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Madeline Oct 2011
there's a pimple on my left cheekbone
and one of my brows is plucked
a little thinner than the other.
the only makeup on my face
is the black on my eyelashes
my eyes
burst
green.
my mouth (my rosebud mouth, my mother
smiles) like a slightly opened
slightly troubled
bow.
my brow is furrowed
my eyes are searching
one of my ring-and-bracelet hands
holds back my hair  (short)
and my elbow
rests.
i look at myself,
head-tilting, quick-sketching
the curves of my features
in a single line of ultra-fine Sharpie.

what you see is what you get.

my eyes frown into themselves
through the mirror.
i am long
i am lanky
i am lovely.
i am a little lost
and very found
i am angsty
i am achey
i am laughing
i am me -
if you only look at yourself for a second
you tend to miss
how beautiful you are.
it isn't my vanity.
it's the universal, and most unbelieved
truth.

i brush back my hair
and i puff my cheeks out.
i sigh, and i look at myself
in the cheap mirrors set out
on the art-room tables.
"not bad," i say to the single line of ultra-fine Sharpie-version of my face.
and it isn't.
even though
i left out the pimple.
I’m nothing more
Than a bore
As all my stuff
Are shitfully sad
Can’t make you laugh.

I’m just a plain bore
For almost always
I knock your door
With a mourning face
Not finding laughter’s address.

I wish I could write stuff
To make you rollingly laugh
Belly ripping laughs
Choked in coughs
Yet never enough.

I’m a bore
A failure
Time and again
Only sketching sadness
Pity
Deformity
Never giving you a laughing recess.
jonchius Sep 2015
entering year 2000
rewinding vhs tape
installing napster client
anticipating victorious gore
bursting dot-com bubble
blocking tomorrow's nostalgia
commemorating festival tragedy
examining supersonic concorde
watching election coverage
recounting inconvenient truths
puzzling interface design
booing nuc-u-lar president

rising black monolith
editing non-linear encyclopedia
feeling inaugurally bushed
reliving century's dawn
unchanging state flag
processing royal massacre
escaping insane asylum
sensing impending collapse
perusing city guide
collapsing contemporary structures
initiating quixotic peacekeeping
ignoring conscription threats

entering year 2002
reporting unfortunate pearl
relaxing shotgun porch
exploding roadside bombs
addressing thousand followers
hugging financial meltdown
writing resembling skylines
shocking archipelagic bursts
processing theatrical disaster
tightening homeland security

entering year 2003
proliferating elegant telegnosis
rejecting freedom fries
blazing wartime trails
toppling dictatorial statue
unfurling "mission accomplished"
handling continental blackout
ejecting coronal masses

entering year 2004
flashing multiple sobriquets
populating dorm-roomy website
high-grossing aramaic movie
generating tunnel vision
rushing national anthem
parading goth athletes
letting games begin
accepting soviet passports
continuing obscure flumadiddle
lunar-eclipsing world series
two-terming republican regime
declining personality cult
glowing orange revolution
eroding periglacial drumlins
inundating lacustrine basins
exciting geomorphological processes
enduring tumultuous tsunami

entering year 2005
blasting "galvanize" repeatedly
unforgiving cyclonic scenario
printing controversial drawing
sketching cartoon prophet
overturning hurricane alphabet
rigging medal count
preparing new horizons
rejecting flash sites

entering year 2006
setting plutonian destination
synchronizing new horizons
sighting stellar foison
maintaining feudal system
emerging microblogging service
reading ancient tweets
rotating golden statue
mounting social debt
protesting planetary demotion
forecasting catastrophic recession
executing "innocent" dictator

entering year 2007
declining share prices
building ruby railroad
lifting presidential term-limits
perpetuating oil-rich dictatorships
falling interstate bridge
slugging giant bonds
clothing blackwater mercenaries
disappearing internet personalities
unforgiving writers strike

entering year 2008
stealing variable thunders
relaxing domain names
letting games continue
exploding sunrise propane
requesting birth certificate
electing another suit
disappointing orthodox republicans
microblogging maximal meltdown

entering year 2009
inaugurating new president
encountering bear markets
cackling risible laughter
dying pop king
deleting neolithic internet

entering year 2010
collapsing presidential palace
prospering cinematic avatar
pronouncing eyjafjallajökull effortlessly
"kettling riot police
flaming cop cruiser"
blasting text-based vuvuzelas
leaking diplomatic cables
fading pre-twitter memories
self-immolating street vendor

entering year 2011
"enervating nine-point quake
propagating harbor wave
inundating nuclear plant
irradiating unclear fates"
raging mid-eastern spring
throwing body asea
locating trojan asteroid
penetrating financial throughfare
resonating oral amplifier
blazing verdant material

entering year 2012
rising chubby dictator
gentrifying weird twitter
exploding next month
intriguing "fake" passport
proliferating single-hued avatars
surging sandy cyclone
inhabiting alternate universe
manipulating another election
rigging people's ballots
perpetuating manipulated world
fulfilling megalomaniac urges
surviving previous apocalypse
surviving another baktun

entering year 2013
descending rogue meteor
encoding festival weekend
obfuscating's very own
approving snow den
searching yaya island
soaking wet veld

entering year 2014
missing plane geometry?
annexing peninsular territory
printing powdered medication
forecasting meteoric boomtime
prevailing monochromatic identity
avoiding aviation accidents
determining auspicious date
revising deactivation plans
reliving years 2000-2014
Graff1980 Apr 2015
It was about fifteen years ago
No romantic notions
No grand stories
Just another part of my strange journey
For a high school dropout

