[x]

AtlantisOur ships float close under sunlit skies,
hovering above Atlantis.
We claimed the ocean miles as our own,
an underwater district which we would call home.

Drown.
Suffocate with Neptune,
as heavens burst through violet haze.
Your gaze,
splits the nebula, infinite space,
and explosions in a faraway place.

And when the sun should close its eyes,
you'll sail afar.
To climb electric vines,
and lay in the arms of the storm.

The Prince's Last WifeIt must be confusing
to lie down every night
not sure if you were going to be with
the man or the bear.
Sure, he's always been a man by night,
but then he's a bear by day,
with those big, sad, polar eyes,
still trying to control his massive limbs
like he's the master of his own destiny.

And yet you find those white hairs
on your good clean sheets,
on your silk pajamas,
mingled in your morning tea,
which is always waiting,
hot and steaming,
despite the fact he can't carry it in his paws.

And he watches you dressing yourself,
pulling on layer after layer, wool and wire,
because he shoots the cold
right through you,
with a nu

a lover's observations.when you asked me to define love,
i answered with this.

love is
i. a collection of sighs
strung together
by remembered dreams
and rapid heartbeats

ii. fingertips on knuckles
and the hugging of thumbs

iii. making silverware
on the mattress
in the company of the stars

iv. exchanging dialogue
with our mouths shut
and our eyes open

v. cheekbones and crow's feet

vi. turning every what if
into a reality
when i asked you to describe love,
you took the answer from my mouth
with your lips.

Fill in the blank.Sometimes people leave
these why-sized holes in our lives
after they depart.

Translation (Traduccion)Her hips swayed, bailando,
and I held her en mis brazos.
We danced by moonlight, admirando las estrellas,
and the rest of the world faded a la noche.

in dark eyeethereally floating there
envying the lust of life
luridly at a rolling boil

expansive outcome of supernova
distant alluring signal
behind fine line lashes

comet trails pioneer the iris
tease of civilizations incalculable
ancient creation secrets born anew

granted before wish uttered
just a shy blink leaves me
ethereally floating there

the beauty's in the leavingRead aloud here.
sweetheart, let's head out. let's
drink up the desert asphalt and that last bottle
of johnny walker blue--
one last toast to the copper sunsets,
to the good earth. a pair of
tailgate stargazers, you and i:
roaming curves across the glove compartment map, until
every foldline is worn flannel-soft
and it'd rather stay open
than closed.
let's forget route sixty-six. let's forget
the numbers
and pick up terra cotta dust--
breathe in the mojave. let's pretend
that the world's already ended
and it's just us.
let's leave the door unlocked
and go
west.

To LondonGypsy hopefuls once told me,
there are flights leaving for
any destination
at any given instant

Upon sizing up our town with
a fingernail
did you realise how little
our frustrations were?

I spoke about this ineffable feeling
of stepping out of one tub
and into new water.

The hotel was done up nicely,
chandeliers and polished English accents.
Labels aside they still mixed
milk into their coffee
and had toast with jam and butter.

I was living under the impression
that most of the Internet
came from my same slice of city pie,
conveniently forgetting about
the undersea cables.

I loathed the lack of vernacular
sentence s

Dead Bird HeartI never noticed the way ash looks like feathers.

I become aware of the shores where my body
folds to meet itself, doubles over so that my hair
seems to grow like roots into the ground

keeping me from ever lifting my head again.

Of all the things she told me, she missed this one:
what to do with the ashes.

Hers is a dead bird heart—
grey-haired and grey-feathered.
She is paler than she has any right to be,
ashen—

But her eyes are open, and she can see the sky
where a roof once was.

Magic of the TreesWe walked, painting footprints in the dirt,
reminders to recall trails blazed.
We peered up at the sky,
squinting against the sour lemon sun,
flickering down between dream catcher leaves,
and we made wishes come true.
The trees stood tall as giants,
supporting our spines, improving our posture,
for kisses that smelled of woods and tasted of sap.
And woodland creatures sang songs,
songs of love pushed to limits,
whispering careful reminders in our ears.
We tried each one out,
the big and little trees, the fat and skinny ones,
needing to know which one felt best,
when our lips pressed together.
And pictures only we would see we

Sky PebblesThe sky,
a sloped portrait,
grazes the horizon;
shooting stars skip past Scorpio's tail,
laughing.

you need to have a plan...so here's to
conventional wisdom.
1. relocate
to some forgotten shore.
2. fall desperately in love with
i. the ocean
ii. the sky
iii. the honey sunrise and
iv. the steelgray winter dawn.
3. sink
soul-deep into the water and
breathe.
4a. search out the requisite words
i. from behind white and blue curtains
ii. and underneath clam shells
iii. and in the wakes of fishing boats, and
4b. pluck them from the ceaseless
scrawls of sunlight
against the slopes of waves.
5. make time for
i. poetry
ii. and other
selfish
pursuits.

I am 42"I am 42," 
said the poet(man)  

who did not go on to be
 famous, well-known, or even 
respected

  just loved

  and apparently that was enough 
because he died with a smile
 on his face and a dozen 
roses in his clenched 
fists  

shaped like grenades 
he had thrown twenty years 
previous, hoping he 
didn't kill anyone 
because he was just 
obeying orders  

orders
screamed in ears 
willing to listen as long 
as he could interpret
 and analyze later 
on scraps of paper

On Waitingnothing seems worth writing anymore

yet all my bones are coiled in anticipation.

