Tag Archives: writing

Poetry, Prosetry

Vagabond – Alexandra Mayer

His voice reminds me of Botticelli. 

You know… pastel angels, naked and soft.

The sun:

 A bleeding grapefruit–  

Its scarlet juices seeping into wisps of yellow, violet and blue.

I love him. I love her too. 

Home–there are just so many of you. 

The road rushes back. 

My memories are watercolors. 

These years drip into each other. 

Nothing but hazy hues. 

Stretches of Sand. 

My lips in the rearview mirror. 

Unphased, shedding layers like a python.  

Sometimes they strike without warning even me. 

 

Jeep paters to a stop.

Barefeet burning.

Black pavement. 

The stench of bonfires and summer.

He calls me over, 

with eyes like wildflowers,

and points to the flickering embers that litter the shore.

They’re pulled away by white knuckles

 dragging light back to sea. 

And Time slips out the back 

because we won’t pay enough attention to her. 

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Short Story

You’re Looking Younger Each Day – Brooke Safferman

“If there’s anything I hate, it’s the sound of children laughing. Especially in the summertime,” he said. The couple rocked back and forth, slowly, on their front porch. She was 26, he was 32.

“My! However could you say such a thing, Denton!?” she exclaimed. Her steady rocking never ceased.

​“I mean it, Maggie. I shiver at the thought of us growing. Growing and growing and growing.” Each morning, they would go outside to their porch. The chairs never changed, but their owners grew every day.

​“Well, Denny, I’m rather excited about growing! Just think – we will have the Law to take care of us, then! No responsibilities whatsoever. When we lose our teeth and the sharpness of our thoughts and the ability to walk without assistance, it won’t ever be our fault, Denny! No, I’m excited for life to take its natural course with us.”

​“Youth… who needs it…” he grumbled.

​“Now, Denny, I’m serious! Stop that talk!” She swiftly rose from her chair. It continued to rock, even without her presence.

​“Oh, Maggie… you’re looking younger each day. Younger and freer, without a care in the world. With your long, long legs pale and delicate. Your eyelashes have so much fringe! My word, what fringe you have! And those lips…” With a smirk, she took his hand and led him into the house. His heart sunk in his chest at the sight of how beautiful her body was, each curve highlighted by the sun trickling in through the windowpane. Gossamer curtains tickled the screens pushed open. She was so young. Almost a child, even. One day, he’d be without her.

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Poetry

Puddles – Brooke Safferman

Puddles.

Tears of melting cinnamon and something sweeter than the coffee you adored

Nothing I could have said would have brought you back,

But just maybe,

This was for the best.

 

Puddles.

All the things that remind me of you, now stuffed into my canvas duffle bag

It’s time for this nomad to get all packed up and to head on home.

It’s funny though, because I sincerely thought that you were my home.

 

Puddles.

The warmth of your voice and the sound of your skin

And all my senses blended into one, jumbled by the thought

Of how much bliss I had gained from your kisses and your caring.

 

Puddles.

I think back to the times when you held me in your arms;

“I will always love you,” you said, but that was never true.

It seems more accurate to say “I will always love you.”

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Poetry, Prosetry

A Blade Only Cuts Halfway – Ivy Juniper Manchester

Follow her blog for more writing: http://taintedyours.wordpress.com

Whispers across a silent room, 
the onlookers glance around, 
claiming it to the wind, 
but I stay rooted, 
clinging to the voice of you, 
each word 
a dagger deeper 
than the last- the last? 
you said 
no 
while i pleaded yes 
and 
then 
you were 
gone 
and you never 
came back 
to say 
goodbye

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Poetry, Prosetry

dynamics – Karlee Sanders

a fortissimo recollection of memories floods my mind with thoughts

I remember your forte screams that directed everything I did

your mezzo forte demands at home for me to grab you a beer or to come to bed
my mezzo piano answers that you’d never hear because you were too busy thinking about the next move you’d make on me to make your wish my command
my piano voice under my breath uttering my hate for you
your pianissimo voice now over the phone from your jail cell
begging me for forgiveness and bail money
only to get a dial tone in return
k.s. 3:15 pm 12/7/14
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Poetry

Out of Control Like This. – Brooke Safferman

Sinking into darkness,

How did we spiral out of control like this?

We were the best of friends

How did we get so damn out of control like this?

 

All priorities go out the window

You are the only to-do on my checklist

Smoke screen blinding our eyes from the truth

Whoever said ignorance is bliss never tried the alternative.

 

Except when the alternative is the thing that gains power

It overcomes;

It overwhelms;

It makes you lose yourself.