It was a wooden bed
In a blue storage trailer
One and a half month long
Sleep deprived
Long drive
From site to site
One week
Per city
Doing my laundry
At laundry matts
With strange pretty girls
Hanging at a bar
Playing slutty slot machines
No drinking
Cause I was only nineteen

It was two vets
From different wars
Smoking *** in the morning
It was my first *** buzz
Staring stupidly up
At the ceiling
The strangest set of strangers
Bathing in the back of a semi
Getting lunch with a lemon punch
Using carny credit

It was sketching for a distraction
No artistic satisfaction
Very few journal entries
And those journals are now lost
Searching for myself
As all young men do
In the end it was just another job
Amitav Radiance Sep 2014
Your precious words are an echo
Of what the heart wants to say
Only to find voice through the ink
Which fills up the blank pages
Sketching a picture with words
The echo is etched forever
OC Sep 2018
You say

“How lucky are we to be in love”

And I say

In toil, and sweat, and dedication
In devotion, humility and sacrifice
In the will to grow and change together

There is no luck

To call it luck is to believe in
An unseen guiding hand
Sketching fates out of a whim

To call it luck is to say
That the universe funneled us together
Carried like leaves on its
Roaring cascading surge

It is like shuffling all cards
Back to suites laid in ascending order
And drawing from the top the queen of hearts

And how can that be as magical

As wonderful

As two people, that choose to
Unravel their old selves
Then embrace, and meld together

To fashion a new whole
Universal Thrum Mar 2014
A bird flew in through my closet
I had to let it go
out the window, it flew into the morning

Buzzing chatter sin and spirits
madly the dance carries on
inane questions with one word answers
reporting the days trivialities
carrying the glass
the deluge of phenomenon strikes at the quick
a deepening glacier through the amber halls
Independent motives form a scarlet solstice
The corner punch
a late coming truth
wrapped around a fly town mule to be found after the chips were down
and the explosives tucked onto a full chest
ticking away the blood buzz
Deceipt is easily repeated
Betrayal is a child's game of hide and seek
take the vows to the woodshed
smoke out the liar and the instigators
tell the mayor and the pauper that the world is burning
and to strangle honesty in a warm blanket, twisting the service
manipulating truth to serve ***** ends
Oh Mystic Mama of children unborn and never met

Chitter Chatter Chitter Chatter Chitter Chatter
platinum blonde birdies
chickies, full breasted youth fresh out of the nest
peep peep peep
sonic cataclysm reigning groove puckered lips and loose necks floating on a string in the whistling gale
My cornered ambition surveying doorways to fate, kind and cursed
the runestone heart scrying destiny
torchlight in a catacomb
smokefunk in a polar vortex
Lions patiently gaze savannas, so shall I, wait for the moments prompting,
a glance, a smile, the eyes are portals to new beginnings
will ours meet in time-space, energetic bridges spanning fate
feeling the flowing force flowering
a daisy, a rose
the scent of burning sage sealed into my clothing, my musk
open your palm now
kyanite slips from mine
polluted temples housing pure souls
speak of fires and nooks and warm bellies full of honey liquor stretched across a bear skin rug, naked,
run your fingers through my thick pelt of curly fur
let me taste your cold smokey lips
take a drag of you
inhaling embers that burn my throat with your incendiary nature

The grey lady of the mirror invites the forgotten man to the palace of pain,
entering into a crystal ballroom dancing blindly into past circumstance marauding as purpose and plan, dusty photographs and scratched records

Lean against the wooden ledge and dream of what could be
crusted sea salt collecting on unspoken thoughts
Nauseous vectors pulling weight against the grainy side
a sigh, a bored youth hidden deep inside
Come children, sway to the intoxicated beat
the pied piper of jazz rolls our frolicking feet steeped in cement
rebellious laughter pours out of aged caskets
barrels of wine flow forth into puddles on the street reflecting the twisted value of the vine, constant motion pretending to be holy endeavors of self conscious people flailing for purpose

Vast desert, without voice
only eyes, silent eyes
hands reporting, sketching symbols
code for a future age
Names and labels filling conceptual minds
Bass groove melting into permeable streams of fluid conversation,
as the wood beams stare silently above reflecting the glow of a mid-winter lantern on a snowy street
nimbly, we punctuate and nod in this, our confused jungle of intention
suddenly, the face of God appears at a crowded bar with jazz and a morraca's hiss
Wild sweet Annie goes down easy with the Corner Punch lost in Lucey's Summer
taking a last ride to Courtland alone along the Mazerac mile riding that same Fly Town Mule on Sunday
Visions of Columbia and Ohio Gold send Blood Buzzing into my dome
With every Call the desire rises for the forsaken, like a memory wrapped in past life
With every stranger passing through the entry way, my hunger for the liar grows, thirsting water from the dead
Conor Letham Mar 2012
You would cry like there was no end,
tears dipping in the broken smile
until they clung on the very outline.
We were sat in the morning shade,
sketching me with your lead
in hand; you see me. I’m empty.

