[x]

Sky EyesDesert hands tell tales
of a hundred arid summers, but
you are no longer as cloudless as they

(there is a storm
creeping through blue, blue veins).

But tell the sky to keep her sorrow,
that grey cascade blurring against
eyelids and horizons;

and suppress her misbegotten
droplets, seeping into the sodden
ground underfoot—

for there is still sun in your sky eyes.

UnclaspedHe unclasped me
By the way of vodka and rum
My jaw first then tongue
And I professed an inoculation
For his skin and the lace,
The scratch of hours in waste.
As my fingers undid themselves
To touch his startled frame
The whiplash that ensued
Cloistered me again.
His bare skin thrummed
In syncopation
With the rain
Upon the glass
As he asked
"Is there more?"

Aurora (Borealis)The vermilion sky melted and slipped
into a barely muddied, ruddy hillside
powdered-sugarcoated, vanilla ice-whipped

The vivacious glory-of-the-snow
sabotages the dead silence of the season
with its vehement, blue-violet glow

Know that I see the gleaming aurora in
your laugh lines, life lines
in the palms of your hands and
pads of your feet, unfurling the unsaid
The north star becomes
a cardinal bindi on your forehead
Know that I feel you are heaven-defined
prophecies pressed into my spine

You want to whisper across my tips and capillaries
breathe in sky-blue butterflies, out sea-green envy
I want to compass through your crust and

on essencebut first, kiss my dopamine--

rest your untiring hands on this swelled belly: feel me
as i swallow oceans whole enough
to condensate these north pacific skies, and accept
petrichor’s last offering.

so kindly are these breaths
left to lay rest
on the beds of noetic trees, let us watch
as they breathe,
let us watch as they breathe;

tasting the oxygen
swirling at the back of our throats:
life.

i love how simply the lull of your voice
bathes me in laconic moonlight
how this longing slows time two degrees below
the sixth of listening to mountains grow

pieced is this slow-beating
apologetic metronome, teethed and
sweetheart these
were

(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
over and
over

i can never profess,
not even confess

note:
even to myself

i stay standing, (b)raving the cold nights,
pretty much batty and bootless

yet again,

the absence of you weighs metric tons on my
ringing ear,
shivering nape, and
repressed should

Oceane, Adrift
Undone from sea-moorings,
I float.

The sea has bid me barren, an
island with no anchor.

Bleak and pale I drift,
to and fro.

Gentle giants nudge me,
their fins propellers – spurring
me on.

Sailors cry out, their
voices lost amid deep thoughts and
deeper dreams.

I drift, an island set
free too soon.

Anchorless, I ride storms and waves;
the way children ride ponies.

Torn from my harbour,
I sail.

the museher moonbeam hair
falls around me
threading fingers
limbs,
suture-grip
on my hand—
and she,
medusachild,
forsaken by athena,
leftover
after the harrowing
—she’s all
tempered steel
and armored glances.
want to hold her,
break through
the thin sultry
barriers,
always tempting
and—
she bleeds
perfection
[blind to her
insides].
she brings out
the poet in
me:
stringing words
together
with her low
alto voice,
slipping on her
thoughts.
i want to be
there
the day she
says too much
and overdoses
on metaphysical
philosophy.
and she and i
oh, she and
i—; yes, i
will bring reality
tumbling
down with
a

SeashineSacred skin
where heavens and ocean
collide,

an imprint on salted lungs
an echo

of aching, of
a moonlit yearning upon the
rolling tide.

Serendipity and SnowfallI am la vie en rose,
a newborn with as many mini bones in my body as possibilities.
Lovelily,
I am potential waiting to be tapped into.
I am a spectrum of light,
serenity in the symmetry of a snowflake.

I come veiled in lace from everlasting love's womb with my budding,
fresh,
goose-flesh tucked tenderly underneath.
I spread my spirit wide,
outstretching my feather-tips &,
supplicated by twizzles,
I catch my ballerina's foot & fly.
In these fleeting,
finite moments of ubermensch suspension in multiple salchows comes clairvoyance,
a kindness beyond the absolution of mundane minds.

With the key to perfection being repetition,
I pray you

(MCMXC.)dancing with wolves
we were,
waltzing under
the incandescence of
carefree moons:

how little it is
to sleep
wilderness away
into
azure oblivion,

the suns only shine
where moths
won't go
& birds
don't follow;

we can't ever forget
what it's like

(to be alive)

EnnuiHere's where things got hazy:
you talked about pulling the stars closer
because the bigger they got, the less insignificant you felt.
I presumed it was because I called you mine.
Bottle caps and paper punchers
were the things we made love on when you decided
to live life more dangerously.

Indentions were made on my skin and not by
your touch, but by distractions - carefully planted, unlike
the way you used to kiss me. Your lips
lost instinct, but still tasted as they always had; soft
and pure, in the way no one else before me understood.
Maybe simplicity pulled you from me.

Or maybe you felt like I was too easy,
too predictable, and my end

summergirlNow read aloud over here. Do give it a listen, won't you?
i. summergirl,
you are crowthroated and tumbling
through the aspen grove
hair on fire with sunrise, lungs
full of sky.
eyelashes like wildflowers
and every morning brings
a new spray of freckles
and a sharper curve to your collarbones.
the cornfields hold no shadows
for your lighthouse eyes
and there are no endings in that
surefooted smile.
ii. you have grown
so fast.
autumn finds you with broken ankles
leaning on an oak branch
and watching the skies.
crow to sparrow--you are quiet.
summergirl, there is peace in silence,
perched treetop,
fallen antlers in your hands.
you will come to mourn your deer.
keep them close.
iii. by winter you have paled,
and like the streams
your eyes have frosted over.
you feel the chill--
there is no need for sight.
summergirl, th

Of Ether and AnimosityI'd rather spend my life in regret
because I told you I love you
than spend my life in remorse
because I never even tried.

