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Folktale A tree silently shuffled down the mountain Bushy branches sparkling with snow Laden from a heavy winter In search She shuffled by night Being seen only by creatures who lurk Animals that skitter quickly And leave only a cracking branch to arouse suspicion from people on porches listening to nature sounds with wary ears Wanting wildness somewhere within But not this close to the porch When she moved, it was slow The hushed tinkling of icy snow landing on limbs and leaves sounds just the same As when her skirts softly brushed her trunk And rocks as she passed them by She slowly shuffled Until she reached the bottom Her shuffling sounds didn't blend in so much In this place there was always a windy wet slapping sound Umbrellas squishing The tree was in love with a man A man who made her feel like you may feel when it storms while the sun is shining in summer So, no longer laden with snow She plucked out a few needles And began to write Scratching poems in the dirt #Unreal #Poetry #Nature #Folktale #Solitude #Trees #Imagery 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.
Ed Winterby Some men in the throes of a midlife crisis buy a sports car or take up with a younger woman. On the eve of Ed Winterby’s 50th birthday, he bought a gun.
Ed had always trudged dutifully through life. The years wore on, his hair thinned. He bought glasses. He stopped eating meat. Now, inevitably, he was approaching the mile marker that signaled it was more than halfway over. If anyone asked whether he was happy with how things turned out, the question would have caught him by surprise. Unhappiness has a way of creeping up so the change is imperceptible. Two weeks before his birthday, Ed returned from Australia on his first-ever business trip. His wife Ruby, a corporate lawyer, knew her way around New York, Chicago, Atlanta, and St. Louis. Her firm once sent her to Dubai. She unfailingly returned with souvenirs for their 12-year-old daughter, Maryanne, who joyously greeted her mother at the door after each trip with shouts of “Mom’s home!” Ed rarely left the San Francisco suburbs, so he never had the chance to be missed. He often spent whole days without leaving the house, working behind the closed glass doors of his home office like a turtle in an aquarium. That was until Ruby got sick of supporting his writing habit and forced him to take the “real” job at a publishing house. The flight from Melbourne arrived late on a Thursday afternoon. Ed’s suitcase was the last to come out at baggage claim, and he got in a cab just in time to land squarely in rush-hour traffic. The cab crept along the choked freeway for a few miles before giving up, rolling back on its tires as it crawled to a complete halt. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
I wanted to take a romantic picnic to some forgotten woods In fall, a favorable but not favorite season I daydreamed and envisioned it Lay down a flannel blanket, pour the hot tea and whiskey Eat something sweet I've made that tastes just right I would take pictures with the camera on my phone Effortlessly they would turn out to be lovely Just sunlight, tree shadows No filter needed here Everyone will marvel at how rustic and stylish we are when they see it We will lie back, find shapes in the clouds And we might loose inhibitions right there in the woods, like people did once upon a time We will be enraptured with lively conversation afterwards But I always forget the awful messy reality of a picnic Where will we find a forgotten forest? In this suburban sprawl there is a rancid skunk smell all the time So I know there are forests - else where would this plague of skunks (of biblical proportions) come from and go back to at night? Unless they are lost resigning themselves to a few shitty trees beside the highway Also, won't things get sticky? Where will we wash the cups and dishes? And if we put them filthy back in the picnic basket won't they clatter and break and gunk up everything? Paper plates and cups would be practical But where to throw the trash Lug around a trash bag too? This is beginning to smell And what an ugly picture that would make to take Nobody will marvel at that and talk about how hip and chic we are Who on earth takes romantic picnics in the woods? Who carries the damn heavy basket? Laden with so much stuff Things Food And unattainable expectations When has that ever worked for anyone? #Unreal #Poetry #Nature #Picnic #Practical #Whimsy #Trash #Lust 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.
Memory 37 Who knew necklines were so precious, that one's soul dangles from them like half hung lace? Who knew that those happiness lines under your eyes will suffocate me, that your odor will inhabit my body, kicking mine away into oblivion? Who knew that under the same light, memories can get swallowed and shadows grow wide, that forgetfulness embraces you like a big-size jacket with pockets, ripped for you to slide off... Who knew hunger visits the restless to feel the joy of satiety, of distraction, of escape? But not to those who crave it, for they have been satiated, far too many times. And why would the bird be happy if it sang and the road be hard if it is dirty? And why would the earth take us all in? Is it because the souls willingly walk away barefoot, wishing not to tamper with the richness of the soil, not to disgrace the land of the holes? And how could the melody not be repeated when it's sung from extremes, be it extreme joy, happiness, dullness or fatigue? Why would it not crawl on a baby's fingertip as he sucks on it as a child and as a man? And why wouldn't that melody end itself, when it falls in love with its own rhyme, when its own dance bedazzles it, into dizziness, until it falls down in its author's sigh... And why wouldn't I allow myself to be sad, morbid, even morose, but aye-not depressed? Why wouldn't my face disown its color and turn brown like petty soil, not good enough to keep, but might still have some growth in it, for a weed? #Unreal #Poetry #Body #Imagery #Emotions #Memory 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.
Dearest Nature By Alexandra Cope QuailBellMagazine.com Dearest Nature, As I have nowhere to turn, Not a single nested dark corner to hide, As each false reaction surfaces... I begin to abide by your laws. So tried and true, each pattern leaves Me turning to you. Your laws are ever changing, yet stable. So habitual are your patterns All it takes is blind faith to fall Into your arms, Here I am, branches spread wide open. Please, do what you will, reign unto me, Your wisdom & foundation of faith. So that I may blossom into the fruit Only to fall into habitual changes, blind in the abyss That barges in that very moment of fear. I realize I am rotting, wilting, dying, shrinking into nothingness. Oh shit. Now I am a seed, a sprout traversing the dark trenches with the worms. No idea who is me. Maybe one day, I'll be as solid as a tree. #Unreal #Poetry #Nature #Love #Ode #Trees #Seeds 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.
Our Normal When I tell people my friend eats ranch dressing from a bowl by itself, I get these weird looks. I mean, isn’t it a normal thing? Well, for me it is. The way you eat ranch dressing is supposedly disgusting, but now it’s as normal as you pouring a glass of milk. Rather, a gallon. Remind me to talk about your milk addiction. You drink all of it. I need some to dip my Oreos in, you know, like I always do. By now you should know to keep them in your pantry it is required. I could stop by at any moment since I am always at your house . If I close my eyes, I know where everything is. It’s kind of scary. There’s wind chimes hanging on the porch, right in front of your wine red front door. Stairs lined with carpet. I’ve walked up them countless times. Turn to the right side. That’s the piano I took lessons on from your mom for four-ish years. If you take a left, Jesus waits in the living room, on top of the grandfather clock, because one day you found Christ, though not the way you’d think. His picture was just laying on top of it and your brother Jack reached up there one day for no apparent reason. And there was Jesus in a picture frame. Didn’t know where to put it so ya’ll left it there. I think I smell food. Specifically, dumplings. I really hope so. Mom barely makes them. I have the right to call her mom after ten years. Go to the kitchen. My senior picture is on the fridge next to yours. Is that a picture of us in chemistry class? It was junior year, the same time we got our driver’s licenses and drove all over town. Your blue Dodge Neon still makes that demon screech noise opening the door and it’s not okay. How am I not used to it? It’s been three whole years. But on the bright side, we’re somehow not tired of each other quite yet. You were the first there when I got broken up with the very first time And all the other moments I’ve been a huge wreck. I guess you’re staying. The years and seasons change a little too quickly but our friendship is constant. #Unreal #Poetry #Photography #Kindred #Friendship #Childhood #Youth #Memories Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. |