Across the field the thickets were empty,
the crisped, golden summer would end
as though the teeming life were mislead.
The sun would fade like your smile,
then only a glimpse would escape the shade

and stay with me as a furtive outline,
inescapable in nightmares. This outline
leaves my bed covers breathless and empty,
waiting for your hand to guide. You lead.
I question whether this will end:
When will you stop taunting me with a smile
unable to slide, sketch and shade?

I’d try to broach the shadow of the shade,
yet my eye cannot catch you. Just an outline
of that torn heart is left in the smile
leaving the space more than empty
until I decide to have it end
by picking up the scattered bits of lead.

Across the golden fields I would lead,
looking back onto the folds of the shade.
The tall grass would make my gaze end,
leaving our tree grazing over the outline.
The field’s thickets were undoubtedly empty.
I head on home. I can still see the smile.

In our child I can see your smile,
as it was before you were misguidedly lead
and left me here feeling alone, empty.
I see on the walls how you used to shade,
how darkness clung to the drawing’s outline.
There I see that you knew light would end.

You always seem to end with the same smile.
I am the outline that you embrace with shades
until the skin is lead. You left me empty.
Justin Lai May 2021
TBD
A boy, sketching

         His friends, fellow neighbours, skinny dipping

This is not the first time,
      but what is indeed new are the imprints
                                  of streams, droplets;
                                        yelps, giggles;
                      the force of a tumbling body,
                                   or limbs on limbs,
    shivers and waves in his very young heart.

       He finds his nib forming strange contours,
               fingers tracing the imprints as much as his
                  eyes could picture,

          only to tear the paper, later,
             ripping out a flat, grimacing tangle of lines,
                   his friend, grotesque on canvas.

     Night beckons;
              his sketch, made anew, alive as
                     he lay within burgeoning wants
                           that he never wished
                                        before
Soundtrack: Alexandra Stréliski - Plus tôt
sincurlyxbaki Oct 2013
at the age of 6 my heart thumped and my pulse ran, trying to save itself from you.
i might’ve been young and you were too, but still my heart thumped.
i started to get the idea of your presence.
even though the memory faded and your face did too, i will never forget you.

when i reached the age of 8, i distinctly remember you asking my name. & my mind froze.
my tongue turned the other way, i had forgotten my manners but still in my mind i was responding.
even though we exchanged thoughts, and i had forgotten to tell you my name – i still remember you.
i always replayed memories we never made, sounds strange but i was only a kid, i was only subloving. my heart kept thumping.

and then when i was 10, i started to recognize the way you form your thoughts and paint them for the world to see.
i stared for hours at your masterpieces, i didn’t understand but still i wanted more.
i became addicted to your voice.
you were once hurt by words, words that cut through your skin like a thin blade. you were broken, yet you still lived.
my heart kept thumping for you. i respected that.

at 12 – beautiful age 12, i watched you as you sat on a bench sketching a tree in colors of black and white. i admired you. i liked the way you formed a smile, and i loved the passion in your eyes, and the ambition you had for life.
you gave your heart to art, and loved conversation.
even though right now we’re miles away, the memories will always stay.
we never spoke, but our eyes did, i remember us exchanging metaphors with our eye lids.
my heart has your name engraved.

then came 14, and i learned about real love. keep your cool love, don’t be scared to say **** love, express yourself even if nobody cares love, this is not forever love, you’re just a kid love.
you taught me that love.
although that love choked me, i still had that ‘i don’t care, **** it im young’ love.
you taught me to respect me, and love the ripples i feel when my heart hurts.
you deserve the thank you kinda love.
i was reluctant to embrace those feelings, but i guess right now i can hold myself down.

but my biggest mistake was forgetting 16, i started to fall in love with the way you articulated your words. your speech pattern was beyond my words.
your footsteps was all i wanted to follow.
my only wish is for you to see yourself through my eyes, through my world and you would finally understand why my heart was thumping.

im desperately waiting for 18.

i learned only one thing: nothing gold can stay. nothing lasts forever.
Demi May 2020
One. I ask my Dad what day it is, again. Two. I had a nightmare that our block of flats was exploding whilst I ran away, do you think this reflects my fear of the virus, doc? Three. Chocolate porridge at 2pm, maybe its a bit late for porridge. Four. I think I accidentally chucked my propranolol tablets into the bin. Five. I take a bike ride round the village and I get intrusive thoughts about knocking over old people, on purpose, for fun. Six. I’m back to the flat and the ceiling looks like it’s lower than usual, did I grow a few inches? Seven. I can’t remember the last time I saw Emma, must have been when she cried in Wetherspoons, someone crying with you is better than no friend. Eight. My breathing turns shallow I think, I check my symptoms. Nine. I imagine dying of it and look back at my twenty-five years like a montage and get really overwhelmed and then I start to watch an old Mickey Mouse cartoon on my laptop. Ten. I just spotted a really plump pigeon outside. Eleven. Is this how hamsters feel, trapped inside with a few things to stimulate them. If so, I’m so sorry Martin (my old hamster). Twelve. The frustration sets in like thick molasses filling in the grooves of my soft brain. Thirteen. I turn to drawing and just end up sketching a huge mouth swallowing a rat. Fourteen. It’s bedtime and I settle down with a book. American ******. Patrick just killed a dog and it set me off sobbing. Fifteen.  I close my eyes and wish for a better day tomorrow. Is it going to be Tuesday or Wednesday?
Prose poem.

