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The Flood Year“No one has drowned and no one is dead.”The Flood Year by ~pomohippie7
We might as well be;
There is a sickness in this house.
The water floated the deep freeze
And forced the fuse box to gargle;
Mold spores will thicken like a verdigris blush,
Walls will obtain a cancer patient’s pallor.
An unsettling lapping, the hum of a pump-
A brain scan hum
The lapping of a bedpan, full;
There is a sickness in this house.
Stairs are lurching
A clock is underwater,
Hands arched and rusted at midnight-
Grab this, save that!
But leave the sickness
In a cupboard
In a drawer;
It will be safe there until we come back
InheritanceHe gave me a ringInheritance by ~pomohippie7
With its facets glazed and cracked
Insisting it was once his great-grandmother's,
She who
In rot-edged vintage photos
Wore a mink stole and flapper beads.
_________________________________________
She pulls at seams
Takes up and brings down hems,
The stole pushed to the back
Of a web festooned attic
In a steamer trunk slapped with decals:
Moscow
Austria
Monte Carlo
Rio de Janeiro.
On cold days she wears it again
Dancing to old melodies on rough boards
And when she hears the front door slam,
It's made to disappear in haste
Her engagement ring clacking
Against the trunks flip locks.
That night as she makes biscuits
F
TinderA cigarette is pathetic tinderTinder by ~pomohippie7
For lighting a revolution
In a house were curtains are drawn
Against all outside movement
And trinkets of an affair
Are cast away with casualty
Or slipped between the pages
Of books no one will read-
Dense things
With a sense of malice
Scratched into their surfaces,
Un-dyed by the sun
CinderellaCinderella by *Scarlettletters
Waiting for a coach
and four
that never came,
she realized
a ball gown
won't bloom
out of sackloth;
glass slippers
are not dependable
and mice
are best left
to their own devices.
Midnight was never a friend,
and under that suit
he is the same as any other
man.
The crustacean integumentI had a dreamThe crustacean integument by *neonxaos
that replayed every death, every breakup
every loss, every injury, every single bit of pain
that ever occurred during my time on this planet
in excruciating, microscopic detail
to a lingering laugh track.
Then it made someone up,
so distressing and disruptive
that all I could think of
in the crepuscular morning light
was how profoundly lucky I am
that this one person
never happened.
This is all the poetry
needed to shape the shell.
at resti.at rest by *antonfrost
beneath the pines, sticks get arranged.
they lie there honestly.
ii.
he wakes with his face in her hair.
the smell that's half-morning, half-riverbank.
iii.
the water nearby snakes away.
falling berries send ripples out.
some things equal each other
he thinks
as the name of the nearest city shrinks down
to glances of light on her fingernails.
iv.
soft ground and time.
v.
air flowers into cool and warm colors,
sand pools around the dune grass.
vi.
the way light has of failing
the hills and cities,
the water
and his body--
half-erased,
burrs, non-moons.
vii.
beneath the pines he arranges himself alongside her.
he pretends
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| This piece received a Daily Deviation on June 5, 2012. Thank you to all of you who made it happen, those who left such kind words, congratulations, and gave it favorites. |
untitledthere’s something so strange
in the way you say “petrichor”, how the chaos behind your voice
cries the opposite of anything so balancing & serene. strange,
how “see you next time it rains” tears more of a dangerous calmness
than what its meant to seep.
don't throw glass bottles at brick wallsto the boy with ghost hands,
red marks the spot
in the bathroom sink
where the light is swallowed.
some secrets you just keep.
Cher Charades: A Terza Rima Dear aurorean wraiths of past mistakes
release man from your unliving remains
cast him out of your silhouette heartaches
Overmorrows are stained with past champagnes
drunk on a once implacable fervor
amassing populace from all terrains
Eros is a cantankerous server
of all who fall into his mondegreens
while Venus keeps track like an observer
L
bled on blondeis it the worst thing ever been
who has bled on blonde for me
and who has been the crooked streets
through the ghost-worlds badly dreamed
has it been that long did we meet
is that your face are you a screen
did my computer know your name
why are your eyes they're blinking green
I'm in the ending haven't seen
I got the redlights not the green
we've been inducted introduced
we are these we got to choose
Bitter Rinds and CountermelodiesWhen it ends
it’s like trying to forget
the taste of fruit.
You meet them in the grocery store,
eyes touching over the strawberries,
and you make some little inquiry
about the ripeness of the fruit
to soften the impact of hearing
that their life is much the same.
You don’t tell them you stopped
listening to jazz because you last heard it
holding hands in the park,
and they keep to themselves that
they don’t drink chamomile because
you shared it after sex on a rainy day.
