Boy & Beast

Hi all! This is a short poem titled Boy and Beast; content wise it strays from my other writing, but this was inspired by a little bit of ekphrasis. Enjoy! 

 

Golden shades of blue great each other, the beast’s scales tangled in the light, sun speckled

A heavy robe draped over the boy, much too large for his frail body, it cannot belong to him

The beast’s tail coils and contorts

Bare feet, without claws, without scales or armor, not broken but breakable

Where did he leave his shoes?

The ground no longer moved, no longer echoed and errupted beneath the two

The beast’s eyelids fluttered, magnificent dappled purple and azure, defeated eyes shut

There is lingering dread painted on the boy’s irises which meet with the beast’s sunken chest

It rose

His heart still thumping, still pumping, still beating

 

A boy with dirt stained teeth and cheeks, nose and throat

King of the sky lay bleeding in a low place

The two were now more alike than they were different

The boy knew this well

Sweet smelling smoke hung in the air, pouring of out the beast’s nostrils, it did not seem to stop

But it was not sweet, it was the smell of death

The sound of an ancient body ascending and dematerializing

Where a beast had once stood, once sailed through sunsets of gold and blood

Skies of blue

 

Time must persist, the sun sunk into the valley radiating shades of mourning

Melancholy rolled over the young boy, pouring over him like the folds of his robe

Golden shades of blue great each other, the beast’s scales tangled in the light, star speckled

Advertisements

Wheeler & the Warbler: Part 3

The conclusion of my three part short story. Thank you to everyone who has been reading! 

 

I remained awake once more when night slipped over my rooftop. It was routine almost. I guess the warbler’s presence had sharpened my senses. I began to notice the inaudible sounds, the way the winds hummed and the leaves whispered. I didn’t know what they were gabbing on about though. I was able to feel the slight twitch of my right arm spasm, and the glares held in the eyes of strangers. I could feel like thumping of my heart, pumping reds throughout me. I could feel the zeep zeep zeeps. Yes, my senses became sharper. I was able to hear the straining of Mary Bate’s cheeks when she smiled. Though, I couldn’t recall the amount of hours I had slept the past five nights. The feeling of my head, sinking unhurriedly into my blue coated pillow, was a dreadful feeling. I wish it hadn’t been to tell you the truth. My skin was now dull grey, like the feathers of the warbler. The warbler was no longer a bird; the warbler was the weight I had carried. Until now, the weight had been manageable. Today, my knees collapsed and I had hit the floor. The warbler waited for me beyond the window pane. His small unproportionate body rocking back and forth, teetering atop the flimsy branch of my being. The warbler’s eyes bore gaping holes into my face, exposing bones and soft pink flesh. I stood to my feet, the house creaked below me, groaning and wailing, and abandoned my bedroom.

 

The air was raw and depraved, gnawing at my forehead, the blades of grass stung below my bare feet. It was damn cold out. I stood beneath the birch tree in my backyard. When I was a child my father and I built a birdhouse to hang on that birch tree. It was flimsy due to the fact he had let me hammer in most of the nails, small veiny cracks branched up the wood. He kept correcting my grip on the hammer and wouldn’t let me paint it after. Three weeks later it fell apart in a windstorm.
Darkness encroached the warbler and I, staining both my skin and his feathers. My glassy and tired eyes adjusted to the blackness and I was able to make out the shadow sitting in the tree. To tell you the truth, I didn’t care if I were to wake the neighbors, if I were to disturb Mrs. Bate’s tulips. The warbler no longer controlled me. I told him that. I screamed. I screamed until my jaw felt it were to disconnect and my throat bled. The warbler grew uneasy, I saw it in his eyes. My neck strained, blood vessels popping and veins pumping. I became dizzy. The sky let out a screech, ear piercing and throbbing. It was not the sky. From under a veil of black, a lonely falcon dived into the birch tree. Yolk colored talons snatched the warbler from the branch. I did not hear the familiar zeep zeeps from the warbler, but now a feeble croak. The warbler no longer controlled me, for I was made of dark grey steel and not glass. The falcon let another cry pour out from his beak, the warbler strung from his claws, crumped and defeated, and soared into the star spotted canopy above. I swear I watched the life seep from the warblers hollow body. My shaky hand grappled with the doorknob, the cool brass burned my tired skin. My bare feet dragged up the crooked staircase and I found my bedroom door slightly opened, cool air slipped from my open window and into the hallway. Walking into my room, I closed that window for the last time, submerged myself back under my covers, a sea of blue, and fell asleep.

after David Scriven Crowley’s Andrew with Faith and Reason

This poem was written as a response to David Scriven Crowley’s painting titled Andrew with Faith and Reason displayed at the Emery Art Center. Check out more of his wonderful work at http://www.davidscrivencrowley.com/#!

 

Two stallions, raise torn hooves into sky, muddy ochre and onyx

The avoidance of dirt

Where are your shoes?

Soft lilac soil sinks below

Lavender, peach pulp clouds crowd above, Zeus is watching

And he is angry, face flushed an ungodly red, bursted blood vessels

 

An unfamiliar portrait of a hero, at least you appear to be

Lit by yellow hues, a familiar flesh tone to I and to you

Holding two roped reigns, for what purpose?

