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Wake Up, Speak Up By Madhumati Chowdhury QuailBellMagazine.com Every day you wake a little further from ourBed and i watch you each night lying on your side as my r i n g l e t s of smoky thoughts cover the r c a h of your back and vanish t r a c e l e s s… unlike the freckles on your back i stay up all night counting and from between my fingers burns up a world, unsaid. Every day you wake a little further from our Bed my trapezing tongue h-o-l-d-s your musty taste but the inept artiste that it is lets the words s l i p from my mind and silence sheepishly grins, another day another day. Every day you wake a little further away from our Bed. This time i sat reading the lines on your face while you dismissed my quietude and i let the watery lights reflected on the window cast p.o.c.k.m.a.r.k.e.d shadows on my arms and waited and waited for you to walk away- -and takemyspeechwithyou. #Unreal #Poetry #LineBreaks #UnrequitedLove #Relationships 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.
StrayWarm and inviting November shattered into harsh and unforgiving December, and somewhere between restlessness and distress I sat, sucking in bitter air that hung heavy in my lungs like tar, vitiating coal black lips with words that dripped like venom from my teeth. My mouth, now chapped and bleeding still can taste your name like yesterday's defeat. #Unreal #Poetry #Imagery #Winter #Frigid #LostLove #Memories 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.
A Stroll Through the Dead Gardens By Ghia Vitale QuailBellMagazine.com Editor's Note: This poem was awarded an honorable mention in Rocky Point High School's Mark Twain Literary & Art Contest in 2007. The dead gardens sit in silence, Obscured and plagued by shameless weeds, Each flower's brown-gray stem slumps down, From deprivation of its needs. Each vegetable is futile; Upon them, no soul ever feeds. It's hard or the mind to fathom, How this wasteland derived from seeds. But once, the garden was fertile; Rich in color and fine in taste, A luscious radiance of green, Was once regarded and embraced. The birds chirped in euphoria, To greet the garden at sunrise. When the day was bidding goodbye, Chirps became chiding lullabies. Butterflies flocked to the garden; Upon the flowers, they'd resume, Sampling the sweet nectars of spring, Abundant love in perfect bloom. Then, the brilliance began to fade. An unknown provider was cursed. The once-moist soil became parched. Every ounce of life writhed in thirst. No one can quite surmise the death. Some blame it on rainless soil. Some say it was the August sun, Whose deadly dance made it spoil. Some scorn likely infestations, For destroying something royal. However, I think that the roots, Were poisoned with thick turmoil. The dead gardens recluse in fear, As remnants of former glory. In unison, each member mourns, The harsh ending of the story. #Unreal #ThrowbackThursday #Poetry #Gothic #TeenageAngst #RockyPointHighSchool #MarkTwainWasHere 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 Curator of Bluebird Editor's Note: This piece was originally published in The Sonder Review. Lucas had appointed himself curator of Bluebird’s only museum long before he was found in the woods, searching for bits of it to swallow.
‘Lucas?’ Roan Boylin hesitated, face knotted, looking as if a person, any person, was the last thing he expected to find in the woods on his way to school. ‘Oh. Roan, hey,’ Lucas said, hiding his sifter behind his leg. Of all the people who might have found him, Roan was as good as Lucas could have hoped for. They sat in the same row periods five through nine and, much like himself, Roan passed the day in a precautionary hush; laughing when others did and speaking only when spoken to. Whatever made him seem less friendless than he actually was. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
When I First Saw Her When I first saw her, it wasn't anything like in the movies. Time didn't slow down to a crawl, the music didn't go silent, and there wasn't a change in lighting. My heart didn't freeze, nor did it pick up in rhythm. I could breathe easily looking at her, my throat clear and open. I know that tales of meeting your wife are supposed to be more exciting. But I didn't feel that shock when I met mine. It was a simple meeting, free of spectacle. However, my eyebrows did raise in surprise, so I took that as a good sign. #Unreal #LovePoetry #NostalgicPoetry #MarriagePoetry #SpousalPoetry #MyWife #MySpouse #MySoulmate #TrueLove 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.
