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InfluenceFrom the hollow between havings
there is a heaving; tack of sound
against tick of time and I am sailing
towards stranger you. In a mutual possession,
inside of me it is your ghost growing.

To the answer
there is no access, but
the question is a flourishing
that we'll call freedom.

Into bloom
there was the first break of empty space.

Towards believing
there was the first breath of being
here and now: "Love, and see God"

between our hearts and the stars
there is a missing link
that knows our marring
makes. I am sailing towards you

in a mutual possession, in the sky
there is a last love looming,
escaping
into me and out of m
amaryllis.Naked ladies stand
with their pink petals up and  
their tall, green stems down.
The last echoThe hill has wildflowers blooming now—
They splay their petals out to catch the sun's
Sweet light that brightens every dusky shade
Recasting fitful red in orange, and leaves
In yellow shadows bold and unafraid.

Some darkness they must sense within their roots
That curl around an empty bone or stone
Deep, deep below the tilled and turbid soil
Long toiled over, and abandoned last
Of everything—though I, at least, returned—

I went from shore to shore, I went away
And could not stay where none had ever known
The hill I stand upon. I walked alone
Through valleys caught between the crests and swells
Of fertile countrysi
diagonallike lapping waves,
or plaited braids, these syllables
return in staid and cyclical interactions.
foundations laid, this lexical liquefaction then inundates
                   with lyrical benefaction which will placate
                                     as compaction consolidates
                                                 what one dictates. 
Streaming v.3I. Summer

Sometimes it's too humid outside. Like even the air is sweating from the heat. We throw open the windows and drag out the fan because it's still too cool for the air conditioner.

The dog needs her fur trimmed.

I remember when I was little. I would spend forever outside chasing fireflies. Walking through the creek behind my house barefoot. Crawdeads, turtles, garden snakes. Water striders were water spiders.

Now I hide inside. Mesh shoes and the cartoons of my childhood are the closest I come to the past. I haven't grown up. Not really. I've just learned fear since then

II. Fall

Things are dying. The grass in my yard is yellow.
PaperPaper
fascinates me
Sometimes.
Especially in the way
it contains
all the possibilities
in the world,
both two-dimensional
and three.

And in the way
that you can cut it
And it can cut you
Back.
Peace itself is terrifying.He's a Leviathan, water pouring over his skin,
streams flooding coarse hair as he swims in a sea
of sounds. Each sensation is a symphony
so long as he graces the box seat.
He flexes his hands and gives thanks for the miracles
that are his sinews, for without him he would be a
naked voice, or so he quips over merlot and
the designer labels sewn on his clothes.
Sycophants line the halls to plead for his touch.
We all live in watercolor, letting the world filter softly by,
yet he drenches himself in oils and acrylics,
bellowing that art must always be violent, primeval.

He's a Behemoth, molten metals coursing through
the threads of
fading awaythe disharmony
of the city is fading
into Nothingness

a cacophony
of sounds being swallowed by
the din of Silence
BravuraA man who needs a rifle
To assert his words in lead,
Can never rally his nerves
Like the man who's fallen dead.

The eyes of the hunter twitch
While the eyes of the hunted stare,
There is acceptance in silence
As there never was in a prayer.

He who preserves his mettle  
For the rawest imbrued breath,
Smiles cordially at his killer
Before he conquers death.

  

  
Knickknacks On BookshelvesI have a special loathing
for the quaint ceramic birds
and heavy soapstone bookends
that tend to litter the bookshelves
of the people who don't read

And I find unbearable
the open spaces next to
pretty gold leaf collections
of books that won't be read

I'll admit that I go weak
for a beautifully bound tome
but the most attractive one
is the book whose binding's cracked
with worn out letters
and stained pages
from being read
On Waitingnothing seems worth writing anymore

yet all my bones are coiled in anticipation.

I'm a poet lost, ya know.
And all our stars, they're leaking
oil and pizzazz. Something
grand is building in my marrow.
Inspiration lost.One day, the trees nymphs stopped whispering whimsical tales of couples that exchanged love ridden trinkets, the brook stopped murmering about children who gingerly dipped their pink toes in the glassy water, and caverns stopped promising tales of mystery beyond their inky darkness.

My world became dull and colorless; The bird was no longer my bard, and the wind no longer my messenger.

The words I penned on paper and the lines that swooped across my canvas became static and sterile, they simply became stoic descriptions of what once was.

I told myself that color would come back to my world, that my pen and my brush would once again paint p
wake up, let goi used to conjure up promises from the ringing in my ears,
exchange your empty words for a sonnet.

it was less painful that way.

(your voice is only beautiful at 7am, all rusty
  and torn up like a broken washing machine.

  the honesty fades the minute you have coffee.)

we are only true to ourselves when we sleepwalk through wednesday mornings
with half-remembered dreams clogging our thoughts.

you dreamed of me standing on a barren field,
saying this is us, stripped bare

  of the textbook truths, the pauses between
  lies and heartbreak. this is us,

  as we are becoming, only dea
La Petite MortI’ve tried to find that place
in the coastal-plains forest
where he took it,
that first time
when I shivered
in the Southern summer
and couldn’t meet his eyes,
but it was always secret
and now it’s lost
down the twists and turns
of narrow roads.
I only remember scratching bites
for weeks, little red reminders
of what I’d lost in the pine straw.

Later, it was never
rolling waves of hot pleasure
or toe-curling, mind-melting anything,
so I started to think I was broken,
that he’d broken me.

