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My Father's Eyes Words by Adreyo Sen Image by Christine Stoddard QuailBellMagazine.com Only in your eyes can I touch the sky, that you fear for me lets me rend its thick curtains with my fiercest cry. A thing of beauty blazing pride I return to your side. I did not have wings when I began my glide. Now I do. I am no longer shy. Let me be burnished by your smile. But I am not always in your eyes. And thus, without you I cannot hope to fly. For there are those who will not see those wings that never were a thing of reality but for the moistening in your eyes. Their scorn cages me and so, mute, I know, I am soiled, I am low. And so, knowing, I'll not always have your eyes I think it better not to touch the sky for to return denied the warmth of your smile would mean to resign all only you could find in the very little that was me. I will not be because you, can no longer see. #Unreal #Poetry #Imagery #Father #Love #Growth Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Fable Words by Sara Biggs Chaney QuailBellMagazine.com Once, an orange palmed girl met a boy with irregular heartbeats. He was famous for his fainting spells, her voice box rumored to be fitful. When summer rains came and stouter children stayed inside, they sat together on the fire escape and waited for lightning to visit. In the crackle and glare, they smiled with their mouths full of water. She had a theory about him: His eyes could make the grass grow. He maintained: The trouble in her throat was a bird of paradise still learning to sing. They walked through torrents of rain, stopping only to save abandoned books from mud puddles. After the storm, a porcelain beetle crawled over the boy’s palm, searching. The boy turned his hand against the sunlight, while the beetle made its way, slowly, higher. #Unreal #Poetry #Imagery #Love #Fable #Kindred Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Lucy's I went to Lucy’s to find peace. A place I could go where I knew I wouldn’t know anyone. I didn’t want to make friends there. I wanted to ensure there was a place I could always feel alone. Careful to only speak when spoken to. “Gracias” “Que” That is all I know, so that was all I would say. I would have to make up words sometimes if the conversation went further. “El shirt-o” “Un machine-a” But mostly silent. I watched. Judged. Created my own histories for the people around me, but never wanted to learn the realities. Not that I didn’t care, but I didn’t want to hear anything other than the peaceful drone of the spiraling dryers. But even as unapproachable as I tried to be, Hollywood has a way of inserting people into your path. There was Doc Wiz. A general in the Cavalry of Jesus. A musician. He told me how he used to pal around with Jimi, and could outplay him any day. I let him watch my dog for me while I filled the top loader. I wasn’t totally comfortable with it, but Doc was thrilled and very gentle. He seemed like the kind of man that most people wouldn’t trust washing their windshield, much less watching their pet. There was the long blonde haired man in fatigues. A rock singer. Short. Could barely see over the folding tables. A Vietnam veteran and conspiracy theorist. A masseuse who wanted to give me deep tissue massage and correct my posture. I declined, but have to admit I was curious. A woman wearing at least 6 coats in August. She offered me hors d'oeuvres, stolen from a wedding down the street. Again, declined, but they didn’t look as suspect as the woman offering them...and I was hungry. And then there was you. I watched you for a while. I tried to make up your story, but the imaginary reality didn’t satisfy my curiosity. You were the only person I ever wanted to learn about. You were the only person I ever approached. We spoke until your clothes finished drying. I hoped I would see you again, but knew that I wouldn’t. And then I did. #Unreal #Prose #Photography #Memory #Laundromat #CharacterStudy Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Morse Code finger tapping on a glass to ask questions we ne'er dare with our own tongue. a regression in communication, perhaps, this morse code, it traps. perhaps, then, it is my own gut I must trust. For at the end of this day, I will break any glass for your friendly embrace. #Unreal #Poetry #VirtualReality #Communication #FaceToFace Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Wedding with Snow White and Skulls Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Sad Season She's tired of hurt feelings, harsh words and midnight reelings, sensitivities, and dark proclivities. She's through with special pleading. All that anguish is misleading and she's out of breath, bored, and sick to death. Take me as I am, she says, or lose me in the loom of love as someone new who means nothing to you. We can say we're through and chalk it up to this dry wind, these branches stripped, these wistful skies, these coarse spent leaves... and two cold hearts in a sad season. She knows that she seems callous in his heart's damp crumbling palace, a ferocity in her bleak honesty. She tells him that she feels ashamed. Flirtation is a treacherous game. She lost and won. What's done can't be undone. Take me as I am, she says, or lose me in the loom of love as someone new who means nothing to you. We can say we're through and chalk it up to this dry wind, these branches stripped, these wistful skies, these coarse spent leaves... and two cold hearts in a sad season. Indian summer reveals a fall with a lurch, and then the sun's nothing at all. Without her touch can he survive the gray winter painting windows shut with ice? She'd tried to make amends, swore she'd never stray again. He knew she meant it all, but it still sounded small. Apologies are hollow, forgiving's hard to swallow when he knows she needs someone he'll never be. Take me as I am, she says, or lose me in the loom of love as someone new who means nothing to you. We can say we're through and chalk it up to this dry wind, these branches stripped, these wistful skies, these coarse spent leaves... and two cold hearts in a sad season.
