing willow log
a'crackling, gently crackling in the fireplace
the shivered wind
leads on apace
These dreams to warm us lingering like a balm,
and cider mulled with cardamom
bubbling, gently bubbling in a bowl
blots out the wind
and shuns the cold.
KitesI watch your kite disappearing -
slowly slipping through your fingers
like a defiant act of love.
The laurel wreaths I crowned you with -
sweet Adonis to a maid,
shivering on your cool, wet skin.
I said that I could set you free
but you never would believe me.
Snow WhiteSeven more mouths to feed
(For this you left
your father's house?),
shoes piled by the door
and grimy rucksacks
full of coal.
(He promised you a diamond)
They keep you on your toes
with their uncombed hair
and their untrimmed beards
and appetites like young bulls.
That dress of yours
has seen better days
and your hands
are worn out -
bloodied starlings in your pockets.
So you cook and clean
and wait by the window
each morning for them to leave,
polishing your apples
and dream of what the huntsman
is hiding in his box.
MorphHe pinned the butterfly
to the card,
the dry rot
of blue wings
in the warm room.
it seemed a stranger,
not the imago
unfolding in the jar
of the wet season,
but a legless pupa
RetreatI 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.
IndulgenceDrink and dance and laugh and lie,
Love, the reeling midnight through,
For tomorrow we shall die!
(But, alas, we never do.)
Sage advice to heed in youth -
Excess, a drug we justify.
And indulgence is better than the truth -
Drink and dance and laugh and lie.
So choose your partners without care;
Keep your scruples lean and few.
Temptation wanders everywhere -
Love the reeling midnight through.
Drink and revel one last time;
Seek out pleasure where it hides.
Restraint's an over-rated crime -
For tomorrow we shall die!
And in the dawn of pain's regret
With heads aflame and clothes askew,
We may promise to repent
(But, alas, we never do!)
said the boy with the camera
and this moment
will never know our names.
It will take your best parts -
the smile you saved for Sundays
with your good dress
knees pressed tight
against the resurrection,
hoping mother never guessed
what prayers were left
upon the altar;
the kisses gathered for your lover -
passion's flagrant promises,
not the chaste monsters
school girls dream of
while sweaty palms
pin wilting corsages to tulle.
delivered to the front door
at Christmas and graduations,
circuses disguised in boxes
and envelopes stuffed like dates,
all wrapped in heady silk;
and the tears
you thought everyone knew -
since gloves were small,
secrets that swore to leave
at pillow fights and seances
but never let you breathe.
like flash in an iris,
and the grain of paper
yellowing gently in the attic
like your heart's montage.
MeanderingHardly a mountain, though on lowering days its head sits wreathed
By the mists of a passing front, aged and befogged as bygone elders
Doddering about before there were names for the malaise
That hazed their thinking
And from this modest crown there slouched and sloped
A long shoulder, meandering down to meadows below
Pausing now and again to coddle a pleasant hollow
Casting a sloping pitch enough to rush a torrent
After a sudden shower
Its glint and glimmer burble among the stones
To join a rill and plash and swirl and putter about a root
It's there I'm apt to wander
Not much of a path, hard passed and thorny
As twisted and narrow as the thoughts of bigoted men
Treading there finds stern resistance and stones to turn the foot
The clatter and crunch of brittle leaf acorns pop and skitter
A plenteous crop, beyond the appetite of wild things at forage
Leathery husks abound, pignut hickory the ebon stains of walnut
On taking pause the quiet lay, a
ColorblindI gave away my name today
and it might be a metaphor, but I think
we only remember the quietest suicides
the walls are thin enough to listen
as the angels try to scratch free;
bloodied fingernails and God says everyone
screws up, sometimes
I'm waiting for a silent night.
I only ever believed in solid ground
and depressions' tides, and sometimes,
those little wounds I nursed deep
within my vocal chords (because
my voice is dying, too)
I can see the beautiful people, now
overdosing on their own opiums of
self-acquittal and dissolution
they ran out of ways to ask for help.
