this is not a resting place:
the decay is neatly trimmed back
with the hedges each day
and is not suffered to spread.
the dead are shaken from the dust
in which they lay
while officials rush about like gnats,
planting, polishing,
upkeeping.
there is cement, gleaming marble,
bright, carefully tended flowers:
no dust, no chaos,
no overflow.
they cannot close their eyes.
In the mist by the sea by QuiEstInLiteris, literature
Literature
In the mist by the sea
There is nothing like waking up to a mist-cloaked ocean and the sound of the rising tide against the jetties. Coffee in the gloaming, hot oatmeal, the first rays of sun breaking through the fog. My chest and arms are burnt from yesterday, my hair is wet with the sea mist, and my soul is refreshed. I believe that I can finish the course, now.
And then the sun rises, and the mist catches fire. The gulls wake, and somewhere beyond the dunes, an eagle calls - beneath it all, the buoy bells.
The sea is life, living and moving, breathing, longing. It's the scent, sounds, the feel of the salt in my lungs and the breeze on my skin. This is where th
I cannot speak for the rest of the world
but in Scandinavia we have been deceived.
in Scandinavia you get computers for free
in Scandinavia people are pretty and quiet and nice
here you can live a happy life, just hold on to your world
and don't let them tell you you're wrong
they do that in Scandinavia
even though they all feel bad.
in Scandinavia they'll tell you that love is what binds us together
in Scandinavia they tell you to follow your heart
yet the brain can capture a universe
the heart only a part, and isolate it
it does that in Scandinavia
even though it's already cold up here
in Scandinavia, the stronger the heartbea
Throwing down her pen in frustration, the Author cried, 'What is it you want?!'
The boy standing in the doorway wrung his hands in embarrassment, 'I want a story...'
Exhaling deeply, she studied him. Her gaze ran over his soft hair and the slight iridescence of his skin. She noted the odd way that the boy appeared to shimmer like a haze of heat. His eyes were deep and brown, and his lips played the tune of a nervous smile.
'I cannot give you a story,' She said brusquely, 'I am all out of stories! Look at me! I am hollow, I am gone, I am nothing! You want a story?' The Author paused whilst he nodded, 'Then go out and live! Breath
She stood before me, her chest wide open, 'What do you think?'
I could not help but to stare. Her heart was beating - literally in front of my eyes - between two paper lungs stained with ink. Blinking, I asked, 'Why are you showing me this?'
The girl did not answer. Reaching into her chest, she pulled out a lung, and held it out to me, 'I breathe words,' she whispered, 'This lung is the lung I exhale with. These are the words I breathe.'
Taking it, I unfolded the paper lung, and felt millions of alveoli rippling under my fingertips. But there was something wrong.
I met her eyes, 'This lung is blank!'
'I know,' she said sorrowf
'I am the short story writer,' Announced Death, her blue eyes flashing, 'I work only within tragedy and romance, with the crows and the sinners, for they are easier to condemn. Short stories cannot be complicated, though they can be happy. I can unite lovers, and I can separate them. The story of life must be short, sweet, a few careful lines. It must swim with words like nuances, and nacreous, to add flair and a dash of intellectual salt to my inky soup. My characters, my playing pieces, will remain unnamed, so that I run no risk of growing attached and extending their ill-fated tale. Tears must fall in new and original ways. There cannot
01.
the sky was earl grey
and the clouds were steamy sips
and i wanted to drink it all.
02.
the leaves were star yellow
and the bark smelled of coffee
and the bakery was selling a moon made out of cheese.
03.
there was an old man on a bench
he threw his wedding band in the sewer
i cried for him.
04.
the birds were dreams
and the mountains, my obstacles,
tally ho young adventurer tally ho
05.
i ran into an artist today
he drew signs on corner post buildings
but he also gave his lunch to a homeless boy.
06.
my mom holds black holes beneath her eyes
and for the first time in days, she spoke to me,
"i'm worried about you.
She spent the morning in the past, reclaiming childhood.
The raindrops felt like second grade, if second grade
could run down a back or stick hair to cheeks.
Red boots brought back picture books, mud splatter up to
the waist, disregarded. The way the lightning freezes time
in bright instants, every drop a crystal ball in reverse,
sharing tea parties that once were, and gourmet mud pies.
Umbrellas are a hindrance, unless they're used for dancing.
Time resumed at noon, when working women must punch in,
but the seven-year-old smile stays put, with the mud under
the nails that life cannot wash away.
Patron of poets, pray bless me with words,
fill me with rhyming and meaning and song.
Hallow my tongue with a taste for fine verse.
Give me a pen never ceasing to write.
Patron of poets, the earth bore you up,
that all who listened could hear when you spoke.
Grant ears to hear me, though my lines are frail,
maybe a heart to be touched by my hymn.
Amen.