I stopped caring –
Men were built like mountains
and trees and draft horses
and I liked the smell of them.
They would c
Browse More Like This

More from ~ndris970

Eternal EagleThermals tickle beneath my whisking feathers
I release my pain, my solitude
baring into the fiery dusk
rushing wind a soft pillow against ear

I glance into the fading sun
Illusions of ambers and violet streak my eyes
Blinding to the rodents below
Lids close to rest into silence

All I have, glorious wings
Raising me higher into the grey
One moment, and I shall touch down
But let me bask in glorious peace.

My stomach aches
and I must return.
PrecipiceMountain cliff whistles
along jagged edge
meet rushing water

I stand where prickling grass
meet crumbling rock,
and appraise.

As sterling wave crashes
illusions of my future glimmer.
your face; your smile;
my dreams.

Stones fall from beneath my toes
Crackling to the depths- I step back
But with a deep breath, I jump
Plummeting-
Here's my chance. One last

to jump.

God help me, the fall.

Featured in Groups

:iconrhyme-and-reason: :iconwriters--club: :iconthewrittenrevolution: :iconlooselacespoetry: :iconinspiring-words: :iconpoets-n-prose:
×

Midsummer's Dream

:iconndris970:

           Merry flashes roll and cry
          Beguiling force of Heaven's wry
          The crackling wind, shifts and sways
          Speckled silver flakes its rays
                                    Wanderer of brilliant shuttered shade
                       I gasp, inhale, the fragrant jade
                 Gale subsides - a sullen hush
            Unbind the air to sweet-dust hush
           The night it echoes hooting owl
          Cicadas purr their silent howl
          Such spritely zest sparkles high
          Leaping, glinting satin sky
                       Such delight, my impish gleam
                              Once upon a
               Midsummer's dream.....

248

12 8 2
:iconndris970:

Midsummer's Dreamby ~ndris970

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Written 10.4.11. It's the first remake of my 'season's collection. This piece features the seed quote "Merry wander of the night" from Shakespeare's midsummer night's dream. Which will be the new basis for the collection.

The original 'Summer" is here: [link]

____________________________________________
The Season's Collection:
Midsummer's Dream [link]
Fulminate Fall [link]
Winter Pain: [link]
Tender Spring: [link]
____________________________________________
1. What do you think of the visual effects/imagery?
2. What type of feeling does it leave you with? (i.e. does it leave you with an emotion or just the images?If so what?)
3. What do you think of the seed quote and how it's used?
4. Any other ideas, opinions, concerns, etc.

____________________________________________
Previous Critique: [link]
©2011-2013 ~ndris970
Category: Literature / Poetry / Nature / Traditional Fixed Forms

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October 5, 2011
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:iconxdeadxnxgonex:
~xDeadxNxGonex Oct 16, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
This poem is pretty stellar! This poem has a lot of imagery, which I think is amazing if it can be conveyed fluently and conceivable in poems. When I read this poem, I think of the many states of mind a person can be in at once, as well as nature. I think of storms a sea and calm summer nights filled with fireflies. I love how you used the seed quote, too! To me, it's like it's addressed to this wandered, and it's kind of like a greeting in a letter, even though it's broken up throughout the poem. It's an excellent use of word placement! I just generally like the feel and flow of this poem. Good job, dude!
Reply
:iconndris970:
~ndris970 Oct 16, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
thanks! ^_^
Reply
:iconxdeadxnxgonex:
~xDeadxNxGonex Oct 16, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
You're welcome!
Reply
:iconleaving-my-mark:
~Leaving-My-Mark Oct 16, 2011  Student Writer
I'm not sure if I can say as much as reader2951, especially since I'm not very good at giving critique when it comes to meter. But what I can say is that this is beautifully descriptive and reads quite well. I love the addition of the line, "Merry wanderer of the night." I agree with reader2951 in that there's definitely a sense of mischief and mystery that's sort of hidden in here, and it gives the poem character.
The imagery is unique, as in you use some interesting, non-cliched descriptions, which makes the poem sound fresh. The alliteration adds to the flow and imagery, as well.
I can't really think of anything bad to say about this. I just really, really love it. It certainly invokes the somewhat mischievous character of the season.
Reply
:iconndris970:
~ndris970 Oct 16, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
thank you ^_^
Reply
:iconleaving-my-mark:
~Leaving-My-Mark Oct 16, 2011  Student Writer
You're welcome!
Reply
:iconparsat:
*Parsat Oct 12, 2011  Student Writer
The iambic tetrameter pairs well with the feel of the midsummer night, and the alliteration in particular was wonderfully done. It reminded me of the repetitiveness of a cricket's chirp: Not tedious, but very atmospheric and natural. The poem reads wonderfully, and the words do seem to merrily wander off into the night.

I'm not quite sold on the visual nature of the poem (partly due to my own experience in critiquing poems of such a nature!), but I think the effect it renders on the reader is to put them into a different frame of mind. To a more casual reader, it may give the effect of freer verse, when in fact the verse is quite structured. Considering that you have the "merry wanderer of the night" quote embedded in their, the poem's form itself seems to fit into that description.

Some minor grammar/spelling points: "Crackling" is misspelled on the 3rd line, and in the 7th and 8th lines, I think you need to better differentiate between your endashes (-) and your emdashes (--). This is quite important, as it can affect the meaning and the reading of your piece.

Overall, I think you do a wonderful job in evoking the atmosphere you wish to describe. There's a hint of mystery and mischief in the poem that hides from us, as if the poem itself was in character. I like that effect, and congratulate you on that. You have definitely improved since the original Summer poems.
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:iconndris970:
~ndris970 Oct 13, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you very much for the critique. It is definitely helpful.
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