#Unreal #Poetry #Song #Music #Lyrics #LeaMorris #AlexanderCKafka #Stardust Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Poetry is Feeling Words by Lana Bella QuailBellMagazine.com Portrait of the artist I hear some say writing is the final act of divesting the mind of its temporal madness. For me at least, it's been a beguilingly mad, emotionally draining, if not altogether, unraveling journey of the self from which there has never been a clear beginning, neither will there ever be a definitive end, only the tangible core middles where enduring spells of unpleasant vagueness and mountains upon mountains of poignantly pointless musings roam. In short, I write to dispense into the world all that I am, well, all that I allow myself to be seen with and thought of and summarized through the whimsical lenses of the world at large. It remains hauntingly a balancing, tugging and repelling tour de force. As the words of Ernest Hemingway ring ever so true: There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed. Linguistics Hunger Hunger gnaws, he opens his eyes to feast on the silver belly of her tongue. Rising grooves and dipping folds, she spins syllables of black-lace silk and organza tulle, smeared thick in linguistic marmalade: slanted Ls curve over spiraled Os then plunge in the vessel brimming of apostrophes. With a makeshift oar he rows, upon her moist pink buds speckled of umlauts' lilt. When the moon turns gold and he begs for a kiss: she wings her laughs by the air lays cold "Thirst is despair, Darling!" her whisper severs through his parched suspense. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Nursing the Unknown Words by Emma Louise Backe Image by Neely Johnson QuailBellMagazine.com The Tattooed Woman is seated for eternity in a loosely fetal posture, her head tilted to the right. Locks of her long black hair curl about her cheek and past her mouth, below which is a small, tattooed oval with a dot inside - a mystery. We know she is from Chile, where before 1550 A.D. her burial posture was typical. In the desert air, her body naturally dried and mummified. The fabric that once tightly wrapped her has left impressions on her chin and cheeks. –ChristopherYasiejko, “Fellow Travelers” i let my hair hang loose and catch the words of those around me. they finger the buttons of bone along their chests and purse their lips. they can breathe as hard as they want-- their solemnity does not invite the spirits. it’s the branches they rustle in their wake, haphazardly clinging about the fire to see whether the stars will dance the same next nightfall. i have known the dance of needles upon my breast, just as my pelvis scarred upward when my child came from me full of teeth yet unmoving. they cut off his hands so he could not have a grip upon this world that makes for touching us. came to me with ink to dig deep-- those curses of pain only in the language of unseen torment, loud and without voice. they left small circles above my nipples, hard and black pinpricks at the center. they did not explain why. perhaps it was not for them to articulate deep impulse—an elephant dead with only its face gutted by predators. with these new tattoos i take the spirits to my chest and let them suckle, gasping a little. even in death my head will incline, inviting my ancestors to taste my flesh when the sun has flattened it beneath me withered, leathery dugs men will trace with scalpels, licking their lips despite themselves. #Unreal #Poetry #Photography #Ekphrastic #Imagery #Death #Anthropology Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Your Favorite Barista She smiles at a distant promise and you smile even though you know she's not smiling at you. Every morning, this, from afar, her smile, is the only certainty you care to know. #Unreal #Poetry #Unrequited #DailyLife #Photography #BlackAndWhite Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Fisherman's Daughter Words by Rebecca Harrison Image by Magali Reyes QuailBellMagazine.com *Editor's Note: Originally published in The Teacup Trail. On the edge of a sparkling sea, a fisherman and his daughter, Liliwen, lived in a small cottage. Liliwen walked on waves. She wandered upon the sea surface, roaming the water tops through sun and rain. She played far from shore and sight, running with seals swimming beneath her feet. In the cottage, she tip toed on saucers of sea water placed on the stone floor, fearing how she would sink into the earth if she stepped on the ground. Each morning, as the fisherman sailed from the blue cove, Liliwen carried a bucket of puddles to walk upon as she wound her way between wind and rock to the sea.
Far from woods and towns, Liliwen swept through days bright with sea tops and sky. Her hair tangled with salt. She sat still upon high waves, as the tides drifted her over glinting deeps. There, she walked in the shadows of whales and ships. She stood among flocks of seabirds and fed them crusts from her father’s table. She lingered in sunsets as the waves shone gold. At night, she waited until her father’s snores grazed the silence and then crept to the waves. There, she named seals and wandered with them while the moon lit the white cliffs. As darkness glimmered on the water, she glimpsed fossils in rock corners and guessed at the creatures which had once roamed the seas. In the cottage, Liliwen looked out the window and saw other children on the shore. But she became stranded in a rock pool when she tried to join their games. All day, she watched them play while crabs scuttered beneath her feet. When the tide gathered the beach, she stepped onto the waves. Sometimes, as she walked upon the shining depths, she saw distant sails sinking. She ran along high waves and hard winds to drowning ships, and sailors clung to her ankles as she walked them to the shore. In alehouses, on chill nights, folk sometimes spoke of a child who floated on mist and saved men from the deeps. So Liliwen grew up among sea winds and whale song. When the water gleamed still, she tip toed around slow ships and listened for voices beneath the sails. In the storms, she huddled upon steep waves as the sky tangled dark. She ran with seal herds to distant shores and waited on the water while they basked on pale sands. She hid behind flocks of seabirds when fishing boats passed. Sometimes, she fell asleep curled between small waves and woke in oceans far. |