*riparii

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by *riparii, 6 days, 17 hours ago
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

Here 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.

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Amarige by *Lucineia

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Big fire.Big Fire came
during dry-sand summer.
I still remember
my roots ached and
Lake shrank away
until I could not feel her.
Sky had nothing, either –
blue eyes dry;
the blackflies, heat-dead, gone too.
Parched, we prayed to
Rain Spirit.
I was young, just
ten rings, and this
my first baking heat.
Like my aspen brothers further south,
I trembled.

But rain came one night,
dark, in sating sheets,
and we drank
big, long draughts,
while Sand got thick and wet
and Lake rose up again.
But too greedy then
were we, and forgot
our Southern brothers when
our Sky tried to make Rain stay
in just this foresBig fire. by =OritPetra

Courtship of the Lion KingThe Courtship of the Lion King
began simply, unlike the suitor-seeking
debacles of the leonine court.
Many leopards would be sought
by a single leopard knight;
a cheetah maiden would have her choice
of the cheetah men in their splendiforous speed.
But in the clan of lions,
the king always had his
pick of the litter.
Then, one night
when the moon was gone
and the shadows hung heavy
and the stars pierced the sky
with pointed claws,
a white lioness came to him in a dream.
He dreamed often of lionesses,
and so he felt no surprise
that a beautiful feline visited him
in his dreaming mind.
In the morning, he held court,
and went about his business.
That night, the beautiful lion
appeared to him again, haunting him
silently. The silence of his lair went
unpenetrated by revelries
of the night, and he woke somewhat perplexed.
This continued until the moon had waxed,
and waned again, and he woke with a start
in the late watches before morning
to sense someone had been with him.
His whiCourtship of the Lion King by *indiana-w

Pox in SocksA pox on rigid writing!
Use your adjectives adverbs
gerunds similes:
"I languidly waltz in water
like a turkey waltzing in sand"

Teach me how to be Type B

It is but a flight of fancy,
to write without worry
Turkey talk makes me nervous, though,
as does the thought of dancing

Teach me how to stay in step

Turkey trot or hippopotamus tango?
One-two-three; I step on toes
I can't fling my arms or shake my legs
without apologies, without looking back
to see who is watching,
who else might be waltzing

Teach me how to hokey-pokey,
help me turn myself around

Only if you teach me how to lead
Five-six-eight; I'm always skippingPox in Socks by *beeinthebottle

Browse Favourites

Friends

what would you do if you weren't afraid?

I suppose I'd grow wings.
Or perhaps run a hundred miles.

what would you?

Webcam

Feral Artist Children

Journal Entry: Sat May 18, 2013, 5:02 PM

There are many, here are a few.

do you hear the darkness weep
so she's here again, on the fifty-fifth floor, and we are all playing a game of pretend. she screamed, throw those cards down, cards falling from the sky! and they do, every single one of them from the clouds, like a snowstorm. except this time there are no numbers on these cards. only a face---the same face coming down each time and flashing by her timid eyes.
the face of someone she can spot out of a thousand others.

watching that endless constellation---that is the flash flash of the citytops, (where are the trees)?
and envisioning them as the lights camera (flash) where all dreams came true .

and the radio is on,
they talk about

to my mother who speaks windwhat went through your mind when you left
that country of redembered sacrifice and
glorious golden farsi? mother, i love this

place here: louisiana. mother, i love how its
humidity vies for my attention and smothers me
lush as halfripened fruit. rolling the
sweat down the divide of my back like a nail

scratching one teasing line down the spine
of a book, coaxing it open. how did you
take the shadow man's hand and flee? i can't
imagine you took flight by a sagebundled night

(all wrapped up in its earthly mercy, waiting to
burn and settle the ruffled spirits). i
imagine you swaddled your immense dignity
in your youthful ancient hands

TemponautSundays: no one's butterflies are
going to affect the wavelength
of the sun magnifying ants
(nothing will happen anyway).

Rewind, the air wrinkles into
sundays: no one's butterflies are
stuck on weeping quicklime (not yet)
that doesn't hesitate; floor it.

High-pitched tires are slashed by the
hissing water, parked sometime on
sundays: no one's butterflies are
run over by broken sunshine.