You make your life sound overripe,
insert slices of your best moments since they left;
a little honey to hide the bitter of your core,
both wanting
three turkey vultures circledthree turkey vultures circled
low above the field
in celtic knot formation
sacred trinity
a jay bespoke me from the trees
you worship empty gods, it cried,
away--
and I must look for poetry
some other shining day.
the man in front of mehis wallet almost wouldn't close
and bulged unbelievably
out the back of his pants.
he would pull it out
and scraps and wads of parchment
came falling out,
dialogue of strangers
and lines of songs and poems
that he found useful.
i asked him what the deal was
and he looked hard at me
for a moment
and said
"it is where i keep my gold,
where is yours?"
Rigor samsaThere is a more important set of bones around you
than the ones that carry the meat, the cells,
and all those supposedly weightless thoughts.
Even naked, you never really are,
until you break that exo-ribcage
as an open invitation.
Hearts don't ever heal,
we just armor them.
In time,
they grow shell-like
and plain.
One day you wake up, tunnelling.
Digging yourself somewhere,
years of paintings
on bedrock walls
the only company.
Your hands are bloody claws,
your eyes grown big as moons.
Son of nothing,
daughter of the dirt,
you bend at the back
instead of breaking.
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 sew
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.
raidyou've gone too far, now. even the tea bags have skull-and-crossedbones tags. and cutlasses for butter knives? surely that's a sign? your ship waits for you in the driveway, fully armed. don't give broadsides to the cadillacs on the way to hispaniola. they're bigger than you are. and they shoot back. don't shed too much of corporate blood; save yourself for me. i'll be waiting on keyboard island for your return.
Thou Shalt Not Commit--have you ever been in the bed of a committed lover
when someone else's name is on your tongue,
and you saw him yesterday: that wallflower who drove
your patience past its limit, whose waiting hand
stretched you to the lengths of your intimacy until you cried
mercy? the man who loved your every interest, craved
the workings of your ideology, sought after your pacing mind
more than he ever witnessed your lust? and you think,
if i had been a more stable person then, i would be talking
the first words of my guilt: debilitating the trust
which does not come so easily but he wanted every broken
piece of it, sat around the edges of conversations whe
the cannibaleyes bright for wildflowers
I swear they leaned toward her as she passed
with her boyish gait, a confident stride
she caught me with the absence of her smile
and she thought I was a wildfire
set to burn her worries away
but I was tame
tame tame tame
and she was burning up
she laughed when she realized my still temperament
bewildering the sound, a pretty Sunday laugh
light of heart, balancing honesty's edge
hiding between this duality of personality
her fabricated safe haven
but in the night she asked me to keep her
and for a long time I held her soft body, full of insecurity
to mine securely but her anxiety was an earthquake
I could feel inside her, I could feel the tectonic
plates shifting in her mind and once she'd chiseled her nails
to bare skin she moved on to mine
she held my hands like a wounded bird in hers and she
whispered to them "when you fly, I will too"
yet all the while she kept clipping their wings
with her ner
Owl and CrowYour fingertips stuck to my forehead, and popped off when you pulled them back. We were both wearing black that day, mourning our own deaths. (Those little deaths that happen again and again.) Kisses planted grow rainbow flowers at twilight. We were waiting for twilight, that day. I pushed your fingers back into place on your hands, kissing the tips of each one. You cat-purred, I bird-screamed. Twilight rolled in like a fog, smooth and beautiful, the way it does sometimes in autumn. We didn't need anything more.
The Olympian Project IIApollo
Sun-blooded Kouros
from poetry to prophecy
your talents unmatched
Kouros rouge sang
poésie et prophétie
tes dons sans pareil
Artemis
Le sable d’or fin
cherche la bénédiction
de vos pas perdus
The sands of fine gold
seek the benediction of
your absent footsteps
All rights reserved © Frantz & Halcyon Shores
The Olympian Project IIArtémis
Le sable d’or fin
cherche la bénédiction
de vos pas perdus
The sands of fine gold
seek the benediction of
your absent footsteps
Apollon
Sun-blooded Kouros
from poetry to prophecy
your talents unmatched
Kouros rouge sang
poésie et prophétie
tes dons sans pareil
Frantz & Halcyonshores, copyright 2013.
VoidMost likely, it was you
howling,
what I heard;
a sound calling
to nothing but itself,
for the white unknown,
opposite of
the blood-black wound:
It was in your kitchen, over the sink,
that you stood when I heard you
howl for the empty bowl, for who would not
clean their plate, the waxing moon
of daily routine reflecting
love and effort, reasons to resume.
It was you I heard
howl for the mundane, for the everyday,
for the animal groove of wakefulness
padding down the hallway,
an orange-and-white cat no longer seeking,
understanding not to look.
Tired 
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