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Three Autumn Memories #Unreal #Photography #Collage #FemaleForm #FemaleFigure #Autumn #Fall #SeasonalChange #WomenInLeaves 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 Spring Leaf Tea House In the tea house, tea cups are suspended in the air like frozen raindrops. As you walk in, you will be overwhelmed by the aroma of jasmine that wafts in the air. You will try to wave it away, or cover your face, but eventually you will stop. You will let your arms hang limp at your sides. The smell will enter you and you will forget why you are here and how you got there. Tables with lavender cloths clutter around the room, and when you walk past, you will notice shadowy figures sitting at each table. An old woman with yellowed eyes sits at a table, vacantly staring into her empty teacup. You will say hello but a gentle tug at your elbow takes you to a table with a lily poking out from its vase.
When you are at your seat, you will forget that you only wanted to peek in through the front window. You will forget the woman with dark hair at the door who spoke to you in soft whispers, imploring you to come in. A waitress will pluck a delicate pink tea cup from above your head and place it in front of you. The jasmine will burn your eyes and tears will form. The waitress with emerald eyes will brush a tear trailing down your cheek, then place a menu into your hands. You will order the amaretto tea and bread pudding, and after the menu is taken away, you will hear the voices. An invisible man’s voice will whisper “good morning”. Your body will relax, like a loose string. You will breathe in deeper, a small sigh escaping your lips. You will see visions of white sand, the back of a man as he walks into the waves; somewhere in the distance, a sailboat bobs in the sunset. In your dream, you will walk towards the man and place your lips between his shoulder blades; he will smell of cut summer grass and pine wood, and there will be a scar on his left shoulder: a perfect circle. You are in his arms but also hungrily eating the bread pudding. You will not notice the burns on your tongue as the hot tea slides down your throat. You will only feel the ocean breeze lick your body as you sit up in the sand. You will not know that you are dreaming of your honeymoon. You will only vaguely recognize your husband. You will not remember he is dead. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Remember When Remember when-- It was good at the beginning It was random as heck It was quirky But then-- I watched-- You killed it I took one for the team It was scary It’s silent now. Outcast-- You know what I’m talking about, What happened? I want to capture the moment You kept laughing, Over and over and over again. I haven’t had one of those moments in a long time. Can I have one again? #Unreal #Poetry #NaomiYung #Photography #Infatuation #Playful #InTheMoment 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.
Washington Quail Bell(e)Editor's Note: This poem was originally written in response to the image on the cover of The Washington Post's Fall 2014 Arts Preview print supplement. This image is not available online. In a Congo of rain, she walks, firm and pink-faced Through a district which wants to claim her As a work of art, a source for the cool, The next designation the capital wants to adorn itself. She resists by not refusing to pose or declining To color in the blue and gray spaces Of this city locked in a civil war of peace, Where struggle is strangled before every election. If another takes her picture, she gives it no mind, Her yellow tights and orange skirt remain. No camera can take their color away, Nor the pattern of snowflakes on her denim jacket. Her main controversy? The puddles in the potholes, They will wash away the petals on her shoes, Observers with their observations will come and go, And if one writes a poem about her, she will never know. #Unreal #Poetry #BenjaminNardolilli #NeelyJohnson #Individual #Photography #History #WashingtonDC #WaPo 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.
Making Your Mark Words + Image: Garrett Riggs QuailBellMagazine.com When you painted yourself, the floor, the cat, wall—everything—blue, I laughed. When I tried to scrub the walls knowing we wouldn’t get the deposit back, I cursed. But, your handprints were your signature and my heart didn’t want to erase that. In the end, the paint left a stain like smashed blueberries. Your handprints bled through layers of the landlord’s paint, ghosts of the happy years before work and worry take their place in your life. Drive those dark spirits out with color and mess and love. Paint the whole goddamn world. #Unreal #Poetry #GarrettRiggs #Painting #Creation #Childhood #WorkingClass #Family #Handprints 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.
Old Letters I am reading old letters to a friend. From time to time I do this, try to sneak behind the curtains of prose catch a glimpse of my fingers in action, weed the root of all honesty. Words, under the stilted occupation of punctuation, subject to the laws of gravity’s grammar, maturing on the page, but unlike wine, lose all flavor, turn spontaneous thoughts into catch-phrase. In that moment as my eyes assimilate the comma and the onset, in the nucleus of a sound where creative material simmers, the hole has been pillaged, the trove emptied of content, unleashing shameless phrases to chase the line down into silence and heartfelt goodbyes. Goodbyes come too late. The pen moves under the invisible hand. The traces of footprints in the sand are left from boots I never wore. #Unreal #Poetry #AllanGould #Letters #Calligraphy #WordFlow #ShamelessPhrases #Goodbye 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.
Desert Woman I.
Between sapping limbs of plum and bark a child breaks the skin of her hands. Stopping the blood with sap, she licks off her fingers what she thinks will taste like honey. It tastes like sick and bedtime and she roars to me on the other side of the window sounds like war. Here is what her nature did: II. “It's easier for them to shoot you if you're up in a tree,” the father says, “Never climb higher, keep low-- hide behind cars or big boulders, telephone booths.” And the daughter. The daughter taciturn by the advice, the thought that someone would try to kill her is a thought-- I did not create-- I didn't create it—is a thought, I did not create, it is a thought, I did not thought to create, I did not create is a thought I did not create. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Critical Mass of a Mortal Have you ever felt you’re just a symbol to the people that you love? The saintly or the sinful—daughter, lover, friend—enough! The clash of titans was to gods mere sibling rivalry. To my dearly disconnected loves I may be Fun, Cold, Business Opportunity, Female. Can we ever know another person? Does it matter if we can't or can? I find I can persist as lover to impersonal Man... It seems my matrix of emotions is off all maps but mine. Perhaps this furthers plans of the Uncanny and Divine? For others I'm Extension, variations on a theme: I've no option but to play myself in this jigsaw-puzzle dream. #Unreal #Poetry #JeanneJoePerrone #Painting #ElizabethGilliamHedgepath #Labels#Masks #Matrix #Persona 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.
Love At First Grade I was only on my first of twelve grades, so the time for slacking had yet to arrive. Some kids, however, found their shoelaces, the window or the floor more interesting than our addition problems. I couldn’t help but feel these kids had underestimated the importance of the ability to add single digit numbers. Granted, it seemed to be a somewhat abstract concept, one only adults needed to know. But our teachers reminded us we’d be adults soon enough.
1+3=4. 2+2=4. 3+6=_?____. Geez, our lessons were moving a little too quickly. It’s hard enough learning all the numbers that can add up to four. Dismay spread throughout our class when the teacher announced we’d be moving on to a new concept the next week--subtraction. I personally didn’t understand how we could be expected to learn a concept whose name we wouldn’t be required to spell for at least another two grades. Anyway, I shrugged off the news and returned to my problems. I was working on my last few problems when Brandon dropped a folded sheet of paper on my desk. “What’s this?” I whispered. “It’s a note from Jessie,” Brandon said. I looked across the room and blonde-hair blue-eyed Jessie was staring at me intently. An unfamiliar sensation ran along my spine; butterflies fluttered in my stomach. Brandon nodded suggestively, so I went ahead and unfolded the note. It read: Kyle, I love you. -Jessie The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Way Back How do we live our lives? The Way Back Lights the secrets. Why we care-- Dark side Danger exists: Social Distortion Like percussionist kamikazes Lost in translation. Attention must be paid. #Poetry #Photography #NaomiYung #TylerRosado #Diction #Past #Secrets #Distortion #Imagery Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. |