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Samantha Derr Nov 2013
The rust color leaves crunch beneath the soles of my leather boots, as I nuzzle my face into my wool knit scarf. The beaten asphalt path is the canvas and the pomegranate leaves are the splattered drops of paint sprinkling the trail. The cold, biting winds of autumn strip the weeping willow trees of their tears. Drooping, bent branches of the willows and birches beg for me to stray from the path into their welcoming, bark-covered embrace, promising not a single splinter. Whirlwinds of crispy leaves grace the peaks and valleys of the meadows, with so much life instilled in their dying veins. The nostalgic hint of chimney smoke wafts along the trail, and I yearn for the warmth that will nourish my chapped face. With a warm core and the wind seeping into the layers of my skin, the splitting wood of the maple branches guide me home.
Third Eye Candy Sep 2016
morning came very early... like a graduate class.
it dispelled the notion of a snowflake's last Will and Testament
gilding the nettles, where the berries were plump and deep virility
nesting in the fearsome spines of an Urchin
of such Symmetry, that your medallions
become clay; and your Heart is restored
to fullest Rage... where a lark Once donned the Umbral Crown
of a yellow Sun.... Now morning came early in the dark
stealing your revisions from the very skull
of your Mind's Meme. from the skull you etch your herds
Of Bison... some figure with a spear
plunging deeply into the
'Side Joke.

You are Purchased
for a thimble of blood from a white Turnip !
and returned to the Parties, gargling rainbows and leprosy...
chafing the Beauty of a grog of distilled amnesias in a perfect Assumption... grooming our prayers for higher education
via fresh Hells and chipping away, always away, at the ****** Windows !
shards of a slightly opened view to a backyard
over a sink in your feelings, where you cup your hands
and splash a bracing revelation from a cool spring
Sprung from a pipe that runs Under the House, in the Dirt's dirt....
There in the gut of where
You call your Self
by Your
Name...

like a lamb in a lion's mouth
sharing the spoils of sacrifice
as well the lethality
of a Conviction's breach. you groom the best oblivions
running a comb through your Beached Whale.
all the blubber for your candles lit !
to better gloom the room's dark harmony, with all the Irony
Intact. but never the reason
you seldom
spat at Kites -
until the Wind bit your nose
in December...
because you never found a scarf
to match the disappointment in your
imagined eyes
as seen through the crease of your profile,
squinting at pixies
and marsh fires.... loving you in spite of you
is the every day horror of discrete epiphanies
that lead only to a grave of fireflies
and stray orphans from a clutch
of messenger pigeons... painted to look like wisps -
of no more than a grain of shadow...
with feathers so soft they perish
as you tremble your touch... groping the fragile wings
of a robot's grip on soaring metaphors... a frantic sort of hazy.
connections where the frost burns
your navel -
while basking in the
Furnace.

like a peach in a lightning bolt... fermenting in Plato's Cave
bargaining the Mahjong for the Google Map -
to your very next departure.
" Living the Glimpse " is what they call it,
back at Rocco's Bar.
you never drink for free but never pay for the miles you weep
with the tears you keep.
you make a Living Wage... and part with your loot.
and the bourbon back.
limestone heartaches merely caverns
where you least expect to see your Self
cavorting in the dark
with the
Truth.

You Beam Down to Look Up.

most of your amulets are barnacles
but you Sea just fine.

roving the volume of an Emptiness
with flint and a raincloud
by design.

preaching to a Flame about
an Iceberg god
that never Fell a Tree
to set ablaze.

you are never seen again if you catch the bus...

and nothing else happens
anyways.
PrttyBrd Dec 2014
The shades are drawn in endless daylight, begging the night to fall yet loathing the months of night that will too soon follow these endless months of days.  Sleep does not come swiftly as feet twitch restlessly under cool sheets. The mind relives peaceful mornings by the creek with fishing rods in hand ******* on lollipops and skipping stones. Stones that for others seem to float on the surface, yet, thrown by my young hand sank like the rocks that they were. click, click, click, the beads of the abacus counting time in my dreamlike wannabe state. The beep of the microwave oven jars the mind and the scent of coffee wakes the brain, only to realize it was the sound of the alarm clock and the cupboard does not hold the coffee so loved in dreams yet detested in reality. The solitude of morning, which looks like evening, which looks like night tastes like rotten onions in the mouth you struggle eat with. Remnants of equestrian dreams linger in a hazy head pounding like a basketball across the the court. The lampshade is covered in a purple scarf, giving off just enough light to not have to open the shades.  

Day begins with a gargle of mouthwash that tastes like Campho Phenique

hoping to get rid of the residue of rotten onion dreams that remind you of a life you never thought you'd live.
121414

A friend threw the following words at me to use in a poem.  Challenge accepted. :)


feet
shades
solitude
equestrian
lampshade
abacus
microwave oven
basketball
lollipops
fishing rod
campho phenique
onions
Elizabeth Mayo Jan 2013
I love you, as a saint
with an aureole of gleaming autumn-burnt hair
an ecstatic shining and bright as the sun,
spilling forth with holy oil
with the face of a white-rose angel from Botticelli's brush,
with the heart of a tar-black demon, a serpent in the fiery bush,
a heavy pink blossom all dripping with honey
a sinuous and serpentine moth-silk scarf, fluttering in the summer air.

and I love you, loving and knowing that
I love you, as a painter
loves a streaked and bright tempura paint
here, sun-kissed as a yellow flower today,
revealing its thin translucent colours the next
and I love you, as one can only love
another who can only love a mirror
whether one made from moon-struck volcanic glass
or drawn from the lips of another.
Andie Lately Jul 2013
Nostalgic for winter days
The chic look of a well dressed man
The coldness that made one long for a hot coffee
The dreary birthday
Where the prized gift
Was a winter scarf
To keep the neck you loved to kiss warm
Rangzeb Hussain Mar 2010
Long ago in shadows when the world was in magic robed,
Thus begins this tragic tale from times old,
A Mother and a bright girl did have a cottage near a hill,
On the edge of a creeping forest did they live.

