Loki Wyrd

Focused on the foreground,

You vaguely notice the background--

Swooning colors spitting out tension,

While emitting chaos

Upon your precious, tiny plane:

Hung upon the wall and put up for display

As an act of your persuasion.

------------------------------------------------

Ink sweating from my skin,

An estuary, boiling.

Printed on tattered parchment,

Brittle as the wind

Set ablaze with fall colors.

Trenchant watercolor scheme

Painted by the numbers.

I think I actually prefer the second stanza's rhyme to the first. The first stanza's rhyming works great to start with, and used for a short time, but it would have driven me mad if the whole thing had been that way.

When the voices in your head tend to echo
off the walls, you can’t remember—
  There was a time when I used to listen
      to thirty different separations
     slowly dripping in the sink,
as concepts meant to slake.

Carrying a tune by a chorus
lace-tongued with self-satisfaction,
        chirping little birds in a cage—
            what you were thinking,
                even if placed in your ear

Is there any way to make italics inside the code box?

A very clever piece, I enjoyed reading it. May I ask why you chose to use italics for the whole thing? If I may, feel free to answer.

Waking dreams are my favorite kind.

My only constructive advice is that possible you may want to try to reinvent your second line to become something more fresh and uniquely you.

Thanks for sharing.

The sun refracts lustrous green upon her pages

As she sits under the shade of a maple tree.

Glancing up from her book, she coolly casts

Her blue eyes to the bank of the river--

Strewn upon the grass, bodies laid out in the sun turn.

Rising to their feet, the undead shriek

In a guttural tongue and march

Into the murky waters,

Sweeping the corpses away.

The Substrate of Humanity

Words, in all their complexities and subtleties

certain to differentiate, and yet so meticulously

interweave; sought by fibers, silently colonizing.

Needing isolation to grow, I find myself

rooted to the roof. The sunlight

washes over my eyes so that all I see

is the blue sky above--portentous expanse

holding me upright. I am unafraid

to call to you; I only fear your answer.

Charcoal smeared faces stare out from

the canvas. Expressionless.

            Paltry meals taste like their day’s labor,

deepening their hunger.

                       There’s no desire.

                    No bounty.

            Nothing to take away with them.

Yes, please.

I was wondering about that part in the middle. My only problem is I rather like the "swathes of shadow." I was thinking with it stuck in the middle I could pass it as being a bit of a break.

*thanks*

Why wouldn't you want to post these? Keeping them all to yourself wouldn't be very nice. Just think of us poor, repressed souls without a poem to read.

Sitting in the tall grass, I almost

forget where I am--the ponderous

state of reverie has proceeded to

beyond eye-level. The earth beneath me

softer than a lullaby, orchestrated

by skeletal fingers bending with

the wind, caressing my abrasive thoughts.

Open eyes welcome the night, though

taken aback by the memories of

the dead that persist: extrinsic

malady of peripheral vision. Above,

the clouds flow like rivers; the moon

projects their grace, to be captured

in a glass jar held to the sky.

Then drinking deeply of it--full

to near bursting. The night bends

with my motion. And here I am still

sitting in the tall grass, where I am

prompted to wonder. Where am I?

Thanks to whomever made the request for you to post it, or else I would not have the pleasure of reading it. I really like the way this flows.

Time breathes from my window

in increments of sighs:

The long-awaited moment of release;

partial exuberance;

doubt.

Nasty little beasties crawl

out from my mouth, an exodus

into the world; growing in enormity

as they impose themselves. Lumbering

about, they recall their past

and they come

for me.

Newspaper clippings litter the floor

of his apartment, sticking to

the bottom of his wet shoe

as he comes in from the rain.

Tangible memories soak

into the hulking mass

of black rubber--left prostrate

in the kitchen. Sitting down with

the newspaper, he takes care

in cutting out a segment.

Congratulations to all promotees. All I've got to offer is English, hope it's enough.

Congratulations. Try not to abuse your power.

Silly is good. Do you wash your colors and whites together? http://www.themightypen.net/public/style_emoticons/default/ohmy.gif

No meaningful critiques to add. It's always a good idea to write when you have some time to burn, you never know what will inspire you.

Welcome back.