I'm a poet lost, ya know.
And all our stars, they're leaking
oil and pizzazz. Something
grand is building in my marrow.

A ClicheI wish I could sing you a love song
about roses and stars and the rain
but I couldn't sing like the blackbird in spring
so I think I will simply refrain.

I wish I could tell you a story
about beauty and trust and my heart
but all I could say's what they say every day
So I don't even know where to start.

I wish I could write you a poem
'bout the birds and the bees and my bed
but all I would write's being said every night
So I wrote you a cliche instead.

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Hierarchy of the Dinner TableIV. Peasant
Your calloused hands betray
the exhaustion you strive to hide;
An honest day's work rewards you
with produce reaped from the earth
and brought to your family's table.
The fickle wind often betrays you,
and you spend every fourth winter
surviving on bread and rain water.
III. Gypsy
Those malachite eyes and
the sway of your bejeweled hips
are a form of prostitution:
You seduce the unwary
with fiddle and fancy feet
and dine on bread and wine
you stole from his abandoned cart.
Never again shall you sleep
without a full stomach
and a lead conscience.
II. Monk
Eternally fasting,
you dine on the righteousness
of God and good deeds:
Not without lust for flesh
of woman or of animal, you spend
your humble days on your knees,
begging forgiveness for sins you admit,
while the poor enjoy your charity.
I. Monarch
You know not the burn of emptiness
that your people feel when they sleep
on their emaciated rib cages.
The feast you enjoy daily is grand,
your exotic wood table great enough
to

Nudiustertian (C)Don't make me stay
if I'm too cold to lie next to, if my words
cut in the right places
and you know you won't be there
to show me the way back home.

It'd be cruel to lie,
to mutter "Yes, I'll always be there,"
because you can't break it to me
even though we both know
I've earned every wicked comeback
you've hidden under the mattress.

With the weight of the sighs that
crawl from your lips to my swollen lungs,
I hope you can wrap your arms
around dusty bones
and relearn how to dream the dreams of me.

I'll wait for you
in that fragile, intimate space
between consciousness and sleep,
my arms outstretched, my claws unsheathed,
and accept your w

UnlearningI.

Your glasses will always be filthy, either
from dust your dry tongue and chapped lips
push out, or from the filth of the ashen earth.

II.

Every day, you will learn not to trust, and
you will forget again before you go to bed,
sure as your heart lies automatically to you.

III.

And every third or fourth smile is genuine,
but the rest you force (no matter how much
the split lips hurt); you couldn't bear
the inevitable four-word question.

IV.

You will realize you seldom tell the truth,
though you may speak no untruths; your
constructed expression is the ultimate
falsification.

V.

Eventually, your glasses become lost altogether,
but yo

There Were Only StarsWrapped in piano strings,
The stars whisper:
Forgetting is everything.

The days remain the same:
Boxes of dead poetry
Wait for you
In the space between
Approaches and departures.

You fold paper for a living,
Ghost writing for
An empty audience:
Nothing is enough.

RomeAncient walls crumble
like my bones, fractured,
and though they could be repaired,
nobody has bothered.

They drilled for copper marrow
and thought nothing
of the consequences:
destruction of history,
and no time for writing it
down for posterity.

I become dust,
and the colossal piece of art
falls with me into the void.

StephenI guess I shouldn't blame you
for having an opinion that is different
from my own. The world is black and white,
so you say, and I'm just a part
of the problem you see.

How could you know how deeply
your words would cut me?
You probably don't know how alike
we are, you and I: sufferers
of the cruelty of the world,
you suffer,
I suffer,
and you probably have no idea
that I considered escaping, too,
on more than one occasion.

Here we come to the real difference:
I am escaping,
while you choose to close your mind.

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Dandelion's Lament

by *SurrealCachinnation, Nov 20, 2012, 1:35:36 AM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

the warm spring wind
gives me life
no one desires to defend;

they call me Weed,
stomping me down
to the level of Crabgrass
and Poison Oak,

although I harm none
with my meager
existence.

I can grant your wishes
as your cold breath
sends shivers down my
stem; I can

thrive on the dream-fields
of children, who still
call me Flower.

Dandelion's Lamentby *SurrealCachinnation

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

Exercise from my Creative Writing class... we had to write from an interesting POV. She gave us a few choices, one of which was a weed.

Featured by DailyLitDeviations: [link]
Thanks so much to =TwilightPoetess for the feature!

Read by the amazing =TwilightPoetess here: [link]

*0hgravity Jan 24, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

beautiful piece.
great final stanza.

*SurrealCachinnation Jan 25, 2013 Student Writer

Thank you!

*0hgravity Jan 25, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

welcome

=TwilightPoetess Jan 22, 2013

Hi, hon!

I'd LOVE your permission to read this for

's wordpress blog/gallery.

Let me know if you're okay with that?

*SurrealCachinnation Jan 24, 2013 Student Writer

Sure thing! I would be honored to have a poem read by you!

=TwilightPoetess Jan 24, 2013

Excellent, thanks!

*SurrealCachinnation Jan 24, 2013 Student Writer

Sure thing! Send me a link once it's up so I can add it to my comments.

=TwilightPoetess Jan 24, 2013

I will definitely do that.

*SurrealCachinnation Jan 24, 2013 Student Writer

Awesome!

=TwilightPoetess Jan 24, 2013

It's up! You can find/hear it here:

Dandelion's Lament

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Dandelion's Lamentby *SurrealCachinnation

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