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Moving: A YaduWe keep a home
Of unknown hums
And lonely cats.
The sky cracks but
He lacks a raincoat.

Fueled by smoke and
Words he lands on
A branded street,
Knows the sweet rage
Of meeting too soon and late.

This town belongs
To a song man
And wrongful ghost.
He is most sure
The coast will fade their remnants.

mutethings have been easier
without words &
we pretend neither of us care;

we stutter
splutter
laughing and choking
on puns &

when you bend me over nouns
i scream

louder
growl
more fluent.

the words are there waiting to be spoken

me . you . love

my dear, we've been mute
for so long

speak to me.

starspunobserving the romanticism
of hooded cemetery kids,
smoking cigarettes pretending
they are not dead.

you were always so sure
about my uncertainty,
you watched
all my pick up lines
drop things.

we built the heat
of the evening from the solidity
of starlight,

pretended
that two teens at the park
at midnight
is the stuff of teen novels
(cliches dim on
our leaf-gold horizon)

your eyes darted
from the gray expanse
of the churchyard & wandered
in thoughtful
paths.

i wanted to ask you
if i could follow. shove
the words aside &
remember that i came here alone.

i remember our innocence
in the static b e t w e e n
stars

carouselwe laughed like children high on m&ms,
danced like we were carousel horses,
and jump-roped our way through obstacle courses.

I saved our footsteps in mason jars,
in case we ever needed to follow yellow brick roads
to get home.

home was an illusion:
honesty without truth,
apologies without forgiveness,
I kept home sandwiched between
"never" and "have to."

caroline, they'd say. caroline,
stop being such a dreamer. stop taking
us for granted.

I packed every apology possible
into my breath, left runaway plans lingering
in the silence between family.

when I found you dancing in the street,
I listened for merry-go-round music.

I

bitter hug of mortalityso you sit there,
your awkward little hands folding awkward little birds,
as if you could inhale your own paper wings.
so you sit there,
and you think
about you watching the people and the people
not watching you.
and i whisper darling,
darling the only thing you're good for
is reading walt whitman out loud
to your used-to-be-white walls
until your throat chips, and your eyes dust over.
and you just shift your weight
and shake your head
like something
buzzed in your ear.

the hungry look...the hungry look,

the wolves
weaving through
and around
the gully of your throat like wraiths,

we can feel you rusting, lost one;

i know that drainpipes and fenders
begin to crackle after winter wet

and that there’s a touch of snow
in all of us,

but no one,
no one could hold you as tightly as you do,
your whole body, bloodless in this arrest,

and if you will not let your fetters show
i will show you
there’s a place for going, and you haven’t gone there yet;

where quantum particles, once in contact, can retain a connection
even when separated

where you
wander up to a stranger
with your shirt inside-out
and say &lsq

tiger sharksYou take what you can get. You always find a way to make do. Your mother taught you that. Your mother drank wine through a straw. When you were fifteen, you watched her take down your father's hunting rifle from above the fireplace and shoot your dog, your best friend, that had got run over by your neighbour's truck and had to be put down. When you were fifteen your mother held you as you cried about your dog, your best friend, that had got run over by your neighbour's truck and had to be put down. She didn't say a word as you did but when you were fifteen, you caught her weeping in the middle of the night to your father, who apologized that

a ribcage drenched in dust i have your ribcage, you said.
what should i put in it?

i told you i'd always wanted a fire,
the kind that would fill my eyes with starlight
and pump my blood full of passion, but

you're made of wildflowers, you said.
a fire would burn you to ash.

you wanted to fill my chest with
the sound of a train, whistling
far away in the night;
with the sound of rain smacking leaves;
with the sound the wind makes
when it seems like it's trying to speak

and you wanted to throw in the
smell of midnight in august
and the feeling of sand being
sucked out from under your feet
when the ocean inhales,
and the strange little moment of
bitter

apogee"if pluto disappeared
from its orbit,
would the sun notice?" you asked,
and i said that i did not know.

i remember calling
your name, battling with
the roar of the ocean trying
to get my voice to reach your ears.
know this: i went hoarse that day;
from the cold of the spray, from the
shouts torn out of my throat, from the
feeling of having my essense
irremediably ripped from my bones.
and know that that night i tried to soothe
the ache with tea that i could not taste.

