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Megan Edwards Feb 28
The sparkles of life
Trickle with trepidation.
Ripples ricoshade from one to side to another;
As life seems to stop.

Smoothly dancing along the top,
Gliding like a kite across the surface.
Winding, wildly along the curves; taunting Zeus of his power.

The birds call out far and wide
They communicate with the sea.
They understand him
And they understand what he needs.
This one is written in more of a Ted Hughes style. This is my first time getting inspiration from  materialistic objects. Hope you enjoy **
Vamika Sinha Oct 2015
She contemplated death
as coolly as the opening of
a lotus.

Its light spread on
her mad-locked smile
drained
of his mournful red,
like unfinished smears
of butter on toast.
Recently watched Sylvia Plath's biopic.
A C Leuavacant Aug 2014
She read it herself
With her own two eyes
A sentiment so enchanting
It made her mind turn to burst rainclouds
and swinging nooses which hung blood red
in front of her  

He wrote it himself
With his own two hands
A penned paragraph
One for each piece of heart  
He had pierced with his lips
While he played like the mockingbird
And spat his love straight onto her face

How on earth could she inhale
such pitiful praise  
whilst simultaneously
an inner monologue of
piercing cold words
Turned her heart even further to stone
She would rather die at her own sword

If it is a sin to tell a lie
Then how could her every aching flaw be etched onto the tongue of the one who is ****** to love them no matter what?
It would drive one mad

And still stuck in a smile
pretending to be proud of his
poetic prowess
she fell slowly to the kitchen floor
While he sat in the den
Still crafting her end with his pen
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
Black Rook In Rainy Weather

On the stiff twig up there
Hunches a wet black rook
Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain.
I do not expect a miracle
Or an accident

To set the sight on fire
In my eye, nor seek
Any more in the desultory weather some design,
But let spotted leaves fall as they fall,
Without ceremony, or portent.

Although, I admit, I desire,
Occasionally, some backtalk
From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain:
A certain minor light may still
Lean incandescent

Out of kitchen table or chair
As if a celestial burning took
Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --
Thus hallowing an interval
Otherwise inconsequent

By bestowing largesse, honor,
One might say love. At any rate, I now walk
Wary (for it could happen
Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); skeptical,
Yet politic; ignorant

Of whatever angel may choose to flare
Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook
Ordering its black feathers can so shine
As to seize my senses, haul
My eyelids up, and grant

A brief respite from fear
Of total neutrality. With luck,
Trekking stubborn through this season
Of fatigue, I shall
Patch together a content

Of sorts. Miracles occur,
If you care to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again,
The long wait for the angel,
For that rare, random descent.

The Response*

Even while flashbulbs go out, every now and then, we all must gather our arms and legs in a heap of human kindling, to rap tap tap on the downstairs neighbors door- for a set of candles, perhaps a chance to go completely insane for one terse moment when the hyperbole of vowels *just don't matter
anymore.

And speaking of the sordid state of griseous gull-like creatures. Ravenous ravens gnawing outside the window of the kitchen table. How boring life can become, for at the moment, when we are not biting our nails, playing dress up, or playing doctor- all *******. Or maybe even burying our heads in the looks of rooks or with our noses brimming over with the tops of books.

The tea we have set in the study awaits us, as we all have to drink our tea some time.

Just don't leave the lights on baby. Who needs lamps at full lux at high noon any who? You, Mrs. Sylvia Plath Hughes? Maybe you ought to buy a book of stamps- at the nearest Hobby Lobby, pack a paper bag with an apple and a 'sammich', and list formally your complaints.

We can't all waste our time narrating other people's lives in the third person.

— The End —