At the time of posting, it didn't really have a title. As a rule of thumb for me, nonsense in the title signifies that there is no title.

Thank you both for the comments. I revised it this afternoon, please let me know if this is better/worse. Any suggestions for how I could make it better are, as always, very much appreciated. I'm still not really sold on it.

whispers and fingerprints

Reticent whispers and fingerprints

Are left upon this wall--

With an eyeball resting in my palm,

I seldom grasp at what I stare--

Hearing the words that aren't spoken

That try to touch what isn't there.

Patient questions asking why

Assume another voice--

If swathes of shadow paint a face abhorrent,

Can the slightest turn of the head be profound?--

Eliciting the words to describe

How to cry without a sound.

Contrition weighing on your chest

Breathes deeply in the smog--

Your smile withers behind a lie,

With the child beyond left for refuse--

Minds expanding in pools of vomit

That your body would sooner lose.

Tell me, is it any good when I partake of the kind?

Reticent whispers and fingerprints

Are left upon this wall--

With an eyeball in my palm

I seldom grasp at what I stare--

Hearing the words that aren't spoken

That try to touch what isn't there.

Patient questions asking why

Soon take another tone--

The dark left alone to kill you

With its gentle urgings on--

Bring about the words explaining

How to cry without a sound.

Contrition weighing on your chest

Breathes deeply in the fumes--

The sun alludes to false contentions

That the moon would soon remove--

Minds expanding in pools of vomit

That your body would sooner lose.

You should apologize....how dare you get sick.

Just a number to me

In a long, complicated problem

That stretches on and on,

From the pages of history

To the television screen.

A dull stare's all I can afford,

With the loose change in my pocket

Already committed to buying a Pepsi.

A cloud of smoke suddenly appears in the middle of the room, and out from it steps a grinning Loki Wyrd with parchment in hand. Dress not being all that important to him, when the other look his way, they can't seem to make out a whole lot of detail save for a black flowing cape. There is an inchoate quality about him that takes some getting used to. He surveys the ball, then having found what he was looking for, begins his approach. First walking casually, he soon drops the pretense and breaks into a sprint. He dives and lands on Slip 'n Slide (people think, "Was that just there?"); his momentum carries him forward for the length of it and then he splashes into a giant punch bowl.

Collecting himself, he climbs out of the punch bowl and shakes like a wet dog. Somehow this seems to completely dry him off. He still holds his parchment in hand, and he scratches his head trying to think of what he was supposed to do with it. First he wrings it out, then places it in his pocket for safekeeping. Digging through his pockets a bit, he proceeds to extract two Big Gulp cups from them. He then fills them up with punch. Loki decides to chug his down, and wipes mouth with the back of his hand. Placing the cup back in his pocket, he puts on his serious, "all business" face.

Crossing the room, Loki walks intently towards...(a certainly present, though I must have drawn her out of time)...purple_shadows. When she realizes what this means, she tries to act as if she doesn't see him, but to no avail--he continues on. With a flourish of his cape, he bows deeply, nearly losing balance. After straightening himself, he hands her the remaining Big Gulp and starts digging in his pocket.

"This is for you, oh Secretest of Valentines," Loki says nervously as he pulls out the parchment and hands it to her. Without a moment's hesitation, he begins to run away.

"He must be painfully shy," purple_shadows thinks to herself as she looks down at the parchment. Scrawled at the top, it reads:

I had written a poem I had intended to present earlier, but I somehow managed to misplace it (too many pockets?). If I ever find it, you'll be the first to know...other than me, I would imagine. May this keep you until that time...

Adorned in stained glass

As fragile as emotion

Illumined creation

Drawn out of time

And set into motion

With a baroque fascination

That defies the mind

To see all your contrasts--

Keeping one guessing

Your next line of rhyme

This message will self-destruct in 10...9...8...7...

(OOC: I don't typically roleplay, I hope I didn't make a mess of it.)

Two 'K's with needless and 'E'-less ire inside

Form a church of no rock

With walls of words to hide behind

Not warding from the wind or trying to resolve

The issues subscribed to by the numbers on the clock

That's been wound much too tightly; thinking of

Raindrops falling on the carpet, mildewed

Just about through now

And vines crawl and creep along

Looking for a drink of sunlight

In a room without a window