Luster of the Beauty By Ghia Vitale QuailBellMagazine.com Dedicated to the manufacturers of the Evilstick I can send out the luster of the beauty-- Before I was exhiled from the island of misfit toys, I smoked crack and frequented street corners in bad neighborhoods, Until I hopped on a square-wheeled freight train to the real world, Where all I'm worth is the sum of my parts. I can gather dust, And crash in the toy section of a dollar store in Ohio, Until someone I seduce someone into purchasing me, With my face-distorting good looks, My pink shaft, Five-leaf clover head, Flying colors (but mostly pink), And all that sweet talk on my packaging - "I can send out wonderful music," I tell them, And by "music," I mean my laughter and the screams of children. See? Even Cardcaptor Sakura likes it, When I infringe copyrights with the graceful ease of a lumbering Walrus, On the icy shores of legality. When you push my buttons, I can flash you with a part of me where the sun never shines, A side of me that you don't like, The side that shows my real face: My red-eyed, wrist-slitting face. I am what I am: An evils' tick, And no amount of pills can send out the luster of my beauty. I feel like I don't fit in with the Ohio toy isle scene; My neighbors are barbies and babies. Latter makes me feel old and the former makes me wish I could change careers, Like human women change tampons. Toys don't like me and those Halloweenies don't appreciate my Ninja-like approach, To getting bought. Maybe I should hop on the next square-wheeled train to another dollar store. #Unreal #BabeInToyland #MisfitToys #CopyRights #BadAnime #Oddities #LusterOfTheBeauty #WonderfulMusic 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.
Dust Tamara Adoni looked at her watch.
“Don't worry. It's not far,” said the General. “Besides, he'll wait. You're his only passenger.” Tamara squinted. “How can you even tell where we're going?” “I remember what it looked like before drought. Before famine. Before war. Before we began our liberation.” Tamara looked away from him. “You still can't stand it when we call it that, can you? ‘Liberation.’” “By now you know that I am not a political person, General.” “’General.’ Never ‘Mike,’” he chuckled. “Don't you think we've gotten a little past General, Tamara. I'd like to think that our...our intimacies...and our friendship have made you more comfortable with me.” “General...Mike...to me, you've shown nothing but kindness. You and the Lieutenant have escorted me safely through hell. I do know the value of that.” “Ah, then I am to be esteemed only as your Charon on the River Styx. Well, I suppose that's still something.” They approached the airfield. A prop plane awaited, a bored pilot in civilian clothing dangling a leg from the open door of the cockpit. The Lieutenant lifted Tamara's heavy backpack for her as the General picked up two smaller black leather cases. He anticipated her warning. “Don't worry. I know. Fragile. They are everything to you.” Tamara warily took the camera bags from him. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll take these on my lap.” “Precious cargo, those memory cards. Sorry our uplink was so slow. You can upload the rest, perhaps, at Orly. Show them to the world. Let the people see our resolve. We are not ashamed of our commitment, even if it is, at times, unsightly.” He sighed and put his hand to her cheek. “I guess this is goodbye. It's amazing, your face. Soft and clean as the face of a baby,” he said. “It's as if you were immune to the heat, the filth. The dust is afraid to touch you. But I'm not.” The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Nearest Bridge to the Oven The nearest bridge to the oven led over a centuries old river, possibly older who is keeping track? The wooden slats rattle, crossed on a bicycle no musicality if you arrive in the night. Prams roll, obeying laws of motion. Your mother cooks her favorite roasts slowly. The door, keep your fingers out, needs a good cleaning. A drawer in the side is for removing bones. Dignitaries silently arrive for a feeding, docile contortionists embracing the idiosyncratic. #Unreal #Poetry #Imagery #Habit #Photography #CorrodedColors 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 Feather Palace By Rebecca Harrison QuailBellMagazine.com High on the winds, a princess lived in a palace of feathers. She watched the world from her window in the skies. While the seas below were dark with rains, she skimmed bright cloud tops. She floated through blue dusks alongside bats and birds. In fast winds, the night cities were flurries of street lamps and chimney smoke. She walked the palace rooms with sunlight shimmering through the feather walls. While towns filled with music and crowds, she heard the world dimly through the winds.
One day, the palace sank low in snowy skies and caught on a lighthouse. The princess peered out her window and saw a frozen sea. Waves of ice clutched tall ships. Snow drifted among white sails. When night fell, she watched the ships in the lantern’s sweep. Songs of sea beasts and treasure wafted over the ice. She wished to walk close and listen to the tales she did not know, but she huddled at her window and plucked icicles from feather edges. A hard wind pulled the palace away into dawn skies. She saw the ships shrink as she soared high. The palace floated in blue heights while cloud wisps clung to the towers. She tidied the corners and shadows and shook dust into sunset skies, while her thoughts lingered on the lighthouse in the snow. After storms, she gathered long feathers from the floors and patched holes in the walls. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Menagerie in My Mind #Unreal #MixedMedia #Collage #Canvas #SelfPortrait #FolkArt #OutsiderArt #StrangeArt #WeirdArt Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. |