somethingwithhorns - Hello Poetry

In the daylight far from where people were she pulls a feather from the sand brushes it clean. The same way she did as a child, collecting feathers — the way a clump of dust collects more dust by static electricity. Rushing home at the end of each day to spread them wide across the kitchen table and listen to their incantations writhing in the air. A damp matchbook rests on top of the sand. She flips it open without looking, runs her thumb down the cardboard, and finds one match still intact. She stares ahead, wonders if the texture on her fingertip will flake it apart, leave her hands smelling and feeling like fire for the rest of the night, or if the cold ocean water has already washed away that part of the match — the part that smells and feels like fire. A photograph, washed up on the same beach, is too faded to interpret. Two blurred forms stand very very close in the foreground. The background is dim, but not dark. Maybe it's evening. It's not night. Or it might be night, but in a well-lit place, like a city or a gas station. I suppose it matters little as it’s still a beautiful photograph. Beautiful like the way a quiet walk with the dog is only broken by the occasional mumble or hum. It doesn't matter if you speak clearly. The dog's only listening to your tone and your hand behind it’s ear, and it’s memory of all your time together. and thinking about how all people need is enough to pretend we're home.

0

Jan 27, 2023

Jan 27, 2023 at 4:06 AM UTC

Cluttered, But Human

In the daylight far from where people were she pulls a feather from the sand brushes it clean. The same way she did as a child, collecting feathers — the way a clump of dust collects more dust by static electricity. Rushing home at the end of each day to spread them wide across the kitchen table and listen to their incantations writhing in the air. A damp matchbook rests on top of the sand. She flips it open without looking, runs her thumb down the cardboard, and finds one match still intact. She stares ahead, wonders if the texture on her fingertip will flake it apart, leave her hands smelling and feeling like fire for the rest of the night, or if the cold ocean water has already washed away that part of the match — the part that smells and feels like fire. A photograph, washed up on the same beach, is too faded to interpret. Two blurred forms stand very very close in the foreground. The background is dim, but not dark. Maybe it's evening. It's not night. Or it might be night, but in a well-lit place, like a city or a gas station. I suppose it matters little as it’s still a beautiful photograph. Beautiful like the way a quiet walk with the dog is only broken by the occasional mumble or hum. It doesn't matter if you speak clearly. The dog's only listening to your tone and your hand behind it’s ear, and it’s memory of all your time together. and thinking about how all people need is enough to pretend we're home.

53

Instead of slowly building a tonal palette across months years even spend your minutes hours days gathering the main threads and loose ends of a life’s oeuvre into a tapestry brilliantly feral and unknowable. Tack it by the roadside where the asphalt leads back to lost dreams so beautiful. Where those you cherish most are already looking back from a future where nothing quite worked but some unexpected air still managed to find it’s way into the digital chatter claustrophobia. Learn not to worry and hold close the absurd mystery of your hands hands never quite forgetting to search for a familiar shape in every darkened room beyond the space set aside for dreaming.  Never forget to repeat yourself endlessly, endlessly endlessly endlessly when the subject is love.

0

Jan 18, 2023

Jan 18, 2023 at 5:05 PM UTC

Dark Star Spinning

Instead of slowly building a tonal palette across months years even spend your minutes hours days gathering the main threads and loose ends of a life’s oeuvre into a tapestry brilliantly feral and unknowable. Tack it by the roadside where the asphalt leads back to lost dreams so beautiful. Where those you cherish most are already looking back from a future where nothing quite worked but some unexpected air still managed to find it’s way into the digital chatter claustrophobia. Learn not to worry and hold close the absurd mystery of your hands hands never quite forgetting to search for a familiar shape in every darkened room beyond the space set aside for dreaming.  Never forget to repeat yourself endlessly, endlessly endlessly endlessly when the subject is love.

31

We're the photo to fade I could not forget each brilliant season where from your side for a moment there was but a single silhouette for the three of us.

0

Jan 18, 2023

Jan 18, 2023 at 4:42 PM UTC

The End Of Summer Towards Autumn

We're the photo to fade I could not forget each brilliant season where from your side for a moment there was but a single silhouette for the three of us.

7

I’ve been running down this snow covered road For fourteen miles with arrow heads pierced through the bridges of both feet.  Extremities turning blue to black I can’t turn back now, face it. Twelve inches overnight they said, We reap what we sew they said. A whisper ran beside me Running off the road - to the woods I followed - until our bootprints reached the lake Frozen almost to the center I laid down. Made snow angels. Looked up at old light dancing behind the trees.   I hope the ice cracks reach me, before the rest of them do.

0

Jan 6, 2023

Jan 6, 2023 at 1:40 AM UTC

Interlope

I’ve been running down this snow covered road For fourteen miles with arrow heads pierced through the bridges of both feet.  Extremities turning blue to black I can’t turn back now, face it. Twelve inches overnight they said, We reap what we sew they said. A whisper ran beside me Running off the road - to the woods I followed - until our bootprints reached the lake Frozen almost to the center I laid down. Made snow angels. Looked up at old light dancing behind the trees.   I hope the ice cracks reach me, before the rest of them do.

24

Your name still hums, shimmering magenta bright forever in a glorious world of tourmaline and glass.

0

Jan 6, 2023

Jan 6, 2023 at 1:32 AM UTC

Uncloseable Parentheses

Your name still hums, shimmering magenta bright forever in a glorious world of tourmaline and glass.

6

I bring myself, to your altar open and ambiguous focused softly with an underpainting of dark teal blue. Staggering in a self-conversation neither entirely conscious nor fully verbal. For a moment it quiets me just to be there.

0

Jan 5, 2023

Jan 5, 2023 at 7:48 PM UTC

Color Field

I bring myself, to your altar open and ambiguous focused softly with an underpainting of dark teal blue. Staggering in a self-conversation neither entirely conscious nor fully verbal. For a moment it quiets me just to be there.

10

Ears flatten at the primal cries howl across dark water. For a moment his eyes peer beyond the warmth of the doorway, almost catching focus of their sharply glowing eyes. Hair flattening back, he looks back to his well worn mattress and steps sharply away from the night wet muzzle still bristling from the riverside smoke and windswept oak.

0

Jan 5, 2023

Jan 5, 2023 at 7:44 PM UTC

Quiet Flow The Visions

Ears flatten at the primal cries howl across dark water. For a moment his eyes peer beyond the warmth of the doorway, almost catching focus of their sharply glowing eyes. Hair flattening back, he looks back to his well worn mattress and steps sharply away from the night wet muzzle still bristling from the riverside smoke and windswept oak.

13

When I was smaller I used a short ledge in my closet as a secret library and on rainy nights slept beneath my coats and unused dress shirts as the lamp slowly dimmed to nothing.

0

Jan 5, 2023

Jan 5, 2023 at 7:43 PM UTC

Shelf

When I was smaller I used a short ledge in my closet as a secret library and on rainy nights slept beneath my coats and unused dress shirts as the lamp slowly dimmed to nothing.

9

You gesture gently to soothe the birds and amazingly you do.

0

Jan 5, 2023

Jan 5, 2023 at 7:42 PM UTC

Salve