Like a red cherry fruit bursts;
into the tiny trunks of your buds;
in a crack of a bright dawn;
until the end of the fading dusk;
you emerge with a shiny
glimpse of a wet mild skin;
Sketching your body shapes
unveiling tempting curves;
so that my soul can whirl;
Sipping through the dry drops;
Yet I drown in my own darkness
of lust in your arms, tasting a drink !
*
BY
WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
williamsji@yahoo.com
www.williamsji.com
www.williamsmaveli­.com
www.williamsgeorge.com
From MICROTHEMES, a collection of lyrics, written by WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
judy smith Apr 2015
After months of preparation — sketching and making patterns, finding and fitting models, cutting and sewing fabrics, arranging makeup and accessories — Cornell University senior Ellen Pyne this weekend will send her fairy-tale themed “Crimson” line down the Cornell Fashion Collective (CFC) runway in a matter of minutes.

Anticipating their moment to shine, Pyne and 35 other student designers have been laboring since last fall to perfect their creations for the 31st CFC runway show, Saturday, April 11, 8 p.m., in Barton Hall. For first-year designers, the event allows them to present a single look on the big stage, whereas seniors like Pyne plan a full collection, hoping it will launch their fashion careers.

“I eat, sleep, go to class and sew,” said Pyne, whose showstopper is a seamless Snow White-inspired dress made entirely out of hand-felted wool. “The collection is a statement of my artistic aesthetic and the culmination of everything I’ve learned over the past four years.”

Working just as diligently are show planners, led by senior CFC president Megan Rodrigues, who are remaking the cavernous Barton Hall field house to host a night of glamour. Since shortly after the curtain closed on last spring’s show, Rodrigues and the CFC executive board have been organizing ticket sales and a heap of other details, including a new runway design will give the expected 2,500 guests a better view of the Cornell student models on the catwalk.

“Through this process, I’ve learned a great deal about leadership, learning to delegate and being able to inspire others to a common goal,” said Rodrigues, who hopes to work in event planning after graduation. “Mostly, I’m excited to see the growth of each designer leading up to the show.”

Designers come largely from the fashion design major in the College of Human Ecology, but students from the College of Engineering and the College of Arts and Sciences will also contribute pieces. A multidisciplinary team will present “Irradiance,” a wearable technology collection that uses sensors and luminescent panels to detect and respond to audio—glowing and dimming in sync with surrounding music. Lead designer and junior Eric Beaudette said that team, which includes Lina Sanchez Botero and Neal Reynolds, doctoral students in fiber science and physics, respectively, hopes to inspire a vision for smart clothing of the future.

In the sesquicentennial spirit, the show will also include a nod to the past. Recalling campus styles dating back to 1865, Denise Green, assistant professor of fiber science and apparel design, will air a short video about an exhibit, “150 Years of Cornell Student Fashion,” currently on display in the Human Ecology Building.

Inspired by art and culture she observed studying abroad in Paris last fall, junior Linnea Fong will present “Infatuated,” luxury evening wear she described as taking on “individual obsession with physical perfection and how that manifests in the fashion industry.” Just days before the show, she’s still modifying parts of her collection, noting that “you just have to figure out how to make your ideas come to life, which is the fun part.”

Concluding the show will be a line by senior Blake Uretsky, recipient of a 2015 Geoffrey Beene National Scholarship from the YMA Fashion Scholarship Fund. Her “Crested Butte” collection of women’s outerwear, a modern twist on vintage 1950s ski clothing, includes “distinctly wearable, yet visually exciting pieces,” she said. Presenting 10 looks, Uretsky’s line incorporates classic silhouettes and wool, corduroy and denim fabrics embellished with laser cuts and other modern techniques.