Poor they were yet happy too with songs at dawn,
Nor did their stomachs in hunger churn or yawn,
Life was hard but they got by with chickens hatching hatching,
Eyes in the night always watching watching.

The Mother did always caution her delightful daughter,
“Freia, don’t be a lamb to the slaughter,
Wrap your apple blossom face from the dead eyes of dogs,
Beware the men who haunt the forest fog.”

The bright days were dreamed away in peace and solitude,
No neighbours did intrude,
Time slipped away over the misty mountains and innocent lambs,
The years ran on, so silently they ran.

One day in late autumn when Freia had maidenhood reached,
She was asked to gather wood for heat,
The days were getting shorter and the spiked nights were colder,
Shadows scratched by their door.

“Give me my red scarf quick for I want to be a girl good!
For you I will get sticks of tinder wood!”
But before she let go her dancing daughter dear
The Mother did speak of fear.

“Freia, hush and listen! Return quickly for I am in fear soaking,
Watch out for the wet croaking Water-Goblin
Who reigns and dines beneath the river and hides in woodbine,
Take heed, Lady Night upon the sky shows her signs.”

“Never fear, dear Mother wise of mine,” said Freia,
“Blind Mistress Night, ha!
She will never ever catch or lay her black claws upon me,
Just wait and see! Back I will be.”

Freia skipped and slipped into the forest loud with sound,
She was collecting wood from the ground
When an idea came darting and burrowed into her curious mind,
“There’s no Water-Goblin! It’s a tale to scare and blind.”

And to prove her Mother wrong about tales tall and long
She went to the riverbank to sing a song,
The place was dark and no bird sang in the gloomy twilight,
Bright bones upon the bank caught her sight.

A frosty wind licked her and goose-pimples did appear,
Her spine chilled and shivered,
She tried to brush off the terror in which she was crippled,
Upon the river her eyes spied a ripple.

Something was swimming and straight to her heading!
Her legs grew heavy and she stopped humming,
She stayed rooted as up her legs crawled spidery lice,
She stood like a statue carved out of ice.

Bubbles were breaking above the tar-like water ring,
The gap closing between her and the thing,
“O, why did I to this dead river come running and singing?
How I wish I was at home skipping!”

It was as if some magic older than time kept her frozen,
Freia had thus been chosen,
The gap between her and the creature was fast closing,
If only she was at home safely dozing!

She tried to shout but only dry silence puffed out,
Her eyes bulged, she was clouded in doubt,
Tears fell upon her cheeks but she still could not scream,
Cruel, O how wrong everything now seemed!

Something dark, something bleeding green greed
Crept from the water with fluid speed,
The creature from the river wrapped a long strong arm
And held Freia’s gentle palms.

“Mine!” it gurgled through gnashing sharp teeth.
“Please, no!” spoke Freia in fever’s heat.
“Bride you will be!” the scaly creature hugged and hissed,
With jagged lips he did upon Freia plant a kiss.

The Water-Goblin, for indeed it was he,
Dragged away Freia by the knee,
Into the cold and dank river he waded,
O, how his touch she hated!

“I’ll drown!” Freia screamed, “To the shore take me!”
“Please, no!” she tried to sense make him see,
“I’m sure to slip and sink and in the water drown and weep!”
“Will not,” spoke he, “Magic bubble I shall for you weave!”

He spun his murky magic and just as he had promised and hissed,
A large air bubble circled Freia’s body and hips,
He lowered her ever deeper into his Netherworld Kingdom,
Up above the sun into the horizon did drown.

The green-eyed Water-Goblin a wedding banquet did hold,
It was a hideous party truth be told,
The guests he had invited made Freia’s skin crawl,
Demons of all kinds smiled and prowled.

The poor girl dizzily danced with the greedy groom,
Her speech slurred and darkness loomed,
Her pulse quickened and her breath came in bursts short,
Her husband’s nails did pinch and hurt.

A year and a day passed away like a carnivorous nightmare
And Freia birthed a baby golden haired,
“Pretty child,” grunted the Water-Goblin, “Is it a boy?”
“No, it’s a girl,” spoke Freia with joy.

Freia enjoyed the happiness by and by tick,
But soon she became homesick,
She wished to see her Mother and to her show the baby,
In that watery Kingdom she was but a trophy.

“Please let me visit my mother?” she kept pleading.
“Never!” he kept repeating.
“Please?” Freia was all honey, clever and charming.
“Never ever!” he was no more laughing.

And so it went on, and on, each and every day,
The Water-Goblin did for an end pray,
“Wife go then,” he one day gave in and readily flipped,
“Back you must come!” he spat through rotted lips.  

“Go now,” he gestured with claws ******
And at the child in the crib he pointed,
“The baby tender and sweet will with me stay,
Come back or else she pays.”

Freia begged, “To my dear Mother I want to baby display.”
“Hark and hear!” he kicked the cot of clay,
“Listen to my dread law. The child here plays.
Return to me by dark of this day.”

He took her to the surface and released her from the spell
Which kept her prisoner in the river red,
She went away yet still she heard a warning burning in her ears,
“Be back before dark or else they be tears!”

When to the old cottage she arrived she wiped her tears,
Her Mother was sitting in the rocking chair,
In the very air floated cobwebs, dust and impending doom,
The room was cloaked in layers of grainy gloom.

