Tag: poetry

nymph

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leaden words on your lips, white etching on the wood —
revile the wicked, beware your toes, they snap in the shadows —
nonsense, your voice drips. dips. regard the good.
don’t you see the cream spotting the path? the moss
is dappled in sun, veiled in virtue.
my feet sink into the dirt. but the etching on the wood —
revile the wicked, beware your toes, they snap in the shadows —
I curl my fingers against the bark. a nymph.
I find myself catching a glimpse
of green eyes in green leaves. let her be, your voice lifts.
she will not hurt you. here, a kiss will set your ease.
what is wicked is not to be believed.

© 2016 Stellular Scribe

I’m Not Related

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I’m not related to that dinosaur,
though I saw him sitting on my porch,
like he was my blood-born uncle.
That leather-skinned bigot
stole my place settings.
See, I was going to make a nice table,
and I had a roast in the oven.
I would have invited him too —
out of courtesy, of course —
but he left scratch marks in the wood
and now there aren’t any plates left.
No respect, nowadays, he grunts,
like he’s been around the globe.
Around the globe? Around the years, maybe,
I think, but he hasn’t got a wit to show for it.
Now I’ll tell you again, I don’t know
what he did with my place settings,
and he isn’t allowed on my property anymore —
For God’s sake, I’m not related to that dinosaur.

© 2016 Stellular Scribe

desironious

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an un-word, reaped
before the oasis, sees
that palm tree shimmering
at your fingertips, you
want, but it’s not want —
you desire, but it’s too dire
for pleasantries, this is lust
but without the lovelies
it is desironious,
an un-word, reaped
at your bedside, some
nonsense that makes your
stomach cry, you hunger
but it is not to please —
you long so long that you
might cave in on your own
presumptions, because
you are desironious,
simply unceremonious,
not in the bit erroneous.

harmonious?
desironious.

© 2016 Stellular Scribe

Writing Kindling #5

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Writer’s block may seem like a terminal illness, but sometimes the smallest of sparks can “kindle” your craft. Today we have Francois Schuiten’s depiction of “Pélléas et Mélisande.”

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Ask yourself: Who is she? Where is she going? What is she feeling? Write about who she is, what situation she is in, and what she 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!

Writing Kindling #4

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Writer’s block may seem like a terminal illness, but sometimes the smallest of sparks can “kindle” your craft. Today, we have a painting by Randis Albion called “Deep Diver.”13a0d68eb7d6ae145efad58e76e5d6a0

Ask yourself: Who is he? Where is he? What is he doing? What is she feeling? Write about who he is, what situation he is in, and what he 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!

Nebulous

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In being consumed by eternity I feel
light —
ah, but the dark matter grows so heavy,
you say,
the cosmos inconvenient, you complain
as if one cause can be
charted.
In the stars? In my heart
there is only this eternity; infinity
marks my inner being, but
that is insipid to claim,
you say.
I ask you — what is insipidity? When
I am filled with eternity?
How nebulous.

© 2016 Stellular Scribe

In A Black Birch Tree

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A soldier sits in a black birch tree,
but she can’t touch the ground, you see,
‘fore around her ears buzz honeybees —
and so she sits in slick unease.

But this soldier sits with her heart in her lap,
’cause beneath her feet’s a steel mousetrap —
and what cruel oversight, what unkind mishap
would it be that her heart slips from her kneecap.

A soldier clings tight to the trunk;
the forest floor’s layered in chunks
of cold, dead hearts that soldiers’ sunk
from their hopeless, tree-bound bunks.

A soldier sits in a black birch tree,
and she can’t touch the ground, you see,
‘fore with her friends it’s been bloodied;
the bees rumble: you can’t be freed.

© 2016 Stellular Scribe

 

Writing Kindling #2

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Three times a week I will post a picture, video, song, or sentence to “kindle” your creative writing! Today, we have the photo “High Tide” by Kiara Rose.
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Ask yourself: Who is she? What is she? How did she get there? What is she feeling? Write about who she is, what situation she is in, and what she 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!

Writing Kindling #1

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Three times a week I will post a picture, video, song, or sentence to “kindle” your creative writing! To kick off, we have an illustration by the late American painter, Coby Whitmore.

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Coby Whitmore

Ask yourself: What is she looking at? Why is she hiding behind the curtain? What’s going on in her head? What sort of expression is she wearing? Write about who she is, what situation she is in, and what she 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!

look at me.

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look at me.
oh god, why won’t you look at me?
i dreamt last night
that my words had wings that
carried you
was it to me?
it must have been further away.
still, i stay
and pray that you will
look at me.
oh god, why won’t you look at me?
if words have wings then
mine are three pigeons
flying in a a grey flock of
three thousand.
you can’t hear them squawk —
i lost them and now you won’t
look at me.
how can you hear something
that you can’t see?
oh god.
why
won’t
you
look
at
me?

© 2016 Stellular Scribe