One last time to make this right, keep
blinking back - stop flapping its wings
'fore they reek like pelting rain from
sundays: no one's butterflies are...

PaperbackI still dream
of running away to Boston,
catching a muse like a cold and
living somewhere cramped. tiny.
peeling blue paint.

my muse would probably work someplace
with indecent fluorescent lights, like
Target. I'll find it while shopping
for popcorn and tampons, and we'll
live happily ever after inside
my old diary, sleeping on a bed of
blue ink and scribbled love notes.

if this isn't a morgue of half-baked hopes,
tell me what is.

I see your token aspirations and raise you
my dreamed up myths; bruised, pink and blue,
and waiting on a producer to turn me into a dozen
dollar industry. that's my proclamation,
make of it what you are.

I still

rapid eye movementi am jealous
of my birdwinged half-sister.
later, birdwinged reapers--black,
looming quiet in every doorway. they
followed me from my hemmed-in waking terror
to the free reign of my subconscious.
far better suited to their purposes.
thunderstorms like supernovae out at sea, and
empty little boats tossed on emptier shores.
it rains, and the sea advances,
cresting the saguaros. someone is lost.
i don't know who. i don't know why i
care so much.
cliffs and skyscrapers. tightropes. sometimes
i am afraid of heights, and sometimes
afraid for those who are not.
the skinny girl
with the long dark hair is
always worth dying for.
sex. i am in turn
bemused, and indifferent, and bored, and
frustrated, more often than anything.
i like that i still remember how it felt to hug my dog,
right down to the cool wirecoat
and the warm fluff beneath,
and his immense
patience.
sometimes i wake up with misty
recollections and the overwhelming thought:
i wish it could be like this.
jungles with ancient

:

The Abortion StoryHer name was Katie, and we were acquaintances;
in the hallway, she'd take my arm and chatter about
her teachers and classes, the boys she never saw for more
than a night or two. She was the first to call me Jay and I can't
say I liked her, but we got along well enough.

It was late October in our junior year when she
approached me, pale without makeup, her arms outstretched
for something I could not name. There was desperation written
in the contours of her face, so I asked, "What's wrong?"

And she told me, "Firstly, I trust you,
because you're not the sort of guy to talk shit, even
when there's shit to be said. Right now, I just need somebo

the commas are wrong,there are no faces in heaven or hell,i learned that
when i was four – three – two – sixteen in a church pew
because(is it funny i can remember the exact day my mother told me our pastor
cheated on his wife with the sunday school director?)am i utilitarian diamond
toes,little feet and fingertips until it transcends into generic philosophy.
none of us are special,you know.

i don’t remember who told me you are not unique but then i read it in a
book with tattered pages and it tasted beautiful. cynicism is for they who have
suffered,i know no loss,or the worst brand of misery,how can
i(white sixteen suburban upper mid

Worn Out Siren TalesI was once the moon-rippled, crystal clear
disturbance at shore
and you found hope, resting
on the borders of
sand and wave.
When I moved, you breathed,
It just isn't worth it,
and I
wish
I
had listened.

I was carved on ship hulls for a
reason,
and I was summoned from sleep to
drown myself in the clutches
of a sea that disowned me
for one too-
and I wrote on woody parchments
for more attention than
story-telling.
So when you moved, I stopped,
Tell me this is eternal,
And I
wish-
I really
wish
I had not.

it's your call, starlingmy sister is going to be a cyborg
and i hope she stays gentle. i heard
that cochlear implants

can sometimes become commanders
the same way that learning commands
formative love. i hope she

stays humble and continues
to make my tinctures in the endearing
way she does,

dissolutions gentle
enough to flood underground tunnels
with flute-song.

she takes my wrist by force
and she decrees that all knowledge
happens in a snow-felled wood

at sunset. it's like the natural life
inside her yearns still
for that brackish obliteration,

and maybe when she's a cyborg
it will detach itself from its carbon
sequestration and fly out to its avalon,

and,

written on sugar cane paperI left when the cows came home
escaped on a dusty bus headed for
the sun with passengers
comfortable in slumber by the
large windows scratched by
time and wild children
stuck in an ever-moving inside
I had this dream folded in my suitcase
light for traveling
and this man
with all the roads of the world carved into his face
laughed at the little all that I carried, he laughed
deepening the paths he footed
with a suitcase dragging
in his once young, white-knuckled hands
now sat in his lap trembling from heavy incredulity
my naivety, to him, amusing but lighting
his once dull, resigned eyes

You should date a guy who writesDate a guy who writes. Date a guy whose fingers are stained with ink, whose pockets are filled with pens, and whose eyes smile and dance with curiosity. Date a guy who notices things like the colour of your hair and the way you have your coffee, not because he has to, but just because it’s a habit of his to notice things. Date a guy who can barely get around a computer, but is expert with his word processor. It doesn’t matter; he prefers pen and paper anyway.

