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Under a Witches SkyAnd lo there he said: "I am darkness rising"
— ‘an apparition bleeding into a dreaming sky
Distilled in the timbre of windswept voices,
black feathers enchant earth in fevered-song
Magick ebbs & shimmers thru earthen veins,
seething like a migration of hungry wolves
Silvery eyes peer, drinking the ether of souls;
watching the spirit world fold into the mists
And where Shadows and Witches conjure,
— myriad talons beshrew Winter’s prayer

For eons I hath wandered in forgotten lore  
— a sleep walker thru ash & fire, hunting ..
Beneath Moon solemn and drifting,
I covet thy ghostly figure velvet, undressing
Pools of
The Man and the MoonHer mouth corners hung themselves
and I began to wonder if that was the death of them.
A simple, quiet death;
without broken fingernails lining the walls
with the stripes of a despairing end.
I began to ache with the questioning in my heart
with the echoes reverberating in my capillaries
of her face scorching sunshine in her smile
right before it crumpled
and nothing was left but a frowning moon
set firm in its resignation to an upcoming eclipse.
SpeakeasyI can feel you like a phantom,
sensation without touch,
like breath in winter
or a misty mountain morning
that stays with me
until the stars fall in evening.

Your eyes contain the secrets
your lips would dare to betray,
but your body tells the story
and I am trying
to read between the lines
of your paperback smiles.

A grazing touch, a covert glance,
the memories remain
as skin grows warm and red
beneath lying fingertips
that claim incidental contact
a thousand times a day.

Of course,
it's not the kind of thing we say
when we are speaking
without talking and feeling
without touching
and thinking without knowing...

       all of the things
Dandelion QueenI dream of the ocean;
that paper-thin line where
the current swallows the stars
and the water churns violet

(you tell me to be
quiet,

dandelion queen, we've
heard all these words before)

tonight
I will sleep heavy
and wake a few hours before dawn,
only to forget my name

my wave-weathered heart will cry,
I will cry (my biggest fear
is drowning in too many
of my own weighted words

you tell me to be
quiet
so I can hear the world breathe)

I want to go home
Overgrown ColorsRed like blood on a rose.
White like bone and stars.
Black like reclusiveness.
Green like dead air.
Orange like the savage instinct.
Purity like a god's heart.
Red like thawing hatred.
White like a frozen, severe cry.
Black like the night's deprived shadows.
Green like the wind in the grass.
Orange like the light in the shadows.
Purity like the sun rising.
So discharging through the moon in a wheeze is like luminous white, dispersed red.
We Can't Be Together.Every kiss you plant on my lips,
Takes a little bit of my soul away.

You're stealing the passion,
You're invading my heart,
And killing what emotion I've left untouched.
Stop this.
I can't love you.

I've tried to before,
Oh my god,
Have I tried.

Tried to unlock the doors to myself,
Tried to open up,
And let you in.
But as soon as I took one look,
Negativity took it's opportunity,
And struck the hot iron I'd been molding.

Every word you mutter
My knees falter under
You're killing me

You're my kryptonite  
I'm your paradise
But in this odd peace that seems to be approaching
I can't find happiness.

We aren't meant to be together
But this
WindowsHere am I, repeated,
and beyond waits everything
but everything is more
than I can bear.

I am not built for altitude
nor looking far afield;
groves and granite-sided mountains
stop my gaze

like rest for every tired wing;
a cover in the coldest time
snugged up beneath my chin.

Windows nothing more,
but safe lies there behind them
as the chambered hours pass;

safe sleeps there behind them
on the soft side of the glass.
Poet as PainterThe world
Your dusty palette,
The pen
Your muddied paintbrush:

Dip into
The impossible
Colour
Of imagination

And stain
The pristine slate
With an
Image distilled.
BoyfriendI thought you were good.

You WERE good.

You played with my hair.

You held me when I cried.

You were a gentleman.

You made me laugh.

You kissed me.

You loved me.

I loved you.

It was then that I learned the truth.

The dirty, rotten, stinking truth.

About you!

You cheated.

You played with her hair.

You kissed her.

You loved her.

You made her laugh.

I saw you – don’t you dare deny it.

I saw you giving her that love.

That same love you gave me.

I break up with you.

You don’t even seem to care.

Did you ever love me at all?

Or was it only ever her?

Much later, you’ll realize what a mistake you made.

I
with thanks to frosttwo roads diverged in a soulless dawn
and you pull over,
idling on the shoulder of route 50.
it's a polaroid morning and
the world is as grainy
and sleep-heavy
as your eyes,
and one million miles
is not far enough.
it plays back, filmstrip,
blurred along the length of
optic nerves,
and here you are:
facing a choice between
on
and
out.
and this?
this loosejointed, hollowbodied
weightless ache--
this is what
gone
feels like.
Dry Spell   I am immobilized by time.
by the idea that it is somehow slipping,
  fleeting,
        evaporating
              through the cracks of
      my fingers and high

             above my head.
  I am terrified by the incessant notion
that no combination of thoughts,
    words,
         silences,
              or actions
   could possibly satiate it.