"this is no tragedy," i said to myself,
even as i recalled that there was nothing
before you; even as i realize it's
entirely possible that there will be nothi

sea featherin the breaking of the morning we tore apart our ivory shells
our blood-red hearts are saturated in spume & sea spells
with the ache from the brine gathering around you
your ankles slippery, your mouth
moving liquid through
mine
i had never seen a more beautiful shoreline

gunmetal breaths
on shivering, silver shores

you were ebbing to my flowing
you were coming; i was going

i wrote in the sand that i was yours

on the coast i could feel
salt on my tongue - dew from the
ocean in my lungs
& i was your pearl
latched from the inside to keep everyone out
speaking in rhymes, & cotton tides

this is when you pull my body fro

The Cat on the PorchYou asked me why I do not believe in ghosts,
celestial at four in the morning.
It becomes the common hour,
not a biting static shock in the eye veins like I anticipated
but dangerously vogue and precious
like a real diamond ring or sapphires on your breast.
No wood pecking or oil teasing or misshapen duck bills bleating
just clay, but lighter, lightest
and bright
seductive and crestfallen.

They bled Peter and Pangloss over a river.
I was wearing white for the funeral
humming 'home', the matronly letters
soothe me
clotheshorses and moonlight,
Mayan jewellery in my cabinet
the mother tongue kissing my molars better

But then there

on watching the night close its eyes on you1. I will not tell you
you are pretty.

How can the halls and angles of such honest humanity
be so pinched between sounds as elementary as these?

2. You need not be two stringent boughs of syllables
nor weave your viney bones abreast these five petty letters,
whirling in the fire of the river
Styx.
Do not attempt to peel yourself layer for layer,
leaving all the disgust behind.
Do not tally your body six &

The Best is Yet to Comeif we grow old
there will be a sigh
an attention to the change
as your muscles slacken underneath
your faded, favorite shirt
the one that's threadbare, "holy"
in a sense less than divine
I'll have washed it for
the thousandth time
our eyes will crinkle, wrinkle
in ways that start to match
and we'll hold hands and ask:
when did the nerves and veins
begin to let our hands get cold?
-if we grow old

SimbelmyneThere is silence here, upon
stale skull tombs—
these everminds are stilling...

(And yet their tragedies
shall endure in the pallor of the
flowers in your hands.)

Golden Ink and Going BackI thought I was in love with that four-year old red-haired boy
Shining in a silver knight costume with a black dragon sewn on
Because I was in the pink Sleeping Beauty Dress

I was a good Belle, too
(Back when I hadn't picked up a book
Except for the blue one with the golden pages
Brimming with witches and fairies and magic)

I wanted to be a princess, back then
They were the ones who always found love, at the end
I wanted to be Wendy, too
Because she wore a blue nightgown and learned to fly
Now, I'd rather be Peter Pan, honestly
Because he managed to swerve this whole ordeal of growing up
(And maybe a little because of the flying)

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Margaret ThatcherMargaret Thatcher
longs to be a catcher;
but that little bitch
can throw a wicked pitch.

Never Seventy-FourNever seventy-four.
Never this day.
My heart fell out of my chest
became a cow
so I could lead her into the city.
We aim across a field of thirsty wheat,
I put my hat upon her head.

I am an older man a simple man
from simpler times in simpler clothes.
I hope I'm blind by the time I reach
the city with its great reflexions.

Never seventy-four.
Never a day like this.
She balks at the river, no matter my coaxing
by now she is so long away my chest she's forgotten
our common tongue. She used to give sweet
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I know what it is to be married, see?
I was right to have kept her so long
else I'd have ea

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Why I Don't

by ~caveatLECTOR, Dec 13, 2008, 10:01:47 AM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

We are too permanent
for the transience of poetry,
each brief line speeding on toward
the next at breakneck speed.
And I have never been one for writing
epics, you know that.

Why I Don'tby ~caveatLECTOR

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

©2008-2013 ~caveatLECTOR

I think it hurts his feelings sometimes, that I don't write about him.

I'm sorry.

Daily Deviation

Given 2013-03-01

Why I Don't by ~caveatLECTOR ( Suggested by *ShadowedAcolyte and Featured by ^Beccalicious )

~~joy 0 0~~

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~Amenarae Mar 1, 2013 Hobbyist Traditional Artist

Interesting... I like your wording...

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~caveatLECTOR Apr 10, 2013

Interesting is what I aim for.

Reply

~Amenarae Apr 11, 2013 Hobbyist Traditional Artist

Well, you certainly achieved your goal.

Reply

~caveatLECTOR Apr 11, 2013

Thank you, maybe.

Reply

~Amenarae Apr 13, 2013 Hobbyist Traditional Artist

Well then; thank you, maybe, for the thank you, maybe~
X3

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~music-and-words Mar 1, 2013

I always felt guilty for not writing about him. The few attempts I've made were never right. This helps me understand. Thank you

Reply

~caveatLECTOR Apr 10, 2013

It does more for my heart than you could know to hear that, first, I am not alone--and second, that I have helped another person feel that way also. What a relief.

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=Wordeea Mar 1, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

ha. yes

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~caveatLECTOR Apr 10, 2013

i'm so glad you see what's going on here.

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~munty12 Mar 1, 2013 Hobbyist Artist

i personnaly like this

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