“Ultimately, I want to design clothes that people love and have a desire to wear,” Uretsky said. “The show will be such a wonderful experience with my family, friends and the Cornell community all supporting my work.”Read more here:marieaustralia.com | www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses
Lucky Queue Sep 2012
One friend is deaf but manages to hear twice as much as I do,
while simultaneously embedding himself in games and genius.
One friend is kind and smart, always complimenting and supporting others before herself.
One friend is quiet, and she is both easily embarrassed
and easily embarrassing.
One friend is the previous friend's brother,
and crushes on me while never saying enough.
One friend is very intelligent and geeky,
and detests wearing skirts even more than I.
One friend is really in your face and dramatic,
pushing the boundaries on everything, but noone hates him.
One friend is the unfortunate brother of a great annoyance, but is her polar opposite.
One friend has hair of constantly changing color;
blue, green, pink, black, yellow, brown,
but always the same hoodie no matter her hair choice.
One friend has a thousand faux laughs,
but guards his true one from the light.
One friend has a mocking joke for everything,
and you can't help but laugh with her.
One friend has a treasured hat and while sketching everyone, everything, and everywhere, lays my insecurities to rest as I do the same for him, both of us in need of some love
and understanding from a kindred spirit.
One friend has an obsession with a band and a book and a show, and an overbubbling enthusiasm for everything in her life.
One friend has a meme for everything,
and a perverse thought for every situation he encounters.
One friend is half blind but she manages to see twice
as much as me and explains everything beautifully.
One friend is crazy and gets away with the exclamation of abraham lincoln in any awkward silence because its just his nature.
One friend is as a mouse, but a genius in every aspect
and hides behind her glasses.
One friend is obnoxiously loud and more of a dork than the gangster his hoodie implies so everyone simply laughs.
One friend smiles like a duck in the cutest way,
and wears her square glasses in the best way.
One friend longs for a love that is loyal
and hide s behind his temperment
So... this isn't *quite* as silly as I initially intended... I am posting this before it's completely finished though, so there will be more added later.
jerard gartlin Feb 2010
i made several etchings in my sketching pad
some wretched reachings at the love we had
with pencils & stencils i outlined our path
but my designs were confined to crimes of the past
filled with charcoal barcodes all sparkling black
the receipts that we keep to compete & compare
arguments we begin just to mend & repair
i yell & yell trying to tell if you're there
but the transactions happened & it's been a year
i'm fading away but i wont disappear
i'm still here
traces of being Feb 2016
.
blue clouds drift lazily
across variegated hues
of aubergine skies

shapeless shades of dark purple
open brilliant framed portals,
urging thoughts
beyond a feeble ray
of dappled light
upon sensual fusion

softly caressing
twilight adorned canvas,
the way moonlight
basks upon
freckled skin

brushing intimate flesh tones
perched atop a swinging star;
sketching the moment
a pink moon’s ebbing tableau

breathless sighs surrendered
in an intimate circadian rhythm,
our mingled moon shadows'
cadence unleashed

glow drops glistening
like heirloom diamond tiara constellations
swimming naked
between the jealous stars



*wild is the wind
Liberty J Feb 2018
My eyes flickered to the left, but swiftly returned back to the blank page. Crickets droned on outside, urging me to do something.

Anything.

“Write of great princes and stunningly beautiful maidens" they chirped.

“No," I rejected the thought immediately, "That's much to chilchè"

“Well, why not draw a romantic sunset, covered in a blanket of pink clouds?" they suggested.

“No," I said once more, “ A romantic sunset deserves color, and I have none to give."

“Perhaps scribble down a poem about stars, and all they do?"

“Stars?" I asked, “All stars do, is fall. It seems my efforts are hopeless, friends." I pushed the paper aside.

“Now, now," Squeaked the crickets, “We mustn't lose hope. How about a sketching a crying child in the rain?"

“No, that won't do," I whispered to them “Now please, keep it down."

“Oh, yes." said the crickets “But wait here, we will be back."

“Where are you going?" I asked, but with no response. The crickets had hopped away.

---

“Hello Claire.” A mouse greeted me.

“Oh, hello mouse. I’m glad you have visited, but why have you come?” I pet between her ears.

“The crickets sent me to help.” She stated.

“The crickets?” I asked, “But this was supposed to be secret…” I said under my breath.

“Yes, yes.” The mouse rolled her eyes and smiled at me, “This will remain unknown, trust me.”

“Thank you mouse.” I turned back to the paper, “What do you suggest?”

“Hmm…” The mouse paused for a moment of thought. “Draw a world so small, it fits on a page.”

“No,” I repeated, “That's much to distant.”

“Very well.” The mouse squeaked, “Why not write a story about true love?”

“No,” I recited “A story like that deserve love, and I have not to give.”

“Alright, alright.” said the mouse, annoyed, “Oh, how about a poem about hope?”

I sighed. “All hopes do, is die. This effort is worthless mouse.”

“Come now, don’t give in.” The mouse encouraged, “Um… Maybe a tall tale? About a silly girl with pigtails?”

“No, that won’t do,” I whispered, “Now please, quiet down!”

“Stop being paranoid,” said the mouse, “now stay here, I’ll be back.”

“No mouse!” I called out, “Where are you going?” I turned to reach for her, but she was gone.

---

“Hello Claire.” A crow perched mightily on my windowsill.

“Oh, well hello doctor.” I greeted him politely. “What brings you here this evening?”

“The mouse sent me.” The crow cawed.

“Mouse?” I whispered to myself, wondering how long this had to go on.

“Now then, I like to keep things short, so let's get to work.” the crow said with soulless eyes.

“A-alright then sir.” I whimpered, with a sense of pity. “What do you suggest?”

“Write a story about far off lands with world peace.” He droned.

“No, that's much to unrealistic.”

“Very well,” He adjusted his foot balance. “Draw a series of spectacular places.”

I shook my head, “But doctor, that deserves accuracy, and I have none to give.”
“Hmph” The crow grumbled, “Write a poem about birds, and how we are so free.” He boasted.

“All birds do, is fly.” I said, looking  hopelessly at my blank paper.

“Than perhaps write about how foolish you are.” He spat, and flew away.

“No, Doctor!” I stood and leaned out the window, “But I need help!” I cried, but he had flown too far to hear me.

---

“How are you Claire?” A cat creeped in the room.

“Oh, hello cat.” I sat back down at my desk. “I’m doing well, other than my very blank paper.” I sighed.

