I won’t forget yesterday,
so I can’t forgive tomorrow.
Good riddance to the past —
it’s time to face its sorrow.
The future steeps in lang syne;
I’ll taste it years to come.
So don’t forget the foretime —
don’t let its burden numb.
I won’t forgive yesterday,
so I can’t ignore the fated.
Good riddance to antiquity —
now to fix what we’ve created.
© 2016 Stellular Scribe
i ascend with a crooked wing
that dangles against
my back
its feathers limp
and crushed
with bonemeal
its tendons snapped
and sticking
to my shoulder blades
my other wing is dipped in blood
but beats the air
into mere ripples
as i surge with
copper between my teeth
and red staining the corners
of my eyes
i ascend despite a crooked wing
© 2016 Stellular Scribe
we are what the earth becomes
when comets spit their residue
into lifeless oceans
that s h a k e
atop veins of rock
and the remains of dead things
don’t you see us
s p i n n i n g
through the lost parts of the night
hair
s t r e a m i n g
with forgotten pieces of sunlight
we are what the earth becomes
when all else blows
into motion
© 2016 Stellular Scribe
Well, it’s been a long couple of weeks. Whether you follow American politics or not, and no matter your opinions for or against the president elect, I feel like we all just need to relax. Unwind. Take a breather. Think about your loved ones. Drink some tea. Listen to this calming instrumental playlist I made just for you.
And, of course, write.
Happy writing!
Writer’s block may seem like a terminal illness, but sometimes the smallest of sparks can “kindle” your craft. Today we have the digital painting “Salar de Uyuni” by fromsky.
Ask yourself: Who are they? Where are they? What are they feeling? What are they about to do? Write about who they are, what situation they are in, and what they will do next. It can be a poem, short story, long fiction, anything — let the kindling commence!
I’d love to hear what you come up with. Feel free to share your writing in the comments!
it’s
dreadful, darling
when the air sucks
into our coffin,
and our
ancient bed becomes
a vacuum
for dust and
abhorrent, unconscionable
sunlight
it’s
disgusting, darling
how the flesh feels
of unwashed
elastic before it
breaks,
but then
ambrosia augments
upon the surface
and the veins
renounce
the sweet heat of
nectar
we’re
damned, darling
but that’s
divine, because
blood
begets plenty
of time —
and hell can’t
touch us when
we’re
steeped in our
nighttime
eternity
© 2016 Stellular Scribe
An eggshell splits between your fingers,
and everything that was concealed
spills out at once.
This is not a smooth, white oval.
This is not a hard and unrevealing object.
Hard and unrevealing, unbelieving,
because before you cracked it
everything was imaginary.
It makes a mess on the frying pan,
but you assure me that
you did it right.
“See all the choices, all at once,” you say,
“Now, scrambled or fried?”
© 2016 Stellular Scribe
I spill the coffee in my lap,
across from me, the TV slaps
a clip of men with
guns strapped to their backs.
The mob screams and claps;
they slur,
but the coffee’s so hot my
vision blurs —
a disgrace.
My mistake.
© 2016 Stellular Scribe
The cemetery is alive,
more alive than
the lofty woods that
glower around it,
than dining halls
that pump
bodies like blood vessels,
in an out — flex and
release
here, in the heat
the cemetery smells sweet,
perhaps a morbid
sort of attraction —
yet still she sits against
the headstone,
married to life
that was once,
once was.
© 2016 Stellular Scribe
It becomes.
Discordant — not
together. Dissonance — out
of pitch. Is there a pitch?
No. Not clear.
Now.
Crescendo. Key. Clear,
I hear.
Crescendo. Forte.
Forte. FORTISSIMO!
Leitmotif detected.
How do they say?
Destruction — a
personified devastation.
Key switch.
Bewitch.
Piano. P i a n i s s i m o.
Lamentoso. Their
is a fluctuating
scale, a line in
green becomes red and
frequent.
Frequency — shrill.
D e c r e s c e n d o.
A cadence alone.
Espressivo! ESPRESSIVO!
And here the octaves meet
the mark.
2 2 3 4, 3 2 3 4, 4 2 3 4
Full stop.
© 2016 Stellular Scribe
Stellular Scribe 