I realize only now that it can never be filled:
     all which is tossed into it is swallowed in haste
              or stretched
                       so far
           that it dissolves into non-being.
 I find that I am caught within its furrows
much like the words it devo
untitledGold abundant at your feet,
Heart ripe and pumping on your sleeve,
And eternal admiration;
To say happiness has evaded you
Would be asylum-esque lunacy
For you have nothing to lose,
Fate is on your side,
The odds are in your favor infinitely
Do not waste the gift you’ve received
You Don't Know ItYou don't know it, but you kept me sane
I nearly went over the edge
With a knife in one hand and a gun in the other
But you grabbed me
Pulled me back on my own two feet
Emptied my hands
And when you realized that I couldn't stand on my own
You hugged me
Like a mother would do for her child
Like a friend would do for, dare I say, another friend

You don't know it, but when you saved me
I felt free
I felt wanted
I felt needed
I felt, dare I say, loved

You don't know it, but when you showed me kindness
I fell in love
In love with your kindness
That same sweet kindness you saved me with
It felt like I found a new home
One that I could be, dare
Pull Her Hair/Stare At The StarsThe ghosts have crashed their ship
on the other side of town,
you can see it from the second floor
all the way over here.
You can see the white clouds
rising from the wreck
and a nova of heat, a big bright
nova of warmth pulling the moths and wolves
out from the woods (with their noses up and searching).
You can smell the yearning like bees
leaving the hive, like the grizzly brown bears
on the jagged white mountains (concrete and imposing).
They call it fear,
but I see these ghosts
scrambling up into the sky
and I like to think it's
something different entirely.
clicheTo those who hold bird bones
on the edge of their limbs,
there are dissipated lungs
filled with skies
longing for pillars of fire
rather than bottled souls
kept in the brink of captivity
too big for sparrows.

To those with the cancer
of building and rebuilding
their minute sentences
into salt-shaken metaphors,
sometimes a whisper
trying to be a rhapsody
will never be the same as
a declaration,
an aubade on it's own.

To those who empty
their ash trays
like cremated dust onto
salivating pores and
two cents of syllables weeping
by your windowsill,
there's sand in your mouth.
sand so red that oxygen
will mistake it for blood
so your words wi
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More from *MineralAccident

After White NoiseSome poems never start, rather,
They are subtle, and
Always there. An
Ending frees worms to
Go on eating dirt. Sometimes,
Men trade their insides for
Straw; they scare from
Empty fields, and share
Apples that fall from
Nearby trees.
Every journey ends without
Alarm, every blown tire
scatters a bit of ourselves
On the road. We remember
Fondly, the lost
Limbs that brought
Us home. After white noise,
I found dad in the yard,
And he shared an apple
With me.
Old Men Raising Old Men.In my family, old men raise old men;
Chippy Irish sprouts who would hug a
Mountain lion before their own dad,
And punch a flower just for wilting
In their direction.

Once my father tried,
And I bit his toes with my heel;
I was relieved to be thrown away.

But that's how it is for boys born
On a leap year, and those who come
Home to their mom coddling a knife
Where you once buried your face.

Here's hoping the night makes you mad,
and the guilt doesn't haunt you for long;
Your first mask will be cruelty.

The moonshine in the fridge will help
Kill and peel the skin; you need to
Hide the bruises, and learn to execute
A proper jab
Somewhere Between Seattle...Once, I caught one hundred minnows,
Stooped at the edge of Texas waters;
A fool believes a child's hand,
They swim to it eagerly,
But the night told me a story of
War, and I wanted to see its face.
I killed one hundred minnows, and
Earned a fifty from my aunt;
My first war ended in their stomachs,
But I was no longer hungry.

Countless city lights blinked "hello",
Their war hero traveling in a green van,
Somewhere between Seattle and home, trying
To bury himself in an old, yellow couch.
How dirty the night had made these urban
Sprawls; he too was a grimy little bulb,
And so he blinked back at them. Soon the
Marching trees cut
The KurganWe watch scarecrows, catching
Midnight broadcasts on our radios
Tuned to a single, secret frequency.
"They are made of straw and living
In a world of fire," the DJ tells us,
"And you are a bucket in a well." So
I too scaled the depths of darkness;
Man makes better wishes in the fall.
And though I was not made of straw,
I wished to be the greatest tinder.

"It's better to burn up..."