“How unfortunate.” The cat stretched out across the floor. “Would you like my help?”

“Oh yes, if you don’t mind.” I steadied myself in my chair.

“Alright.” The cat said, “Have you tried seeing something inspiring?”

“Something inspiring?” I shook my head, “I don’t know anything that would look inspiring.”

“Well.” Cat began to lick his tail, “ Have you tried listening to something beautiful?”

“Something beautiful?” I asked, “I don’t know anything that would sound beautiful.”

“Alright” The cat looked confused, “Um, what about smelling something good?”

“Something good?” I looked down, “I don’t know anything that would smell good.”

“Strange.” The cat stood, “Then why not leave the paper blank?” The cat said, leaving the room.

“Nothing at all?” I looked to the cat, but he was gone. “That’s not a bad idea…” I said, leaving the room.
Amitav Radiance Dec 2014
Sketching the life’s anecdotes
With a heavy charcoal pencil
Weight of regret trudges along
Smudging the present feelings
The lines of the palm are hidden
Behind thick darkness of charcoal
Haze of blackness colors everything
Regrets leave an indelible mark
Hard to erase the deep trail of regret
George Anthony Apr 2017
drawing, soft grey lines against off-white paper
scultping his face with delicate arcs,
the stroke that tells a story: an artist
that fell in love with their subject

that was the plan.

twelve of the longest minutes of my life
tipped half upside down,
face pressed into metal bars—no, not a metaphor
actual metal bars.

left arm wedged between body and bed,
heartbeat hammering in my throat
echoing in my head, pulse jumping
in my neck. stop

playing hop scotch at the hinge of my jaw

i remember the shape of your teeth,
passionate, possessive,
marking me as yours.
but here's the truth

as reality faded around me
save for the thrum of my existence
and the caress of piano notes,
i was alone. my own.

i've never belonged to myself more
than just there, half on my bedroom floor
dissociating from everything but
my scattered thoughts and

proof of the life in my veins
pumping and beautiful but
also ... pain, so much of it
acknowledging life and its fleetingness

swift and soft, that's how i want to go.
i lost myself to my own head for an hour
wondering if life is as grey and removable
as the carbon collected on off-white papers

huddled together between a fold of black leather,
a universe with a beginning and an end,
both are black and definite as each other
are we linear or rounded? are we exploding

every billionth year, a billion billion billion suns
burning so far away we have to call them stars—
maybe that's why you're my star light
and i'm the darkness you keep bright

and hopeful, maybe

this wasn't supposed to be a love poem
but it feels like one anyway
who are you? i don't know who i'm writing to
i just remembered

see, i dissociated again; i don't mean to forget you

"you can't think while you're faded"?
i'm telling you i can
can't move, can't live, but think?
i sure as hell can, sure as hell do, sure as hell

it's hell sometimes
though not tonight.
i didn't feel quite so turbulent,
listening to my bloodstream and

okay, there is a limit, i'll give you that
i admit i lost some time
i wish i'd lost myself in sketching but
i lost myself in my mind

i only knew it'd been an hour
by the time stamp on my timeline
who says social media is useless? not i
i know how many minutes slipped into the void

oh how i envy them,
thoughtless and forgotten and empty of feeling.
i'd take my brushes and paint me into the sky
if i thought it might take me to heaven

artist i am, fell in love with my muse
but my mind's a two timer,
slipping off to spend time with darkness
even as my heart screams in my chest

*"what about your star light? what about your life?"
This is a 2 AM, brain fogged mess.
Eulalie Jan 2014
I wasn't supposed to be your passing fancy—
Your pretty little doting thing
who heels to your every beck and call
and reels and daydreams obsessively—
I wasn’t supposed to succumb to romanticizing notions
at all;
I wasn’t meant to fall
in love with a stranger who’s impossible to love
because you’re way the **** over there
living a life while I’m in the corner of my room sketching out your
holy doves—
Tell me: how is this fair?
That I can’t have you and hold you and have you hold me
I can’t tell if you’ve actually grown distant
or bored or indifferent or
have this secret building desire to just sign off
and flee—
I’m always pining away for you,
I hope you’d see
That my heart has always been yours
And it’s breaking in your hands,
Ultimately.
You didn't tell me you loved me today.
xxxxx Aug 2016
he's stand still,
teeth gritting, frozen and captivating
wishing you were as outstanding
the thoughts are thrilling
stone cold, lining the gums
numbing every thought and tooth
another quarter in the phone booth,
short of breath
never winning
he's watching every move you make
making you wish you could rewrite the storyline
but happy endings only happen in fairy tales
another glass slipper, a promising kiss of eternity
the cusp of where his cheekbone meets the tuck of his smile on the side of his face has me thinking how lines can meet and get lost, just like a poisoned Apple meets the lips of purity
Adam and Eve had problems, but even
children of God inhale sins and exhale reality
because he is beautiful and still,
but I will always be everlasting, exhausting the  feeling of empathy.
but I'm still trying to remember every line that combined his every ****** expression.
Stuck on his side profile like its the last sunset before dawn.
he's still again, he's capturing my creativity, I'm sketching his lips, I'm understanding the breaks in between his breaths and the tide,
my teeth become loose, salt seeps in every crack,
burying them beneath the nape of his jawline,
where the thoughts of him began and ended.
his jawline is sketched in my mind
in my mind,
in my mind
David L Thomas Oct 2010
There is a moment
    When sunlight bathes the trees
    And your thoughts
    My dear, dear friend
    Invade me.