I run my fingers over the brim of wine glasses
so that if I can't find you in the alcohol,
I'll find you in the sound that fills the silence
the way you once filled my chest
with rehearsed affections.

We are remembered by this earth; in the sound of
evening thunderstorms we are commemorated.
You blend well with the utter abandonment
and loneliness that echo off my heart unto
these bathroom walls-- I stand burying my soul
in solitude as I shower off
my intoxication and my distraught.

There are hungry wounds alo

primordial existencei remember the day we vesseled our miscarriage
into the banner of rest.

we struck your fossilized eyes
at the core of our nuclear winter, buried in the brotherhood
of a thousand industrialized, crawling suns-

but these tomorrows only trialed
the inconsistency of young communication, of
replacing weeping angels by grave with

plastic roses. of clocking the reversed stature
and foregone insistence of raising left hands
to dead gods. and when we meter

cursor lights with its waking blinks
compounded by millenniums and eons and times
before the fallout, before the indolent hereafter,

our war of thin metal and curious mistrust
will sure

the four faces of the year.i.winter was shy,
never had much to say
and stumbled over dirt
because she only knew
how to walk in snow.

she wrote in cursive
but spoke in chimes
and her cheeks were
forever the color of
a weathered cabernet.

she only loved once
and when she did,
she lost her heart.

you see,
the boy used her
in the night
and left her in the day
and she was content.

she resolved that
beautiful people
deserved more love
than herself
and were therefore entitled
to take love from those
who were less worthy.

(she loved a boy
who would never love her back.)

ii.his name was spring
and his voice dripped nectar
into the ears of virgin

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Extant, words hung
heat, a noose
around your throat, and the train rattles by
while the car idles and overheats: surrounded by overbearing
noise, strands of DNA vibrating in tune with you and every-
thing, chaos theory occurring in my gut—cells blooming: each
microcosm flooding my digestive system, convulsing: I can’t
climb my intestines to find god,

rust-washed steel graffitied with infinite

questions

I will come to beI will submerge myself in the body of the earth,
sink my teeth into its flesh.

I will rise, naked and proud, in my own skin:

mommamomma,
you are silent, always.
shattered coffeepots glittering:
our kitchen was never your
crystal stair, with its splintered
wood baring teeth through torn-up
linoleum, nails and a cracked
foundation grabbing at our socks:
your children hidden under the
kitchen table—the rancid smell
of black mold and cat urine
wafting up from the tattered floor,
but it was less frightening than the
shrill fear, when daddy threatened
to leave, again.

Forgiveness,Martin Luther King, Jr. dreams
don’t exist no more,
and I can’t compete with
Ginsberg’s howling—
my words clatter like broken
plates, and my dreams:

They are the world collapsing
into a maze of broken homes;
stark white horizon and billowing
smoke; pedophiles in elementary
schools; and looking back, a blend
of hope and nowhere to run:

As a child: I whispered, home
but the keys were lost and we
waited in the cold until our fingers
turned a bloody, frozen red.
Dad came home from work—
angry, angry like our fingers,
and it was gone.

He told us he was sorry;
he didn’t do a good job.
It’s okay, it&rsqu

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The River

by ~melodysnow, Nov 8, 2012, 10:03:30 AM
Literature / Poetry / Nature / Free Verse

the grooves of her old skin
are filled with the forgotten languages
of a thousand lost peoples,
abandoned by gods trapped in their infancy.
she carries the weight of these memories downstream
and carves their stories into the sides of cliffs;
but we have forgotten how to read her words—
braille-spells and earthen-magick
—her belly is full and sick,
and we are illiterate children
basking in the afterthought of our own ruin.

The Riverby ~melodysnow

Literature / Poetry / Nature / Free Verse

©2012-2013 ~melodysnow

inspired by ~anotherforestfire's "bed"

~Meggie272 Mar 28, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Beautiful - kind of a raw yet elegant sense of loss throughout this.

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~melodysnow Mar 28, 2013

Thank you so much.

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*lombregrise Mar 23, 2013 Professional Writer

Hi! your great piece is featured here [link]

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~melodysnow Mar 23, 2013

Thank you so much!

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*lombregrise Mar 23, 2013 Professional Writer

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~AMWeitz Jan 11, 2013 Student Writer

I'm absolutely floored by the eloquence and depth of this piece. I love the personification, first of all. And your diction, phrasing, rhythm...goodness, the WAY you say things. Let's say I were to paraphrase it: "The river is filled with the memories of a thousand extinct civilizations, which it inscribes on the sides of cliffs through slow erosion. We have forgotten how to read the language she uses, however, since we do not truly understand our pasts, and the river is sick because of it." Because of the subject matter and ideas, it's still beautiful! But your mastery of language and poetic devices elevate it from beautiful to ethereal, eternal.

I'm printing this out and keeping it with me forever. Just letting you know.

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~melodysnow Jan 12, 2013

Ahaha, thank you so much!

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~monstroooo Nov 10, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

This is lovely. Very sad, I agree with the other commenters. There's a sense that we've lost something important because we're too busy looking forward to take the time to look back.

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~melodysnow Nov 10, 2012

Thank you! <3

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~cerealnovels Nov 9, 2012

Lovely and sad.

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