Freia rushed to her Mother feeling sad and weak,
It had been a year since they last did speak,
Mother and daughter warmly hugged and held each other fast,
“O, my doll, you return at last from the past!”

Freia did to her Mother tell her tale from beginning to end,
She was broken and needed to mend,
To her Mother she told about her beautiful baby,
Outside, the light was fast fading.

“I must now go back to my darling child before dark
Or else my dread lord will bark
And wreck vengeance most sharp upon my precious pearl,
O, how I miss my darling girl!”

“But don’t you see?” began the wise Mother true,
“The Water-Goblin has no magic over you.
It is said that whosoever returns to dry land can the spell break
If they keep the Water-Goblin at bay till daybreak.”

“Will the vile Water-Goblin free me and my child sweet?
And will he shift this curse? O, do speak!”
“Yes! You and the baby will be safe,” the Mother explained,
“The Water-Goblin will crack and be in pain.”

“Now we wait for the night of shadows long,” said the Mother poor
As she bolted the door,
“Go and bar the kitchen windows, I begin to feel sick,
Lock also the house on this side, be quick!”

No sooner had they barred the door of the cottage old
When the wind howled down the valley cold,
Night shrouded the land and black things moved outside,
They heard the rain pelting the hillside.

The storm with titanic volcanic fury spoke,
Everything fled even hope,
The cottage door with demonic force did vibrate,
Something was tearing the cottage.

“Has he come for me?” Freia shook in her Mother’s arms,
“Has my Master come to inflict harm?”
“No!” shouted her Mother over the thunderclaps,
“It’s the storm perhaps.”

Scratching was heard and they began to fearfully pray,
The panel above the doorway shattered,
Sharp shards of glass everywhere cascaded and scattered,
“Come back!” the thing outside banged and battered.

“It’s the wind. Only the wind, darling dear,” the Mother cleared
Her frightened daughter’s eyes full of fear,
The noise and the angry threats of the unseen creature
Drove darts of icy terror into their features.

“When will this nightmare end?” asked Freia with concern.
Replied the Mother, “Dawn is about to be born.
This Water-Goblin has to go back to his Kingdom before sunrise
Or else he will lose his life and prize.”

Crash! Something broke, splinters of wood in the air flew,
Cracked claws clawed across morning dew,
A hairy paw with nails long and sharp shot through the opening
Above the door and for the lock began searching.

A heartrending howl of frustration then was heard,
Without warning the probing fist did disappear
And there was an unnatural silence in the morning land,
The Hour of the dead Wolf was at hand.

Bang! Something outside the door had horribly burst,
Something had been flung with frightful force
But the cottage door was strong and held firm and fast
The Mother dryly spoke, “The terror has passed.”

“Has it?” said Freia as she with caution went to unhook the lock,
The handle was cold and her heart still in shock,
Her brow and hands wet with the nightmare’s perspiration,
She paused before the door in desperation.

Something lay on the ground before the door all blood and bone,
The sight would bring tears even to a stone,
Freia saw what the Water-Goblin had used to batter the door with,
O, how she wished to stitch her eyelids!

For there lay the lifeless body of her baby on the earth,
This was the baby to whom she had given birth,
Only a small finger remained of the golden curled girl,
The Water-Goblin’s curse had done the worst.



©Rangzeb Hussain
Connor Thomas Mar 2013
Bright hand touched the door
Easing it slowly around
With the tenderness of a prepubescent girl
Lingering gently about.
Wondering, loudly i might add,
That you really hate these Venetian blinds.

You sit in the fat leather chair,
Which must have belonged to your dad a million years ago.
You sip diet coke like your lost friend brandy,
And you cross your legs in the most ****** way
That my seminal vesicle shifts into overdrive.

Through the tainted windows
I see you raise your winter scarf to your throat
Ceremoniously, or possibly vehemently.
After which you clean your glasses with laser precision
And raise them back into place.
Your crystal gaze lands on the heavy door a few steps away,
They wait in concentrated intensity
As each heavy step’s staccato note is heard form the other side.
Emily Thompson Nov 2012
Snow is pure white and fresh like an angel's wings waiting in heaven.
I pull back the thick curtains and look out my window.
The snow is slowly falling like pieces of cotton from the sky.
It looks so soft and light that I want to reach out and touch it with my hand.
The moonlight catches each flake and makes it shine.
It looks so wonderfully peaceful outside that  I decide I must go.

I bundle up with my puffy down coat, hat, and black scarf.
I pull my boots on and open the door.
I walk into the bright moonlight and stare at the falling snow.
It is so beautiful this I know.
It is so bright outside because of the full moon overhead.

The snow falls upon my face and cleans away the dirtiness.
It melts as soon as it touches my skin.
Now my face is wet and my eyelashes hold the flakes as they fall down faster than before.
It is so quiet all around.
I can't hear a sound.
I feel happiness that only my heart can hold.
I love the snow!

There is no sound except for my boots walking upon the snow.
No cars, sirens, or people to be found.
The only light is from the bright moon that seems so near to me now.
It seems so peaceful outside that my worries and problems from the day,
They all fade away.

The snow is cold as it hits my cheeks again and again.
I love the clean, cold, crisp air,
I take a deep breath taking it in.
It is cold enough that it burns when it reaches my lungs and fills my nose.
I walk down the road for a while.
Not seeing a single soul.

I see a small dim light in the distance.
I wonder what it could be?
I haven't noticed it before?

The snow crunches loudly with each step I take.
The snowflakes are falling bigger, faster, and harder now.
It is almost too hard to keep my eyes open.
I squint so the hard pellets, which were once soft flakes a time ago don't sting my eyes.
I keep walking towards the light.