    You seem to love the morning
    When our room is cool
    And paper, pen and attitude
    Anchor an old fool
    Bowing  fore  your witness
    Reaching out for lines
    Winding towards your inner life
    And sketching it in rhymes.
    So soft your silent whispers
    But clear and hardly grave
    Patiently you  elevate
    These aging earthbound ways.
    Why such generosity
    Beloved friend of messy me?
    Perhaps. . .
    When time is near an end
    And meeting on a star
    You will share your name
    Down here and how
    I knew you then.
    Until that  day when music plays
    Around and through our souls
    We  grasp the air and strain
    To hear the cadence of your strolls
    As we hope to be so still
    And clearly hear your voice.
    So busy we remain
    Both supplicants and prey
    Chasing our discordant days
    Contradictions near  your side
    As sunlight bathes the morning trees
    With songs of immortality.
    May we always walk  afar
    Singing with a morning star
    Reuniting earth with heaven
    Brothers in this  house forever.
copyright 2010
Stephan Sep 2016


Somber brushes touch the canvas
Mystic in a timeless flow
Shadows cast of tinted pleasures
Mingled with a crimson glow

Strokes to tempt the lonely hearted
Framed in every passion’s plea
Bristles lightly dream emotions
Still an emptiness I see

Slowly found of definition
Sketching scenes in morning song
Palette fueled imagination
Blushing as the day is long

Feel the warmth of subtle colors
Cast your eyes so open wide
Drench yourself in vibrant reaches
Wander as you step inside

This design of love now crafted
Frantic with my own two hands
Desperately in light and texture
Created so you understand

Lines connect in patterns woven
Gathering as pastels show
Seeking but to feel your smile
Painting this so you will know
Kuzhur Wilson May 2014
After the morning walk,
While returning,
Bought two bananas from the tea shop

While eating it,
Tried sketching the person
Who cultivated it, in my imagination

Where would the farmer
Who grew the bananas
That I am eating now, be?

Will he be sleeping
Or farming?

Will he be

While thinking about the farmer,
Remembered father, who was an agriculturist himself

Pity!

It was necessary to buy a banana
For this ungrateful seed
To remember its own cultivator!
Translation : Anitha Varma
County seat, of Mason County, Washington,
United States Westernmost city on Puget Sound
above ground sans tectonic plates Population 9,834
per 2010 census end result from biological mates
maintains commission form of government
drafted by mandates.

Shelton served by small steamboats
comprising Puget Sound Mosquito Fleet
Old Settler, Irene, Willie, City of Shelton,
Marian, Clara Brown, & S.G. Simpson
logging, farming, dairying, ranching

& oyster cultivation for populace to eat
Simpson Timber Company mill on
Puget Sound's Oakland Bay over yon
dominates landscape of the downtown area
as essential heart beat Shelton identifies
the "Christmas Tree Capital" sold by the ton.

47°12′49″N 123°6′22″W (47.213702, -123.106088)
coordinate bench mark
total area of 5.9 square miles (15 km2),
of which 5.6 square miles (15 km2) land
0.3 square miles (0.78 km2) (5.60%)

water laps with an occasional errant shark
in a pinch captured, processed and canned
a delicacy that fin de siecle bony illegal
***** fined by the oceanic arc.

well nigh two decades in the past
this poet trekked across America
beginning in a place called Gap
Pennsylvania  - where stockpile
of Amish goodies barely did last

and vanished in a gingerly snap
of fingers, which necessitated
sustenance when van fueled i.e. gassed
up while myself or other driver stole short nap

seduced to sleep by syncopated tires
as highway miles passed inching closer
to youngest sister via this linear transcontinental lap
destination Seattle Washington indigenous
iconic statue cast.

Ronald Strickland a fine companion
Boone storyteller to boot about my age then
(five decades plus two), him trying to rake
in loot by writing about his travels, yet
unpretentious and no square at root

perhaps one day, I will surprise him
with a call and give him a toot
though on might deign to bellow
while atop the snow capped Mount Rainier

Taking in the august magic crystalline beauty
all year round:
 
whereat snowfall etches silhouette once dusk shed daylight
sketching in natural bas relief ascension from horizon
to heavenly height albedo effect from glistening snow light
luminescence transforming night into blinding sight
from pure flakes of incandescent white.
(Pardon the ramblings of a delirious (ly happy, almost...arisen (not in a religious way) rider of this reality.
I almost used an Oxford comma up in there oops yes I'm slow. Too ****** bad if it's not fast enough for you

And it obviously will include you in some way it seems if you aren't too ****** at me to find out. You are weirdest chameleon wizard thing ever laid my eyes and my hands on and I know you love to read this stuff so there you go my dear, I'm beyond impressed

Anyway
How bizarre
My brain is scrambled green eggs and ham
So in love with your words
We shall see about our reality
You have altered mine somewhat and
You will probably never know
How many ways
And how glad I am that I ever even got to meet you
I remember pretty much all of it in crisp detail
Will always want more and that is our blessing and our curse
I am honored really and yes I know it's all weird. Um, What the Kafuck?( I just made that up.)
McFuck
No thank you
Nah I'm no eminem
I can see the next round in my mind's eye
Sketching now and smiling and such
(Did I ever tell you I love your whole body?)

