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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
December 5, 2002
Everybody knows I'm a sucker for poems about Winter and nifty spiritual journeys and the night sky. And, more especially, poems with lines like "The air hangs in the winter, with time's slow creeping pace, And Ursa's hibernating, in her home transfixed in space." I fear there's not a thing I can say here to justly capture the beauty of this piece- read it and let it speak for itself. Then read it again and again- Utro 's I Inhale December. Picked by `pachunka (Selected by ^faithwalker)
Featured by faithwalker
Literature Text
Winter gives its breath in waves
of clearer mornings and crisper nights
It whistles past my ears and I sit
knees against my chest
wrapped in mother's quilt, patched
with handsewn stitchwork
Worn and frayed
A tattered shield half-filtering
December's evening
chill of air.
The stars, one thousand penlights
scattering cross the sky's
own patchwork quilt
of constellations, connecting
to my eye and followed
by my outstretched finger
tracing the Great Bear
through spiraling smoke
that dances from half-filtered
habit to despair.
My glowing wand
Gives its breath, enslaves
me with its whispered plight
in streaming deltas
upwards built
stacked freedom from my
sheltered sight
and I inhale December
while catering to dreams
of highways scrolling under me
in man-stitched asphalt seams.
The air hangs in the winter
with time's slow creeping pace
And Ursa's hibernating
in her home transfixed in space.
The miles of sky above me
the miles of road between
January's newborn year
and Ursa's waking spring.
of clearer mornings and crisper nights
It whistles past my ears and I sit
knees against my chest
wrapped in mother's quilt, patched
with handsewn stitchwork
Worn and frayed
A tattered shield half-filtering
December's evening
chill of air.
The stars, one thousand penlights
scattering cross the sky's
own patchwork quilt
of constellations, connecting
to my eye and followed
by my outstretched finger
tracing the Great Bear
through spiraling smoke
that dances from half-filtered
habit to despair.
My glowing wand
Gives its breath, enslaves
me with its whispered plight
in streaming deltas
upwards built
stacked freedom from my
sheltered sight
and I inhale December
while catering to dreams
of highways scrolling under me
in man-stitched asphalt seams.
The air hangs in the winter
with time's slow creeping pace
And Ursa's hibernating
in her home transfixed in space.
The miles of sky above me
the miles of road between
January's newborn year
and Ursa's waking spring.
Literature
In My 15th Year
: wed. 3:00 pm :
I'm lying in bed where I've been for over a week only getting out of it to eat a bit and use the bathroom.
Into My room comes my best friend and her teammate from the vollyball team.
They ask me why I haven't been in school, how I am...
I say I'm sick and maybe I'll be back soon.
They leave.
: wed. 3:30 pm :
I decide I really can't hide in my room forever no solitude.
I decide.
: wed. 5:00 pm :
Waiting for my stepfather to leave.
: wed. 7:30 pm :
He leaves and I am alone in the house and I will be until after midnight.
I leave my bedroom, head to the bathroom with the broken up daisy razor (pink).
I'm wearing a
Literature
Jar of Butterfly Wings
I'm only made of stars
so be careful;
the ones the little prince
sang to you about in your sleep;
the ones that laugh to remind you of me.
But I always felt like they were
laughing at me,
mocking the butterflies in my stomach,
in the form of beautifully winged teardrops.
I'd catch them in a jar,
a salty sea,
only long enough for them to turn
back into butterflies.
I'd let them go, and
maybe then, I wouldn't
cry anymore.
Literature
Wrong Turn
Beautifully burnt tinderbox boy -
he returns his top-hat to the coat rack,
never once touching his sore, red scars.
He cries out for socialism to
take his shoe-shine hands to a lump of coal.
He doesn't need pushing, just pulling.
Full of fear, he can sleep, shivering.
More than once, a bloated fist has drawn blood;
drawn him out of restless solitude.
Not the sort of company you'd keep.
You've learnt to shine your own shoes, to avoid
even a chance meeting. Cold, cruel world.
Hardly. Pull another tooth, will you?
The fairy doesn't come down these alleys -
This is where they bring people to die.
Bad-blood. Grudges are cleared
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this is enthralling