With each step I take my momentum slows,  
The howling wind blows the snow against my face so hard that I can't see a thing.
It stings, it bites, and the temperature is dropping now I do believe.
It has suddenly become bitterly cold,
I can see my breath, where I couldn't before.
I keep on walking, I don't know why?
But it feels like the light is pulling me in.

The light in the distance is getting brighter.
I am almost there.
I am very tired and sore all of a sudden.
How long have I been out here?
Should I stop and turn back or keep going in the whipping, blinding snow?
I stop in the middle of the road.
Which way should I go?

I could walk towards the light, or turn back and go into the darkness behind me now.
I choose to walk on, towards the bright light that gets brighter with each step I take.
The light is closer, no turning back.
I am intrigued and entranced by the light's warmth and its glow.
I slowly walk into the light and finally I feel safe at last.

I am warm and comforted by the yellow light that surrounds me on this dark, cold, snowy night.
It feels good to breathe air that doesn't burn icicles in my chest.
The light is too bright, and I close my eyes tight.
I am glad that I am no longer in the blinding snow.
Where am I?
I open my mouth to say, "Hello."
But no voice comes out, only silent hums from the lights all around.
Should I stay or turn and run?

I suddenly feel a panic inside, like I am somewhere I don't belong.
I walk back in the direction from which I came.
All I see is ambient yellow light around me.
The road is gone and all the white falling snow has vanished.
I want to be back home right now.

I turn to the yellow humming lights and find only more light ahead of me.
Will I ever return to all that I know?
Or is it all gone in this unknown world I walked into?
I turn and start to run.

I run as fast as I can, but I can't seem to get anywhere.
I feel as though I am standing still, but running in place.
I feel the wet tears welling up inside my eyes.
They fall down my cheeks, as I realize my own fate.
Where is all the blinding snow?

Running and running I am out of breath.
My lungs burn now from the lack of air, instead of freezing snow.
I close my eyes and make a wish.
I wish I hadn't walked into the white, peaceful snow.
Tears from my eyes fall so hard like hail stones in a summer thunderstorm.

I stop running and open my stinging red eyes.
It feels as though I have been crying for days.
I see a small glimpse of an angel's wing.
A soft white feather brushes against my face.
A wind picks up quickly and dries my tears.
The air begins to freeze again, and I gasp for air or maybe for my own words.
What is happening?
I feel weak and I give up the fight to continue.
Did I die in the blinding snow?
Is this the end of the road, or the end of my life as I know?

Suddenly, there is heat in my soft frozen cheeks, as though I have been thawing after a long hard winter's cold.
I open my eyes again, afraid to take a look around.
I wake to find it was all but a dream.
I think, or do I believe?
I am in my bed with the covers pulled up to my chin.
Breathing so hard and scared to speak.
I get up slowly from my snowy slumbering nightmare.

I walk to my window and pull back the heavy, thick curtains with shaking hands.
The snowflakes are quietly falling, perfectly from their winter clouds.
Soft and white like big cotton puffs.
I want to reach out and touch them with my hand.
I breathe a sigh of relief, and turn around to go.
I feel something wet and cold dripping down my face.
If it was a dream, then why is my hair wet from the melting snow?
Enya Costa Oct 2012
Wake up!
It's morning, you know it, the world around you says so
A chorus of beeping: the clock, the coffee ***, the first cars with impatient drivers, the shrill door chime of the store at the end of the block with its first customer of the day, the microwave saying your hastily-made oatmeal is done, the phone alerting you to your first message of the day, the computer screaming about the emails that piled up overnight.
Wake up!
It's morning, you know it, it's time to get up.
Rip yourself up from the sheets
A horse throwing its rider
Tear those silken sheets that have for so long enveloped your mind
Wake up!
Do you smell the coffee burning, feel the changing seasons, see how that old woman's orange scarf flickers in the wind like a flame?
Do you?
Wake up!
Hear the music playing, dance along with it, make some cupcakes, read that book you promised Amy from accounting that you would read months ago but never did, feel the chafe of those shoes against your dry heels, poke around in an antique store that has a scent of ancientness.
You've done all that? You're awake?
Good, now go write a poem.
Miss Clofullia Sep 2015
I am the member of a one-man extremist army
That fights for the right to be (mis)understood.
I keep my gun tidy and all covered in a
crazy-*** knitted scarf.
I only shoot it when I’m alone in my head.
I always miss.

I fly below the human emotion radar and
Pray that someone will DVR my life
And binge watch it from the comfort of his/her dusty old couch,
Up in the attic, when nothing else is on TV and
Jimmy Fallon’s all tucked in his zebra pajamas.

I will climb the highest fountain
And whisper waterly in your transplanted ear:
“I am Vincent.. I am your yellow.. I am your ubiquitous sunflower..”