I know what to do now

I know

(Coming down from outer space again slash still)
Did you know that "The Secret Life of Walter Mitty" I love you Ben Stiller!  is my one of my all time favorites?
You'll no doubt know how the landing goes I can't even believe how endless and vast your mind is and why is it mine that it clicks with?

Or yes wait I'm dreaming again
If I called you, you would ******* off. I do know what you're waiting for
I'm gaining in knowledge too
And respect for all
Just you wayyte 'enry 'iggins
Just you Wayyte

It's going to feel amazing
When I finish wiping off the dust from the landing

I am excited now
I feel the fire growing in me now
February is gone

And I'm grateful for every moment
Believe it or not it's been a fruitful month

(He has little faith in me
And my loyalty to him
He thinks anyone else matters like that to me. Really.  If only he knew. Wait I'm telling him now.
It's understandable
He's entirely WRONG about the loyalty thing it but it's understandable.)
I blew it
And I will blow it again
But never again in that way
I could not bear such a thing again
To hurt another was the worst
Biggest pothole ever
Never even saw it coming
So
Breathing deeply and moving from that for good

If
he is letting me go
I will bear it. Savor and enjoy it. Through pain yes.
If he is not letting me go I will savor it and enjoy it if I can ever figure it out through pain yes but perhaps
Something indescribable
But not ugly ever
and meanwhile
Hansel  or
is it Gretel?
Back at the farmmmm
Thinks on her couch
One at a time
Or one for all time
I'm a human but I am loyal to those who are loyal to me in reality
I was dim but
I have evolved and I'm going To prove it
You read it here first  love

Or did you?

There is nothing stopping me except for me and I know it

Thank you woj

(I wonder if he will be around to see version 4.5, arriving soon )
I don't know what all is up but the temperature is rising and we keep missing chances but I'm long term committed and I know I ought to have been committed  thanks hunny!!  You're tha baaast!
Ron Gavalik Mar 2019
Inside the café, a cute artist
with blackened fingertips
sketched in her notebook.
A handsome boy took the next table
and waited patiently for a chat.
Sketching with a fervor,
oblivious to her surroundings,
that artist and I shared a truth.
Imagination is often preferable
to the daily realities
****** upon us.

–Ron Gavalik
Shari Forman Apr 2013
I remember as if it were yesterday,
You were helping me with math problems once again,
We would sit there for hours,
Sketching various triangles with one simple pen.
I can never forget,
The college-level words you asked me to spell,
We both were in complete fascination and suspense,
As far as I can tell.
I recall you teaching me a bit of yiddish as well,
"Yachna and fashlepta chlank,"
I annuciated so well,
This was no prank.
I remmeber beating you in shuffle board,
But It still might have been a tie,
Because you played exceptionally well,
As good and sweet as pie.
I will always remember,
Our long walks in Greak Neck,
Papa and Shari bonding,
While watching the beautiful scenery from the deck.
I remember you took me to the beach in Greak Neck,
Where we surprised Bubbie with a large horseshoe crab,
Bubbie was frozen will fear,
And almost took a cab.
The late night outdoor concerts,
You used to take me to,
I became really fond of the music,
And the massive amount of ***** in you.
Now I know this next line is going to seem quite strange,
But I remember blowing the garage door open with all my might,
Thinking that is how it's supposed to open,
And proud of myself for shining bright.
One of the best of times,
Was when you took me to the golfing range,
I swung the club multiple times missing the ball,
Calling myself deranged.
The days when we all went to ihop,
And to piccolos for lunch,
Everything was delectable,
Thanks a bunch!
We've been to the movies many times,
Where we'd sometimes surprisingly cry,
Bubbie would say, "Oh, my God look at Papa,"
But your reasons for crying were beautifully justified.
Just the thought of me coming to visit you,
Makes me form such a luminous smile,
Because there is no other Papa like you,
A Papa so outgoing, loving, and all the worth while.
Veronica Smith Feb 2014
the telephone rings at eleven on a weeknight
and i can see you
huddling over a stranger's phone in the streetlamp glare
your skeletal fingers slow and stained with nicotine
pupils shrunken
deer in the headlights
what do you need

the telephone rings at eleven on a weeknight
and i can see you
plucking pills from carpet fibers
scraping your hands through the couch cushions
snatching my allowance from beneath my mattress
prince of thieves
what do you need

the telephone rings at eleven on a weeknight
and i can see you
smiling for the kodak
cooing sonatas against her cold pretty ear
nervous fingers tying the corsage
casanova
what do you need

the telephone rings at eleven on a weeknight
and i can see you
peeking out behind worn fort walls
sketching monsters over saturday morning cartoons
fishing pole in hand
sweet thing
what do you need

the telephone rings at eleven on a weeknight
and i can see you
rewind the tape
first tottering steps
gummy smile
child of love
what do you need

the telephone rings at eleven on a weeknight
and i can hear you
hello
yes
what do you need

— The End —