Where do you look to with such fear, teeming from pupils

Is it the Gods you fear?

 

Muscles all strain and writhe, casting shadows which overlap

Mauve, plum, muted rose and mulberry, unruly manes

Looming landscapes stretch themselves along the campus, and two arms length

Two stallions, who bear the names Faith and Reason

I later learn you bear the name Andrew

An Open Letter to the Scar on my Right Knee

This poem was written in a poetry class at University of Maine Farmington’s annual Longfellow Young Writers Workshop. 

 

You are pink and fleshy, hues of salmon, a divot which mars my kneecap

You are the creation of river rocks and clumsy footing

Off balance footing, I would never make it in the circus

Big top, red and white

You are a reminder of the last day laughter filled my belly and crowded my bones

Why don’t scars go away?

Why don’t scars leave, like people so easily do?

 

Mid-September air stung at my skin, prickly sensations scattered my bare ankles

Jumping from brinded rock to brinded rock, he was only a few skips ahead of me

All was below me and with a thudding sound and splashing of icy water

I was below all

Smile still strained, uneven teeth continued to show

I was happy and I was red and the water too was red

Why didn’t my smile go away?

 

Spindly shaking fingers were held out to me and I was back and standing

On five dollar flip flops, legs shaky and knees shaky

Right knee shaking

This the last time our dead skin cells collide

Meshing and melding like seemingly close galaxies

 

After that Tuesday there were no phone calls branching into 2 am

You had still not introduced yourself yet

Come Wednesday our weekly trip to the dingy pizza parlor on the end of South street was abandoned, old habits rotted effortlessly into the ground, leaving its bones exposed

 

Thursday passed and the flowers he had given me began to die

I looked down to my right knee and through the bandage I could feel you growing

You were born into a harsh environment and endured when I knew I could not

 

Sunday night I sat alone in my bed, amongst pillows and sheets and linens

Pink rimmed glassy and jaundiced eyes wanted to look anywhere but down

I needed to look anywhere but down

Yet there seemed to be an anchor which tied itself to my chin

There you were

 

Why don’t scars leave like people do?

On Poetry & Boundaries

This poem was written in eighth grade, and recently revised. I apologize for the lack of posts recently! I am currently revising my piece “About Tabitha Paine”, which will hopefully be published in an anthology by May. This is a very time consuming process, one that I’ve been putting all of myself into. Enjoy! 

 

Poetry knows no bounds

In fact, a poet knows no bounds

I will not follow a guideline

The art of restriction wraps  tightly around my shoulders

Leaving lines of purple and markings of maroon

I will color outside the lines

For I do not care if the sky will be blotted white or black or orange or lilac

I will paint a sky of my own, a sky belonging to my mechanisms

think outside of the box

I will not write using a rhyme

simile

humor

alliteration

I shall not revise my work

my poetry is raw

more raw than a sunflowers roots

a salmon extracted from the raging rapids by means of a grizzly’s jaw

Canines and incisors

my poetry is fresh

fresher than the fruits of spring

fresher than the air encircling a mountains snow spotted cap

My poetry is flesh, of my own and of others

My words personify into sinew and dead skin

I carefully construct letters and arrange them like freckles and constellations on olive stained cheeks

I write with a flow

a flow that will not be constricted by a set of rules

my poetry is a river,

yet unlike a river, it shall shatter the dam of restrictions

Poetry has no bounds

And neither will I

Something

I am searching for something

Say I am on a hunt

Something to dizzy my head

To shake my skull with a violent yet familiarly gentle force

 

Something to paint multitudes more of freckles upon my shoulder

To make me feel like sharp scuff marks that mar the beige wall

This something will shorten my breathing

In out in out in out

I can feel my ribs hugging my lungs,

White and flesh

 

Something that will crack my spine and splinter through my center

I wish to feel the corners of my mouth burn

And my cheek muscles strain

I want to feel hell, the ground ruptures and succumbs beneath the soles of my shoes

To breathe charcoal, to feel Hades’ forearm drape around me

It’s a comfortable feeling

Hell, it cannot be a place, because you cannot feel a place

A place cannot twist and tear you

And knot you up and tangle you until rendered useless

 

Something that crinkles my nose

Stiff as a leaf underneath dried and dirtied boots

You say I am on a hunt

I am searching for something

Rain Rain go Away

Rain, rain, don’t go away

For I find the strangest comfort in a foggy window and my noisy yellow rainboots

Come again, visit me on Sunday and wrap around my shoulders like a woven blanket the morning after snowfall

I like the abundance of kisses that speckle my cheeks, trying their best to imitate my freckles, leaving me behind their icy drops

And the sound, the sound fills up that empty space in my head and between my ears

In the absence of thoughts, the sound consumes me

I smile at the sight of my reflection in the divots of my driveway that are filled with puddles of all sizes and shapes

Because I find myself beautiful in this mirror

Though my hair is weighed down and sopping

Though a single drop teeters on my nose, hanging on with a weak grip and wavering hands

Until down down it falls, splashing and rippling at the ground

And the mud shifting under my weight as I saunter amongst the trees

Rain, rain don’t go away