But others limp from the gutter, on a
False allegory told by mouthy vagabonds.
"You must be great and bottomless," the
DJ said to us, "your mind is not a weapon,
It is the fuel that ends the flare." So
I soaked myself in little aches, and stood
Bef
Were I Some Foreign Pollen...Were I some foreign pollen on the wind,
Would I not endeavor to dock at the great
Human port, where the waters go dark and
Young night fairies eat up our anxieties?
Where the child of some great concept
Can be made a legend, impressed on a mind,
And perhaps some lost treasure taken with,
Like a hand sifting through a popcorn bag,
Knowing that every great man was once burned.

On occasion, I have treated myself with the
Taste of such charcoal, my mouth filled with
Ash, and blackened my tongue to know what
Terminates in the framing and the shade of
Evergreen trees, were I some foreign pollen
On the wind.
That's Where I AmA place between honest and outlandish,
Wondering which way I have to fall
To make the perfect entrance.
That's where I am.
Maybe I want to go up the down escalator,
And so what if I think an elevator is
More fun if it's a toy?
That's where I am, and I remember
The time I fell into a hole of rusty nails,
And I was sure I was going to die
Before someone helped me out.
But that's where I am, and so what if
I don't have a job or a car to drive,
And yes I gave up on the college dream
So I could see my father die.
Taping his photos to my wall, that's where I am.
All this time I've been asking questions,
And never once did I think t

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Isn't Life Strange.

:iconmineralaccident:

I was born a thumbtack, and God was an
Office worker. He found me in his pocket,
Lesser than his gilded lint, and I was keen
To prick his leg in transit.

                          Even gods can bleed.

I became a splinter, a vagrant sentry catching
Grasshoppers in place of a school bus. Home and
Hands covered in bug spit taught me more than any
Teacher ever would.

                          There's always one exception.

I met a poet in reflection, and he taught me how
Important hot asphalt is to a pair of naked feet.
The heat waves paint a picture, and I learned
To take off my shoes.

                          What trickles outward forms the road.
:iconmineralaccident:
An exploration of the evolving role models in my life.

I have no special requests for a critique as this was my first serious poem written last year. In my mind it's "finished". I'm mostly interested in opinions on what makes it strong, what makes it weak, and what I could do to better my writing in future poems.
:iconkneeling-glory:
Critique by `Kneeling-Glory Jan 4, 2013, 7:31:40 AM
Hi Larry :)

It is good to see you using dA! :) This is a critique for ^Beccalicious's 12 Days of Critmas! :la: Since you specified in your artist's comments, I will stick to what I consider the strengths and weaknesses of the piece. Remember that critique is subjective and you should use/discard these comments as you see fit. Also, please disregard the star rating. I give all lit the same mid-grade as the stars are wholly inadequate for literature critiques.

:bulletpurple: = a strength
:bulletblue: = a weakness

Disclaimers done! Let's dig in. :)

:bulletpurple: I really enjoyed the imagery in this poem. Starting off with God's pocket was excellent, as it recalls the theme of "made in God's image" in a very literal, modern day setting. "Lesser than his gilded lint" was powerful, and I suspect that any person - with or without faith - could relate to such a feeling.
:bulletblue: "I became" in the second stanza feels a little weak to me. How did you transform from a thumbtack to a sentry? And why are you catching grasshoppers instead of school buses? Bug spit is a great image, one that us PNW folks can relate to only to well, but it lacks build up for those not familiar with our region, or regions like it. And I fail to understand how it corresponds with teachers. This entire stanza feels very personal. It needs some explanation for those not residing in your skull. :)
:bulletpurple: I really do love the idea of walking bare-footed on a hot road, having done it a time or two myself. It particularly brings to mind childhood, which meshes will with "What trickles outward..."
:bulletblue: I think "learned" is a weak verb in that stanza though. "I took my shoes off" works well enough on its own.
:bulletblue: This is a technical gripe. A lot of your lines are broken on words like "and", "an", "how", etc - basically words that are not important to the image. Ending a line on these words brings attention to them, and thus takes attention away from the words that are important to your image. For instance:

I was born a thumbtack, and God was an

That line puts the emphasis on an rather than God. The stanza would be better broken up thus:

I was born a thumbtack, and God
was an office worker. He found me in his pocket,
lesser than his gilded lint, and I was keen
to prick his leg in transit.

In free verse, it is less important to worry about line length and more important to think of the impact of your end-words. Here is a good article that discusses this aspect of poetry: [link]

Hopefully some of these comments are helpful! :) Good luck with revisions and future writings.

:heart: Lili
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:icontheemptytrunk:
~TheEmptyTrunk Apr 8, 2011   Writer
Brilliant
shit loads of poise and emotion
a well framed exposition
if I must say
and I must
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