Just change the channel and the weather will do the same thing.
Bye bye bye, birdie! Bye bye bye, climate change!
I’m nothing but an echo’s echo.
Mimi Nov 2011
I’m knitting something new,
it feels good.
The new ball of yarn unraveling like time
but I’ve still got plenty left.
There’s potential in this dark teal wool
and satisfaction when I decide
the way I want to weave it.
I make mistakes, I change them
to become part of the pattern.
The stitches are like a song in my head,
I sing them, I tap them out with my foot
and whistle along to the tune I’ve made up.
I thought it might be a hat when I saw the skein
but now I know it will be an
infinity scarf.
My six inches of beaded rib is a metaphor for my worries.
Working my hands intricately help me forget them.
I have time.
Yes, I am a nerd.
R Saba Nov 2014
i step out
and the rain greets me like a blessing
bestowed by some great silence
i speak to each sunday
and i take this as an answer
because why the hell not

i am suddenly sure i have left something behind
but no, my bag is there
notebooks tucked under my arm
ipod clutched in one hand
phone safe inside my jacket
consorting with my keys
(proof I've got somewhere to go)
travel mug empty, wallet full
of receipts and loyalty cards

finally, pricked by the bent arm of a button
i give up, knowing it's all in my head
and i have everything i need to survive today

still, i feel like something's missing

my right hand clings to my scarf
fingers tight, knuckles white
as if to say
"give me something to hold onto"
and the rain that stings my face reminds me

i have everything i need to survive today
except you
Sabika Dec 2020
Who knew that this scarf on my head
Could make the rope that will tie my noose?
Who knew that this stone that
Kisses my forehead could turn into
The ammunition to crack my skull?
Who knew that my loose clothes could
Let in enough air to tear it from my body?
Who knew that my enemies would have the power to define me, judge me and sentence me?
Who knew that love would label me guilty?
This poem is about the oppression that Shia Muslims face not only by non-Muslims but also by other Muslim sects. It’s hard enough to be a Muslim, let alone a Shia.
So all day long the noise of battle roll'd
Among the mountains by the winter sea;
Until King Arthur's table, man by man,
Had fallen in Lyonnesse about their Lord,
King Arthur: then, because his wound was deep,
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,
Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights,
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field,
A broken chancel with a broken cross,
That stood on a dark strait of barren land.
On one side lay the ocean, and on one
Lay a great water, and the moon was full.

      Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
"The sequel of to-day unsolders all
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights
Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep
They sleep--the men I loved. I think that we
Shall never more, at any future time,
Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds,
Walking about the gardens and the halls
Of Camelot, as in the days that were.
I perish by this people which I made,--
Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again
To rule once more--but let what will be, be,
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm
That without help I cannot last till morn.
Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur,
Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how
In those old days, one summer noon, an arm
Rose up from out the ***** of the lake,
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
Holding the sword--and how I row'd across
And took it, and have worn it, like a king:
And, wheresoever I am sung or told
In aftertime, this also shall be known:
But now delay not: take Excalibur,
And fling him far into the middle mere:
Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word."

      To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere:
"It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus,
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm.
A little thing may harm a wounded man.
Yet I thy hest will all perform at full,
Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word."

      So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs,
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down
By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock,
Came on the shining levels of the lake.

      There drew he forth the brand Excalibur,
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon,
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth
And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt:
For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks,
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth work
Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long
That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood,
This way and that dividing the swift mind,
In act to throw: but at the last it seem'd
Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd
There in the many-knotted water-flags,
That whistled stiff and dry about the marge.
So strode he back slow to the wounded King.

      Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
"Hast thou perform'd my mission which I gave?
What is it thou hast seen, or what hast heard?"

      And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
"I heard the ripple washing in the reeds,
And the wild water lapping on the crag."

      To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale:
"Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name,
Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight:
For surer sign had follow'd, either hand,
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere.
This is a shameful thing for men to lie.
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again
As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word."

      Then went Sir Bedivere the second time
Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere,
Counting the dewy pebbles, fixed in thought;
But when he saw the wonder of the hilt,
How curiously and strangely chased, he smote
His palms together, and he cried aloud,

      "And if indeed I cast the brand away,
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note,
Should thus be lost forever from the earth,
Which might have pleased the eyes of many men.
What good should follow this, if this were done?
What harm, undone? deep harm to disobey,
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule.
Were it well to obey then, if a king demand
An act unprofitable, against himself?
The King is sick, and knows not what he does.
What record, or what relic of my lord
Should be to aftertime, but empty breath
And rumours of a doubt? but were this kept,
Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings,
Some one might show it at a joust of arms,
Saying, 'King Arthur's sword, Excalibur,
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake;
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps
Upon the hidden bases of the hills.'
So might some old man speak in the aftertime
To all the people, winning reverence.
But now much honour and much fame were lost."

      So spake he, clouded with his own conceit,
And hid Excalibur the second time,
And so strode back slow to the wounded King.

      Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily:
"What is it thou hast seen, or what hast heard?"

      And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
"I heard the water lapping on the crag,
And the long ripple washing in the reeds."

      To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath:
"Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue,
Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me!
Authority forgets a dying king,
Laid widow'd of the power in his eye
That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art,
For thou, the latest-left of all my knights,
In whom should meet the offices of all,
Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt;
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes.
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice,
And the third time may prosper, get thee hence:
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur,
I will arise and slay thee with my hands."

      Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran,
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd the sword,
And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brand
Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon,
And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch,
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn,
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock
By night, with noises of the northern sea.
So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur:
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him
Three times, and drew him under in the mere.
And lightly went the other to the King.

      Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath:
"Now see I by thine eyes that this is done.
Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?"

      And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
"Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems
Should blind my purpose, for I never saw,
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die,
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men,
So great a miracle as yonder hilt.
Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him;
But when I look'd again, behold an arm,
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him
Three times, and drew him under in the mere."

      And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard:
"My end draws nigh; 't is time that I were gone.
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight,
And bear me to the margin; yet I fear
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die."

      So saying, from the pavement he half rose,
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm,
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears,
And would have spoken, but he found not words,
Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee,
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands,
And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs.

      But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted hard,
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed
When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King
Muttering and murmuring at his ear, "Quick, quick!
I fear it is too late, and I shall die."
But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge,
Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd
Larger than human on the frozen hills.
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry
Before. His own thought drove him like a goad.
Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves
And barren chasms, and all to left and right
The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he based
His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels--
And on a sudden, lo! the level lake,
And the long glories of the winter moon.

      Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern,
Beneath them; and descending they were ware
That all the decks were dense with stately forms
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream--by these
Three Queens with crowns of gold--and from them rose
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars,
And, as it were one voice, an agony
Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills
All night in a waste land, where no one comes,
Or hath come, since the making of the world.

      Then murmur'd Arthur, "Place me in the barge,"
And to the barge they came. There those three Queens
Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept.
But she that rose the tallest of them all
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap,
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands,
And call'd him by his name, complaining loud
And dropping bitter tears against his brow
Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white
And colourless, and like the wither'd moon
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east;
And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with drops
Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls--
That made his forehead like a rising sun
High from the dais-throne--were parch'd with dust;
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,
Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips.
So like a shatter'd column lay the King;
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest,
From spur to plume a star of tournament,
Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings.

      Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere:
"Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go?
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?
For now I see the true old times are dead,
When every morning brought a noble chance,
And every chance brought out a noble knight.
Such times have been not since the light that led
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.
But now the whole ROUND TABLE is dissolved
Which was an image of the mighty world;
And I, the last, go forth companionless,
And the days darken round me, and the years,
Among new men, strange faces, other minds."

      And slowly answer'd Arthur from the barge:
"The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
And God fulfils Himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?
I have lived my life, and that which I have done
May He within Himself make pure! but thou,
If thou shouldst never see my face again,
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.
But now farewell. I am going a long way
With these thou seest--if indeed I go--
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)
To the island-valley of Avilion;
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-lawns
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound."

      So said he, and the barge with oar and sail
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere
Revolving many memories, till the hull
Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn,
And on the mere the wailing died away.
Audrey Lucille Oct 2013
A tall lanky man stood outside my door
I didn't know why
His black rain boots had left muddy foot prints in the apartment lobby.
His dark brown coat reached a little passed his knees, and his red scarf was wrapped tightly around his neck
But all he did was hover over my door.
He stared through the peep hole, I knew he couldn't see me, but I was scared.
Maybe he was just simply at the wrong apartment door.
He pushed away from the peephole, and I took my turn to see this man.
His face was pale, and his cheek bones were high.
Dark bags sat underneath his eyes. He looked dead.
I don't know why this man stood at my door.
But I waited three days till he left. And when he did, he sank right into the floor and was gone. I never saw that man again.
Her scarf's trying to catch the bus, but goody two shoes don't lose her chance, she runs to catch up, and the lady with the burqa that looks like it's trying to get to work before her catches up too.

The wind should be blue, it feels like blue on my skin when it gets in underneath my vest.
I think that the wind is some sort of a test to sort the weak from the strong as it blows me along.
I'm strong, but the longer the wind blows the more I get weak, I try to play hide and seek,
it finds me, I'm like a wind magnet and caught in its dragnet I bowl down the street.

The colour of wind should be blue and when I saw blue I'd stay indoors, comfy and warm
close to you.
Arrian Luiten Jun 2018
Forget the fleeting sideways glance
Forget that kiss, the stars, our dance
Forget the fact we fell together
Forget the very moment we began to fall apart
Remember nothing but that very moment at the start

It's the only day I've ever loved and lost

I'll be sad to see you go and I'll forget
I'll forget the way you made me laugh and all the times I caught your smile, forgotten.
I'll be glad to see the back of you,
Out of sight and out of mind,
Forget the day we first held hands
Every moment shared we've left behind

Close your eyes and don't remember the log fire and lightning last November
When all we had was us and wine
Not a shred of decency, lost in time

Forget the fleeting sideways glance
Forget that kiss, the stars, our dance
Forget the fact we fell together
Forget the very moment we began to fall apart
Remember nothing but that very moment at the start

It's the only day I've ever loved and lost

The picture of our friends together,
The scarf you left in better weather,
Happy once and never better
*******

Forget me love, forgive me not
Forget you ever met me, I've forgotten you
I've forgotten you

Forget the fleeting sideways glance
Forget that kiss, the stars, our dance
Forget the fact we fell together
Forget the very moment we began to fall apart
Remember nothing but that very moment at the start

It's the only day I've ever loved and lost

It's the only day I've ever loved and lost

It's the only day I've ever loved and lost

It's the only day I've ever loved and lost

So forget the fleeting sideways glance
Forget that kiss, the stars, our dance
Forget the fact we fell together
Forget the very moment we began to fall apart
Remember nothing but that very moment at the start

Because it's the only day I've ever loved and lost
Venn Jul 2015
(tw; hypothermia, death)

Having depression is like being caught out in a blizzard.

At first, the cold seems like nothing.

You're all bundled up in a fluffy coat,
scarf wrapped around your face,
hands slipped into gloves and tucked under your arms.

But then the snow begins to fall,
and the temperature drops,
and it's like the chill is stripping you down, layer by layer,
even though all your layers are still there.

It gets colder, and you start to feel the effects of the chill,
the fierce winter seeping into your bones,
making it seem as though you only walked outside
in a pair of shorts and a tee-shirt.

Your body begins to numb as the cold starts,
the weakest parts of you losing their feeling first.

Your nose,
your ears,
your cheeks and your face and your fingers,
all becoming completely numb,
as if they aren't there anymore.

And then your legs stiffen up,
and you have trouble walking,
even though you try so hard to keep moving,
because you know if you stop, you're doomed.

But you lose your ability to function,
the cold causing almost complete ****** paralysis,
and no matter how hard you try,
it's impossible to keep moving.

You fall to the ground,
curling into a ball in the snow,
trying to keep yourself warm,
but the cold is too much.

