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Henrie Diosa Nov 2021
take the torch that splits the dark,
pocket monsters are the mark,
shine the light upon the messes,
seek the one who fluoresces
Written for Racheltown
Henrie Diosa Nov 2021
women fear me, fish fear me
men avert their eyes
every living creature falls
into a hush, and dies.  
when i walk, i walk in silence
on this barren ground
i will never fall, and thus
will never make a sound
Written for Racheltown. If you know, you know.
Henrie Diosa Nov 2021
Tell me, truly, are you singing?
Say, are you the one who sings?
Or was that the reeds a-ringing
Rung by Zephyr’s mayfly wings?

Once upon a quiet evening by a still and silent water
was Ioreth, who was singing, as they gazed upon the sky
who was neither flesh nor fairy, who was neither son nor daughter,
who, while all of use were merry, went away without goodbye.
Our Ioreth sat there singing to the cool and quiet sky.

List you well, for they have started; can you hear Ioreth singing?
They were nearly still departed, and their voice is still nearby.
Where the dew clings to the rushes, and the reeds where dew is clinging
look o’er still and silent gushes, there they’re singing to the sky.
They were flighty; we were foolish; we remain; their voice will fly.

Tell me, truly, were you singing?
Say that lovely voice was yours!
Or was that the breeze a-bringing
Melodies from other shores?

When Ioreth, in their weeping, noticed ripples on the river,
then the one, no longer sleeping, rose to greet them and to try
to ascertain if it truly was Ioreth, music-giver,
who was quietly and cooly singing to the silent sky.
Such a one, below them peeping, spoke and sang for a reply.

So Ioreth, slightly pensive, leaning like the rushes weary,
sang with language quite defensive that they could be heard to sing,
but it was a night of singing, and the rest of us were merry,
or it could have been the wind that could be heard, for it was spring;
Sang with language quite extensive that it could be anything.

Tell me, truly, were you singing?
Will you sing for me right here?
I heard winds your voice a-stringing
And I want to have it near!

So the one list to their singing, with damp arms upon the shore,
and Ioreth, forward leaning, sang to her and to the sky.
Not a star was watching o’er them; they had all gone on before
when she reached out to embrace them and to wipe their cold face dry.
And Ioreth, pity gleaning, let the one list to them cry.

Tell me, truly, were you singing?
I thought Heaven sang to me!
I will swim back home a-bringing
Your enchanting melody!

When the one embraced them hither, (they could not be saved by praying)
then Ioreth’s voice did wither, though they did a screaming try.
And the one took them down with her, where the rushes all are swaying;
We were far away and merry; we did not list to their cry
And Ioreth’s voice, reminder that we never truly die,

Ioreth’s voice will sing there

‘Til the rest of us reply.
Note: "Ioreth" is pronounced /ˌaˈjɔːɾɜθ/. I wrote this in 2016 as part of my debut (literally; I published it on my 18th birthday) collection of writing, Well-Arranged Inkstains. The version in the book uses the neopronoun set ne/nem/nir/nirs/nemself, the pronouns I was using at the time; this version, no less non-binary, uses singular they, my current set of pronouns. No particular agenda there. I just wanted a poem to exist that used my pronouns; the rest is dreamy nonsense. A cautionary tale of what happens when outcasts are left unsupervised by moving bodies of water and tall grass.
Henrie Diosa Nov 2021
i know you like a house that looks like no-one is at home;
i know you love me more when i'm not reading you a poem
but i must empty cabinets and swing and shut the doors
i have to **** the bedroom lights and creak along the floors

so thank you for the space to *****, the room to pest and polter
forgive the spiders in your hair, the tapping on your shoulder
my friends are dead. their friends are dead. so i might die as well
we have no hope of heaven so i’ll harrow our own hell

i'm peeking out the picture frames; i'm haunting our own halls;
i am the yellow ivy in the papers on the walls.
what else, what else, what else, what else have i to do in here?
please. i just need to make it through another business year
because i need to make it through another endless year
so just lock me in the attic if you do not want me here
Henrie Diosa Nov 2021
our fingertips towards our toes
our legs are long, long, long
our chin to chest, our knees to nose
our heartbeat to the song

breathe in. breathe out. and elongate,
to straddle; point our toes
and in. again. and out. again.
be plastique to the pose

look up: our pinkies at our crown
with arms above, in fifth
our elbows up, our shoulders down
no tension in the wrists

our core engaged, our spine aware
of every vertebra
and gently smile, no tension there
throughout the port de bras

our calves should burn, but move with ease
lengthen, lengthen,
                                      and — release
Started for ballet class learning logs, finished for the #TopTweetTuesday of August 24th. Ballet stretches are nice. They wake up parts of you that you didn't even know were sleeping.
Henrie Diosa Nov 2021
i hope world war three breaks out tomorrow
so our professor cancels class
i hope the sky lights up on fire
and we all get an automatic pass

i hope the economy falls into shambles
and news anchors say we're all doomed
i hope a bomb falls on a church during mass
burned but not consumed

i hope all the world leaders resign
i hope you get punched in the teeth
i hope an intercontinental ballistic missile finds
an irreparable coral reef

i hope when i run that the sun burns my eyes
that's cinematic weather
i hope that you find me before they find us
so we can explode together

i hope the future historians have trouble figuring out who wins
i hope they never understand
i hope the ******* find us singing
hand in unlovable hand
I've been listening to a lot of The Mountain Goats. I think it shows here.
Henrie Diosa Nov 2021
i met god once again today,
or maybe she met me;
i fell in love the selfsame way
i fell into the sea

and every breath of brine i took
was one forgiven sin,
yet though the angels call me home,
they will not let me in.

yes, i have died a thousand times
of causes great and small,
and on i hope to die again
to prove i’ve lived at all!

for i am a plaything tangled
in the playwright’s wretched plot
and i trust that her great story will
in time, forget me not

for a wretch like me could never see
the yield of what i’ve sown —
so lead me not where tempters lie —
i’ll get there on my own.

this sorry fleshy prison is
the opposite of free —
with stones inside my pockets
let me march into the sea
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