 

I’ve lost myself, for sure,

But far more importantly –

I’ve lost you,

Now that we’ve become

Out of control like this.

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Poetry

Dancing by The Moon – Serene Jansen

As expected, you died.

No mysterious tragedy.

I promised I wouldn’t cry.

Vivaciously intertwined with

the untamed, the souls who are alive;

body carried out

with the songs of your life, leaving doubt.

They expected you would die

But you showed me the Moon when I was three.

And you told me to dance for her

because she often felt lonely.

You revealed other things—

how to make mud pies

and why some creatures have wings.

You own some too, they tell me.

They kept saying it was expected.

Even if I can’t accept it,

you died.

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Uncategorized

Mother – Alexandra Mayer

Slurred words

and slowed movements

like water.

 

She’s a swift tide of

 

the lyrical.

and pale.

the graceful.

and stale.

 

And her fingers

lean from years of piano

fumble

 

to light the last cigarette.

 

She wants

a body

of fire.

 

Or just

a quick burst

of anything.

 

But she’ll settle for the smoke

pouring from her lips.

 

Floating.

 

And her eyes

match the twilight-

A subtle shift

from blue to grey.

 

Faded.

 

And she’s convinced

that if you tore her open

you’d find a drowning symphony.

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Poetry, Prose, Prosetry

Ending – Haley Ingram

December 23 1888:

Vincent Van Gogh takes a sharp edge against his head Successfully cutting off his ear.

On May 8 1889,

He admits himself into the Saint Paul de Mausole lunatic asylum.

It is here,

In the catacombs of his wax coated, pressed-to-package heart

Where his blood streams the will of his hand creating his most famous, and beautiful masterpieces.

My darling, you are not the dried up paint

Cracked off to flake into the air

Particle by particle

Being inhaled by those unworthy of your scent.

Don’t you ever feel like the symptoms of death-

The left over, missed nibbles of creation.

He ate yellow Paint

We eat yellow Paint

You are my yellow Paint.

The only reason my body has not fallen victim to toxins in my bloodstream

As he did

Is because

You have a direct biological correlation to my happiness

The fumes of paint mix and dance with the fumes of my despair

Organs made canvas

Premature shapes

Colors splattered

Product is you.

You don’t just coat my stomach with prosthetic beauty

You are the irises

You are MY irises

My darling,

I can see the starry view from my asylum window.

I am having my first out of body experience

That will not scar me physically as I shove my hand through the window

Just to try and touch the fire of night.

I look so,

Desperate.

Gasping for a single breath hoping I finally reach the passion

Every time I try to paint starry night it comes out as your face.

I carved it into my skin

Melted my flesh and bone

Molding myself into what beauty could be

But I am a 2D appreciating enthusiast.

I notice the fluorescent lights

pulsating

I think of your eyes and the way they retract and grow as you go from crying to

Discussing the way the flowers in your brain

Tickle the inside of your ears.

May whoever try to rip them from the pores of your skin

Rot in Hell.

Even I in all my idiocy know how

It feels to get lost in the

Tranquil trance of fragrance.

To be completely fine with disarray.

My darling,

You are my music.

I’m chugging gallons of paint closing my ears shut.

Whatever Van Gogh tried to silence

Will not infest my brain

Not while you remain a pesticide.

Not while you’re here.

Whispering. Humming. Kissing.

Breathing

The oxygen from your own plants

Giving me CPR

trying to clean out my lungs hoping my ears pop

But my hands stop you.

You’d make it too easy.

I want to make sure every word that falls into the cavern of my aching body

Leaves a seed that can only be watered by the paint that I feed on.

Insanity for a being.

Insanity for being.

I’ll admit myself.

The view is so nice here.

The view is so pretty here.

Self designed, molded by Pygmalion.

The view is so beautiful here.

July 29, 1890:

Van Gogh dies from two gunshot wounds to the chest from 2 days earlier.

The package, has been opened.

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Poetry

we are not your maids anymore – Alex Esterline

We are not your maids anymore
we are not why you lock up your store
Not your gardeners
not your mechanics
Not your border-hopping, job-stealing fanatics,
Not your microagressions
or your racist misconceptions,
your oppressive lies
or your stereotypes
We are not
The color of our skin
or our “inherited sin”
Your compliance with violence
Will not lead us to silence
For this will be the last time you can take what’s mine
For this will be the last time you can tell me “I’m fine”
“Post-racial America” yet there goes another
Matando Armando, your sister, your brother
Shot dead to the ground, Locked up in the pound
You look all around yet only our love is to be found

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