And as the hypothermia sets in,
your brain tricks you into thinking you're actually warm,
and you strip off the layers that were the only thing
keeping you alive.

And then it's over.
Connor Oct 2017
I

-dulcimer clatter opens the sun, first fruit-

timber fathoms/crystal veils
on all steps, crossing all human borders

untethering wood
from forest, until only the green element remains
to purify the soul

   an alpine afterimage, shadow-display
(creature of Earth, moss-backed & yowling thru the chaotic sleep
of October, you see it's symbology in your tea, sharpening its
obsidian hands against the seastones,
imprinting loveliness into the rock, to be worn by tides,
replaced by death absolute)

The fabled Black Horse (shadow-self) waiting solitary at a
gas station, an imprisoned dreamer inside
its gaping jaw/saturnine, coldness
of daybreak, clouds at their Atelier, my head
feels a pressure, been awake too long,
breathing in through the nose/out through
mouth, monastery of the mind in need of clearing.

II

Soft/soft/skin/fury
embrace, catharsis, collision of
two individual energies
pent-up and cast/release
like a skeleton net::onfire
(kissed, consumed
elated, recurrance)

closeted eternities
cycling back into the
wind (hanging willow)
calling to the seeker, gold,
purification & lightness/mouthcurl washed in silence
(your own body, rising tide)

welcomed crucible of chilling air
& my black and
white vessel,
  electricity spirit-
whispers
        “valley swimmer, elude me”
FLASH OF LIGHT


III

…. The widewaking world
unspun-
                            theatric elucidation,
emergence of a great snake
a wisened flower, sprouted from exile

blissful rejuvination of
the ivory leaves, at once!

I wrap my throat in a Munich scarf
(pattern-blue)
   walking upon the softness of
Grötzingen (angel's eyes speaking)
an orchard, where the last gardener's tireless
work lay like a dreaming ossuary
ivory Jun 2010
this is what its like. its like holding your breath underwater. its like wandering with no destination. its like a narrow corridor, drink this and you will be small enough to fit through it. its like almost tripping over the unexpected rise in the sidewalk. its like that moment when you catch yourself right before your face collides with the cement. its like the cement itself, gray and watching happiness hanging just above. its like keeping the stare of a stranger. you cant stop but if you look away too soon youll make the silence awkward. its like the hunger of a girl who refuses to eat. progress hurts so good. its like taking a sip of red wine. its like an accidentally-on-purpose confrontation. its like a summer sun shower, it rains when its the brightest. its like the taste of strawberries, and the tiny seeds get stuck in your teeth. its like biting your nails after you've finally grown them out. its like a movie that takes you in its grip and doesnt let you go. its like the rolling credits where youre still intoxicated from it. its like...."yeah im writing a blog." "whats it about?" "i...dont really know. it's like, poetry, or something." its like a subliminal message, its telling you straight to your face, its right in front of you, but you're oblivious. its like the air that pinches your arms in autumn. its like the scarf you tie around your neck. its like the stones you believe will affect you somehow, will lend you their powers. its like finally, looking forward to something, or something like it.
© AlyssiaAnderson

Awkward reactions encouraged.
Stu Harley Aug 2016
when
the
sky
wears her
magic blue scarf
i
would like to
go there
Carrillo May 2017
Inconceivably generous. I am deliberate. ill-chosen, splintered, and imposed on. As a degenerate, I summon the Master's actions to justify my behavioral grit. My consciousness is as mixed as a Montrachet, yet my heart is as bold as a cheap Malbec.

What is so gently placed before you
Is a hideous manifestation of my world views. Skip the introductions-- pas de deux let's rendezvous into a drunken abyss of "I love you" and when I call to say something is missing-- it's been about 6 shots of regret and a couple of packs of loneliness.

I am like the tear in your sheets. I can make you feel warm until your body meets the open seam. Like that scarf you had around your neck that did not quite hide the marks that I left.

I am Inconceivably generous. I am deliberate. ill-chosen, splintered, and imposed on.
Ron Gavalik Jan 2019
The guy who wore a scarf at the bar,
he chose not to write
because he's ‘no Hemingway.’
I told him no one stops me.
Memories of Ginsberg, Frost, Thomas,
and even Bukowski's drunken ghost
make me feel at home in my words.
That didn't change the guy's mind,
so I told him to drink up
and do something else.