I'm fragile, but my glass ribs
aren't holding much
and I'm through trying to find something
different, because it's scary to know
what exactly's the same
yesterday I was someone else and
tomorrow I'm further into inevitabilities of
who I promised I'd never be--
I'm waiting for a happy ending,
but if you love something
you let it go.
Now arrive the meaner things
Light and youth grow dark and old
The moon has retired
under the horizon's chilling blanket
Tree shadows grow long and soon envelop
In the shadows between the trees,
you'll find me
I see night differently
A rich joy showers from the sky,
backlit by the blackest pitch
The Revolt of Ruckulus Raggerton RigglesThere's a quiet in the clearing
as the rabbits gather 'round
and one behind the other
they all wait without a sound.
And in that eerie silence
they're all wondering away
at what he has in store for them
and what he has to say.
"And who is he?" you might be asking
a question most absurd,
why it's Ruckulus Raggerton Riggles
the one hundred and seventy third.
He's the head of the royal treasury
the keeper of the hoard,
the one in charge of every carrot
the king has ever stored.
The silence breaks as he appears
and climbs upon a stump
while the rabbits of the forest
all huddle in a clump.
"You might be asking one another
why it is that you are here
and I promise you that soon enough
I'll make it absolutely clear."
"You see his majesty our king
has done an awful deed.
He has eaten every carrot.
He has eaten every seed."
At this an awful cry arose
a loud and clamorous din.
"If there aren't any carrots left
what will WE be eating then!"
Ruckulus raised a paw into the air
until the crowd had q
Amber Hueswarm hued swirls
swept from west-south-west
tattered clouds streaming
this orange flitters east
…the butterfly rebels
The Paladin: DFC2012 6By happenstance, a wayward knight
perceived one pathway bathed in light
and one beside it, black as night.
But which is right? But which is right?
Invitingly the lit path drawls
with canopy and mossy shawls
and dappled where the sunlight sprawls.
Contentment calls; contentment calls.
With calm resolve he chose the gloam
in lieu of placid fields of brome
to guide those who in darkness roam
and bring them home. And bring them home.
PastThick mist tucked into old hills,
heavy and slumbering;
the tattered clouds gone lavender.
I won't tell you how beautiful it is.
I will only say, I am going home.
Tanka_1every third root, a worm
windy, the laths hum along;
weeding the fence-line
below the greening cherry
a pink and white shower
(c)loves and (c)loversi am no artist's muse,
i am no ship's harbor
i am no hero's weaker heel,
i am no good earth's flower
i have never been your lover
nor have i ever kissed you,
- not even once
though i dream of you (c)love-scented,
with lips shaped like a lucky (c)lover's-
kissing you and to be kissed by you
i can never profess,
not even confess
even to myself
i stay standing, (b)raving the cold nights,
pretty much batty and bootless
the absence of you weighs metric tons on my
shivering nape, and
you dam(n) me with
you are my river's boulder,
and undefined border
Blasted blistered roots of trees,
limbs askew in knotted knees,
darkling bark of branches grows-
turning back, my fever flows,
Maudlin madness chills my veins,
wretched reek of death remains -
draws me dreaming to this place,
sallow streams and wallowed waste.
Twisted thoughts begin to creep
into woods where willows weep.
Turning twice I light the flame
no one there to bear my shame.
Burning bright, my sacrifice
beacon blazing in the night
warning all who wander here
that God's truth will cost them dear.
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A two-time Community Volunteer for the deviantART Related category, Anne is well-known as a positive, helpful force. She is the community's resident expert when it comes to CSS (Cascading Style Sheets), and her personal gallery offers a wide variety of tutorials for new and experienced coders alike. In addition, each winter she hosts a calendar project encouraging members to create Journal designs for all to use, bringing more creativity to the community.
It is with immense gratitude that we acknowledge Anne as the recipient of the Deviousness Award for October 2014. Read More