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Human landmarksNever look at a man
through his face
eyes that cup oceans
and moons and rhinestones
whiter than
frostbitten teeth
freckles catching the
ink stains on his cheeks
imprinted
like fingerprints
Instead
look at his feet
callused heels
mark where his ankles have wept
where the mud touched
the valleys of his soles
dirt seeping through pores
like a lost soul with scars for pathways
how the kite-bare bones and cartilage
twist and bend and broke his stride
Look how they touch the ground
how deep their imprints
leave their warm welcome
Born in the DyingThis atmosphere
It tingles the senses
Livening , birthing anew
A single tiny pollen-view
Of a creature first created
And with this cool air
It takes its first breath
Squirming and writhing
Struggling to be
In a world that dies
…but bursts like a phoenix in time
Begin With MeLe-het there be peace on Earth,
The meetinghouse is white, small, spare.
The closest things to extravagance
Are the ceiling's floral carved tiles,
Their crude shapes painted thick with white.
And let it begin with me.
The whitened elders sing songs again
From the blue hard-covered hymnals.
They have fallen to rest here from
Portland, Great Britain, East Germany.
Le-het there be peace on Earth,
Their paper voices open silence.
The things they have found under the blue:
A poem about a deer and a lost word,
The slow joy of watching that dam fall.
The peace that was meant to be.
They return to quiet rural life.
Sky and clouds over red-black houses.
In the white van headed back home
All was tranquil quiet for some time.
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Humans' NightOf the first starlight of Humans' Night
Of the dawn of the Earth's desperate fight
This treaty's conception marks a juncture of
Humans' period without a preserving glove
Blood is here by stained upon humanity's hand
And slathered against the dirt of our Earth's land
Humans becoming enveloped by their own blood
By this damning, inevitable, crimson flood
No man escapes the blame of the scars, his flaws
By gods' and devils' blade, by religions' cause
Each of us held with sins, bore endless mark
We will never escape our timeless dark
Of our plague of earth, of our plague of dirt
Can not we wisp, be gone humans' hurt
This we used Earth's construct, destruct, and obstruct
The height of our sins on her hearth, in deduct
By greed, by glory, by pride, by might
Have we started the evil of Humans' Night
StormsShe was reluctantly letting herself be dragged up the path, snowflakes whipping against her as she failed to realise she wasn't actually feeling cold in any way. Desperately, she wanted to ask where on earth her childhood friend was taking her, and that, within two minutes of meeting again after years.
Her hand had been latched onto when she was standing in the village, quite a trek away now that they had been stomping upwards for so long. She remembered how she had felt afraid of the strange way the inhabitants had been staring at her, all too ready to condemn her for what she was, and as she felt the same cold-fear sweep through her bones, her dazed eyes focused on the small tent, slowly becoming more visible through the blizzard.
Reaching the tent she felt her hand set free from the one she once referred to as a boy, and didn't hesitate in taking a step back from him, gently massaging where he had held over the aching bone.
"W-why-?"
She suddenly became aware of her dry throat, her
Soul Painting Immersing the brush in a glass of water; dipping it in the palette within her left hand mixing up some colours; and then gently gliding the damp thick tip of the brush over the canvas, bringing her imagination to life. She kept doing this for some hours, and paid no heed to the late hour, nor to her sleepy state - for she was about to finish her masterpiece...
Beth is a very talented painter, and a passionate one. Painters usually care too much about details, but she was overly fastidious a person. Her only indulgence existed amongst her painting tools. Her life was a bit of a mess; she was never happy in her social life; she'd got no lover, nor friends, but enough fans. She was deficient in many noble merits that the power of fame had long ago covered - come on who's perfect!- so in real life not everyone liked her personality. As an artist, she could perceive the power of colours; she'd always entertained that colours' greatest power is being so meaningful
002: Making History12th December, 2009
The classroom was packed with hot, vibrant teenage life. Desks rattled, paper rustled and the low hum of thirty young voices permeated my thoughts, settling over them like a stifling blanket in the middle of a sweltering summer. I reached out and slid my fingers past the curtains beside my seat, parting them just a crack. Through this, a sliver of exquisite grayness cast its pale, cold light upon my yearning face. The clouds were a metal palette; tin, lead, steel and iron. I longed to be out in the vast, aching emptiness. I longed to be wet and shivering in a bleak autumnal drizzle. I longed to be anywhere. Anywhere but here.
Yet here I was, and I would have to bear it. With a silent sigh, I let the curtains fall shut. Far behind me, Jean's strong bass rapped a staccato rhythm across the monotone of a dozen conversations.
"I disagree. No...no, let me finish. This isn't something you can just-..."
He was cut off by a less strident voice, and I could hea
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