Find a guy who writes. You’ll find him just outside a library. He’ll like the idea of being outside, on the verge of a thousand worlds, a few steps away. He&rsqu

Stockholm SyndromeThis morning tastes dry and dusty and alive and
the Australian sun is already pouring
on to my back, a thousand lashes for your crimes
girl.

I run, and run, and run, and the hot sand
burns my soft bare feet, shaping calluses
on my Scottish soles. My knees have dirt on
them. Every rushing breath from my lungs
sings of love.

This is not my country, and it never will be, no
matter how many fistfuls of red sand I grab and sift
through my dirty-nailed fingers, no matter how many
thorny little plants I tear up and press to the white
bone-ridged skin of my chest.

The sand will slip away, the thorns will rip wincing-red
holes in me and I'll love

RestlessI’ve been living in the same breathy dream
for too many days now; I’m bed-ridden and
stale and I reek of those moments that come
full throttle like a car crash on a winter night

   this is evolution where weak hearts
   are afraid of the shadows and where
   everything changes,
   an apologetic wind births no remorse;
   he will move on—anchored ship
   set sail, I am the sunken wreckage
   that never learned how to swim.
   he will move on, Darwin says
   I never had a chance

I wish I were the textbook sadness,
symptom and solution and endurance
but I’ve spent too long sleeping on the

JackMy grandmother fell in love with my grandfather when his skin was still yellow with malaria.

At twenty-four, he had just returned from war, his pockets heavy as his heart, weighed down with souvenir scars and unspent bullets. Gaping trenches hung beneath each of his dark eyes like open, sore wounds, or sorer memories. At nineteen, she had not known the taste of oranges. The first time she held one, she bit straight into the pasty skin, expecting sweetness and coming up with shell-fragments.

In the pictures, my grandmother, radiant in her gray wedding dress, stands before my grandfather. Those trenches are still there, still yawning beneath

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.

Stay Dreamingyou are pale in the half-light;

all the fire you carry with you in the waking world is doused in the sweetness of your hair across the pillow & your frame insinuating itself in the sheets, in pockets of weight & pools of shadow that say "i am a body", "i am a girl"

(vulnerable yet terrifying)

& in life you are larger than you seem, thunder & lightning inside colored glass. you are cruel-mouthed but soft-eyed, & brittle queen (you would rather break than bend for me), you are all the lovelier for your frail-boned pride.

it is strange how much i see of you when you are not looking back, how i feel as though it is only in moments like these

Case Study: Missouri at 191Life here in Missouri is as it should be:
little spring comes into season next week

and the dogs still love me
and I've been standing and walking around more
and we never         saw the comet          because there were so
             many trees

and things seem funnier to me than they did last month
and the black cat
                        no longer antagonizes the dogs
            and they don't pull as hard against their collars on their walks
and I no longer wonder
     about my friends, but do wish them the best
and everything that happened
   centuries and millenniums ago seems closer
   than anything these days does

and I conti

[link]

Thank you *ersatz-moon because I love that song.

Skin by ~NellyAsher

13 Comments

More Journal Entries

pleease

don't thank me.
because I know you appreciate it.
thank you.

Comments

~paper-saints 1 day ago

Thank you so much for the watch and the

s! <:

Reply

`LadyLincoln 2 days ago Hobbyist Writer

Hugs for being sweet (and collecting)

Reply

~intricately-ordinary 4 days ago Hobbyist Writer

thank you so much for the fave!

Reply

*ersatz-moon 4 days ago Hobbyist General Artist

you seem to be less fascinated with yourself,

Reply

*riparii 4 days ago

Perspective.

Reply

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