-Ron Gavalik
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2012
Our Town

This is a reminisce exclusively dealing with childhood so let’s skip about the hood
Were any of you standing in the alley at Rudows Friday night with a raffle trying to win a pony?
I never won but by the picture she shared Donna had a horse to ride thanks to her shutter bugging
We have a photo journal of sorts that preserve our precious memories and I thought Reed handled it
I guess he holds the distinction for Pana news Photography and over the years has done a fine job
Can’t forget George’s how about Mr. murry from murry’s TV skating at Price skating rink I bet every one
Got one of those famous rides home Mr. Price and his wife would have that little truck full almost
Dragging the bottom and I swear it didn’t matter where you lived you had a free ride home. That was
Pana sorry girls will leave you out a moment but Whities pool hall any one for cut throat or a little game
In the back, or watch his son the pool shark clean out a sucker who tried to beat Greg. I could never get
My head around and miss prim and proper school teacher misses white is mother and wife all those
Years if she went there she was dressed like Jackie Onassis dark sunglasses London fog rain coat and
Head scarf remember those I don’t care there are two killer women one in a silk colorful head scarf and
A long haired beauty in a cow boy hat I guess it would look better in jeans. Can’t leave this out on that
Note a long skip out of our town into our country Colorado Springs at a chevron gas station sorry here I
Go boy talking this vision picture Raquel Welch I can’t believe I didn’t miss spell her name I got from
School what was important then add Sophia Loren blue jeans so tight if she gave you change and
Dropped a coin and hit those pants any where dude, do some serious ducking because its ricochet time
That sounds French how appropriate those French think of everything even the speech therapist at
Lincoln school wa la one heart attack at a time please even this flash light I use to type in the dark is
Getting hot back to this vision now finish with a Dolly Parton top without going to a weird extreme then
Long black raven hair and don’t dare ask me what did she sound like who was listening my Cherokee
Eyes probably were clear back past my ears. Then the most gorgeous cooperies skin I want to know how
In the red man’s crap did they lose, First Colorado and then the rest of the war? Well I had my own set
Of problems the girl in the my car would have been a little up tight if I would have hailed her a cab it was
A long way back to Pana and I don’t think this was a liberal section of Colorado Springs where her
Husband over in the gas station would let his wife date. By this time I didn’t look to bad and I started
My life long effort of mastering the use of words but on the inside I was pretty much a dufus I will take
An out the stars were not lined up I couldn’t even figure out some way if only the gas tank would run
Down the gutter you no a never filled tank well two things my jaw was tired of laying on the ground and
Wearing a gas hose and nozzle for a necktie I didn’t think I could pull it off literally sorry after that
Recounting this fool isn’t going back to our town as the hippie mixed with a beatnik would say I’m gone.
Jawad Aug 2023
Where are you?
Let me find you

Leave me a sign

A handkerchief on thorny roses
A candle on your window
A note on my porch
A scarf with your scent
A clue with a friend
A carving on some wood

Open up

Say something that discloses
The tears on your pillow
The reason you torch
The letters of contempt
You chose not to send
Although you could

I don’t get it

What can be the causes
For burning me with sorrow
For making my heart scorch
For making it attempt
To willfully upend
This beautiful cruel love?

I need a signal..
Still waiting and wondering
Samm Marie Nov 2016
I thought someone like you
Could never like someone like me
So I didn't want to cave in
Didn't want to feel anything for you
But then you outstretched your hand
So I placed mine there
I didn't think you'd be weaving our fingers together
I thought coloring was just
A normal day in the neighborhood
"I want this one"
You leaned over my paper,
Pointing at that zing sag scarf
"To be red and green,
Like Christmas"
I didn't realize our chairs were touching
I thought it was an accident
That our thighs were together too
I thought an invitation to
Church was an act of discipling
And that you wouldn't be too
Bummed if I couldn't make it today
I thought someone like you
Could never like someone like me
But hey,
I guess I thought wrong
evokes memory.

hung on  a chair,
plush velvet, sheen and colour,
plum with lace.

sparkling neckline.

the scarf, subdued blue hangs
over. i kept looking

at the contrast while
they talked.

there is another dress
i have drawn.

not photographed.

sbm.
Sophie Herzing Dec 2015
It was May, but we drove out to the shore
anyway in my big sweater and purple
cotton scarf wrapped around my neck,
holding it up to my chin as we waited
for the heat to start up in the car. My breath
looked like a cloud when I laughed, my lips
two inches from yours as I pulled
you by the strings of your black sweatshirt.
I grabbed two bags of sour patch kids, trying
to throw them sideways into your mouth
as you drove, a scattered trail of neon green
and yellow left on the foot mat under
the wheel, two our three
stuck between the crease in your seat.
I know it wasn't sunny, but I swear it tried
to peak through the overcast, or maybe the gray
sheen of it off the pavement is what made
your face shine. Your black hair looked so cool
on your pale skin, yelling at me to get
my ***** red sneakers off the dashboard. I tried
to write a little poem on your hand
with my fingers as it traced your bones
like a maze while you let it rest on the console.
We played that CD from that band I didn't know
you loved, and I promise I ******* up all the words,
but I just like to hear your try to sing over me.

I made you swear not to splash me
when we tried to let the ocean kiss
our toes, a salty welcome to the love affair
I had with the way you made me bite
my lip when I almost smiled too much
at the way your eyes moved when you talked
about one of your favorite things or about
how big the ocean was and how small
you were, even if you never said it just
like that. I could tell what you meant.
You did it anyway. The water was so cold
on my cheeks, my ribs clashing into one
another like a song my head hadn't had
the time to learn yet. You held them
in place while holding me. You kissed
the summer from my lips and asked
the sun to come out just for a moment
while I made tiny castles out of pink shells
and faded driftwood pieces leftover
from the winter. We ran out of iced tea
so we drank each other in, in layers,
on the sand with our jeans rolled
up to our ankles, letting the mask
of almost blue skies envelope us
in a Saturday afternoon spent
figuring out little things like old
memories or each other's favorite movies.
Sarah Oct 2015
Stand by,
feel the warmth,
of the flame
burning like a
bulb in
me
My love,
stand by,
put your hands
out, in the
night to
warm your
frozen
fingers
against the
fire,
Oh god,
pull your gloves off.
Your hat off.
Your jacket and
your scarf.
Pull back your sweater and
all the blinds that keep your
love contained,
your love
hidden from
me-

I know you're in there.

Where there's a match,
there's potential,
an undeveloped inferno,
the conviction of
a heaven draped in
light that fills the
spaces in your
wreckage.

I'll strike you 1,000 times
to
pull you out
from the dark.
Jae Elle Mar 2013
I nearly wrote in the year
as "2010"
where is my mind
once again?


tangled up in bed sheets
& the mess of his
hair
his scarf smells like an
old house
& cold mountain air


he arrived with
bare feet
a pharmacy in his
backpack


I kissed his clammy
forehead
& traced my fingers
down his
back

— The End —