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Moriah J Chace Oct 2014
What they don’t tell you in school,
while you’re trying to remember
the difference between prophase and metaphase
chromosomes and chromatin
is that really
biology isn’t science
biology is life


See, divorce
divorce is like mitosis
slow to start, but quick to finish

Begins at prophase
when conflicts arise as your family’s nucleolus,
your family’s unity
disappears

Your carefree life, your chromatin,
coil and change
become tight, tense chromosomes

Outside forces, mitotic spindles,
residing in the cytoplasm
start creeping towards your parents
to separate their souls

Metaphase:
you’re all lined up
single file
ready for battle

Centrosomes, middles of each new life,
poised opposing each other
with their spindles latched onto you kinetochore, your middle,
like a dog with it’s leash

Anaphase:
everything separates,
your world’s torn apart
and you’re left silently
watching
alone
as your sister is torn from your life

Telophase:
the pain starts to lessen
as you uncoil
and your broken family’s nuclear membrane
begins to reform

Once the paper’s are signed
once the cell’s wall’s rebuilt
your old life is over
and the process
it’s finished

See, they don’t tell you
don’t think you need to know
that
divorce is simply biology
and
mitosis
well, it’s life
1.

When I
was young
I listened to
Billy the Kid

I galloped
across the
living room floor
giddy upping
in an ecstatic
square dance
with my beloved
America

excitedly
enraptured
boundlessly
enthralled
in youthful
zeal
ebulliently  
yodeling
hymns
whistling
reveries to
America’s
heroic prairie
songs

a precocious
kinder beaming  
moved and illumined
by the broiling fanfare
of trilling trumpets

to uphold the promise
I pledged allegiance
to diligent  work
galloping onward
on ponies of
reverent faith
respectful duty
playful engagement
and guardianship

2.

expectation
never fell short
of resounding
supranaturalistic
optimism

energising
the sweep of
a nation’s
self evident
exceptionalism

our democratic
vista stirred
and steeped

a nation of
wheelwrights
building
wagon trains
to traverse
stratified latitudes
with sturdy ladders
erected with common
sense sensibility
of hands to work
and hearts to God

earthen
yeoman
dancing in
wheat fields
threshing sheaves
of prosperity
their exertions
elevating
families
raising
a glorious chorus,
a peeling crescendo
of horns of plenty
splayed across
landscapes of
an ennobled
nation
placing fruits
of labor upon
ascendent
alters to
to receive
the anointing
of abundance

the lighted grace
of infinite possibilities
shines for a grueling
world listening to the
clamouring drumbeats
sounding in the hearts
of all grace anointed
republicans


3.  

No lullabies
no quiet moonlit nights
we ardently
dance on keys
boasting soul
filled dexterity
the quick self
assuredness
extemporaneously
jazz tapping
across bold
hidden rondos
grasping
transcendence
squarely set
in the minds eye
of unbroken resolve
our cool countenance
an unassailable
righteous destination

any
spare sweeping
plaintive introspection
lends space to
affirm
an
affirmation
beginning
with the individual
unum to e pluribus

solitary dancers
incorporated into
fully enfranchised
troopers

the gyrations
the rhythms and steps
of individuated melodies
join to form a harmonious whole
a beautifully woven consensus

this democratic symphony
perfected in an intelligent
choreography of
separate people
sojourning  
toward
a mutually
constructed
shared destiny

aspirational desires
call forth generations
of spirits boldly engaging
the challenges upholding
the rights and privilege
of all citizens
the celebratory harvest
of a new nations
natural law


4.

As a man
I cruise
along
Main Street
in a joyless
joy ride
gliding by
disassembled
factories
moldering schools
defunct governments

surveying the
demolished ruins
of cities,
the decrepit
wrecking ball
of history
is busy,
rolling through
towns
not worthy
of cast iron
destruction
forged in
foreign kilns

we built palaces
to democracy
in the tiniest hamlets
dotting the granges
wholly assimilated
into a national congress
of freemen

today our
congress
is scattered
dialog seeking
resolution is considered
betrayal to holy
partisanship...

selfish insistence
masquerades as
high ideals

portraiture
of obstinance
is a grotesque
reflection
of virtue

we have
reduced
the peoples
house

to a battlefield
for tribes…..

once freemen
now captives….

soulless ghosts
wandering lost
inside grand
rotundas...

mocked
by murals
and inert
granite statuary
howling
expiration dates
of timeless
psalms

sojourning
the trail of tears
drinking from bowls
of anguish

our only
respite
the silent
ruins we
find impossible
to leave

fear fills our bellies
rust stains our hearts
abiding acrimony
ain’t easily brushed
from dust laden cloths

the deconstruction
of dead cities, mark
expired civilizations
centuries in the making
hammered by the blows
of the mightiest blacksmiths
with precision and deft craft


5.

the spareness of
Martha Graham's set
frame black shadows
of fortitude

it always starts
with the individual

then surely
sure footedness
measured footsteps
boldly dance about
the lily pads
of the keyboard
a resounding ballet
the arms wave
like swaying stalks of wheat
but hurry to respond
opportunity knocks
conditions change
the group awaits
to be joined

my pirouette
remains my solitary mark
on the weaving spindles
crafting the mosaic
of a complex American
complexion

the possibility
the promise
laid before us
wheat fields
of democracy
tilled planted
attended

the wondrous yields of
an Appalachian Spring
the promise
hectare of grace
apportioned to all
citizens

the promise
harvest of liberty
freedom
of opportunity
all anointed
freemen
conferred an
amazing grace

civil discourse
was once spoken
we can learn the
lost languages again
sitting on the porch
with neighbors
sipping ice tea
sharing thoughts on
hot summer evenings
caring too care

but scoundrels
became heroes
we fetishized
idiosyncrasies
of insisted
entitlement

we ******
the whole by
exalting the part

we dare not condemn them
lest we condemn ourselves




6.

the west was once woolly wild
I hear the sweeping sound
of my youth rustle again
the dramatic symphony
of a brilliant people
filled with courage
undeterred optimism
claiming a continent
manifesting a new
Pax Americana
a century
of immigrants  

coming to integrate
coming to assimilate
coming to believe in the promise
coming to make a new promise

I came to hear Copland
when I was young

when America was young
when promises were made
and sworn by a brilliant
fanfare of trumpets

when America was young
Copland composed
when America was young
a promise was made

come forth brothers
come forth sisters
come claim
the promise
of a simple gift


Aaron Copland:
Billy The Kid

11/29/11
Oakland
jbm
Camilla Green Nov 2018
"Hello, hallway, linoleum tile,
I can't really see you but
I hope you're there."

Green spiders crawl through my smoked-up veins,
their spindles weave their webs of red
under eyelids gravitating towards sleep.

Retinal film flashes; each blink is an
unprocessed, scared/ __ , broken reel.

"Put your hands," he says, "on mine.
Breathe, look into my eyes."

Shaking fingertips touch his; snowflakes
gently collide with sunny ground.

They were afraid to melt,
even though they might want to.
I wish it had been 33°.
extasis Jan 2010
Old eyes rise
Sun slowly opens upon a room
Old bones shift and creak and shiver into motion
red-veined eyes flit about
focus on this and that
figure stubbornly drifts
over here and over there
amidst it all: a blinding surface
white canvas, stretched until it can stretch no more
glaring, screaming, pleading, suggesting
more and more intense at every moment
the room is the canvas
ancient eyes lock themselves upon the intensity
Ancient, dark, spindly hands push through the air
the canvas is a searing vision
the spindles pluck at the liquid colour
carefully dipping into the pools
collision of vision and now...passion
dark, flowing hands, delicate, fingers drift over canvas
a soft, dripping, spindle presses itself into the blinding intensity
bright passions left in its wake
there is no room
only vision
there is no ancient
no age
only passion
passion permeates the vision
grabs it and throws it about
threads it through the medium
the room is filled with passion
the canvas fills the eyes
intensity shaking those creaking and creeping joints
spindles, whisk to and from the colour and the vision
specks of passion, drops of vision speckle the room
time clicks
a light dims
a canvas is no more
a vision lives
ancient, wise eyes drift away
sun drifts it's way closed
a figure creeps it's way to a small, rugged mat
old, ancient, red-veined, dark, knowing, wise eyes set
tomorrow is another canvas
I CRIED when the moon was mutmuring to the birds:
"Let peewit call and curlew cry where they will,
I long for your merry and tender and pitiful words,
For the roads are unending, and there is no place to my mind."
The honey-pale moon lay low on the sleepy hill,
And I fell asleep upon lonely Echtge of streams.
No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind;
The boughs have withered because I have told them my, dreams.
I know of the leafy paths that the witches take
Who come with their crowns of pearl and their spindles of wool,
And their secret smile, out of the depths of the lake;
I know where a dim moon drifts, where the Danaan kind
Wind and unwind their dances when the light grows cool
On the island lawns, their feet where the pale foam gleams.
No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind;
The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams.
I know of the sleepy country, where swans fly round
Coupled with golden chains, and sing as they fly.
A king and a queen are wandering there, and the sound
Has made them so happy and hopeless, so deaf and so blind
With wisdom, they wander till all the years have gone by;
I know, and the curlew and peewit on Echtge of streams.
No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind;
The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams.
Edward Hawthorne May 2013
I remember when we were young,
and the shark fin made by falling water droplets
from the back-and-forth sway of windshield wipers
on our car window would scare you
Because you thought that the spaces we couldn’t reach
would form monsters in their crevices,
and I would laugh and roll my eyes,
like big brothers did.
And I remember how,
on nights when we would sleep over at grandma’s,
the pitter-patter of our puerile feet on hardware floors
was the only sound to be heard.
Shadows formed where the beam of my flashlight hit,
adorned with fading Spiderman stickers and the like-
and you would squeal under my whispered protests
because of the unfurling octopus limbs
that were the leaves of a potted plant.
We grew older, and so did my suspicions,
as you crept out of the realm of childish make-believe
and into a world that even when showcased in daylight was a nightmare.
Demons, from the deep fire that enflamed the world’s core
tried to penetrate  the surface, according to you.
But as their hands reached forth out of the earth’s skin,
they curled in agony, the evil of the earth halting their conquest.
They fossilized and shriveled in autumn’s wake,  
gray and deadened fingertips just unassuming tree branches,
the perennial reaches just fibrous spindles blurring in the sunlight.
The world held prospects despite your macabre claims,
And as we grew I distanced myself from your melancholic tune.
Trees were trees, and bore fruit at summer’s twilight
and the friends I made were all of the parts most sweet.
I was content with the woman I met, she blonde-haired and lovely
her free-falling locks sparkling gold in every light,  
and her personality as rich and as glossy.  
I was content with my life of looking away from spaces
where our human hands couldn’t reach,
demons out of eyesight in the beam of glass city buildings.
But as the dusk of one day segued into the dawn of another,
I grew weary,
each routine just a part of this monotonous human noise
to which I, too had voiced.
And I found myself driving one day when thunder roared in the sky,
rain once again pouring into its shark fin mold.
Your voice came into my head,
the demon hands that had had died trying to take us over with their evil
but overwhelmed by our own brand of hellish wretchedness
lined the freshly paved sidewalk,
and with a twist of the wheel one unreachable space met another.
John Cleland Apr 2012
Arachne’s Shadow

Silver spindles manifest, each one
unique; artistry
at the tip of eight long
fingers--crafted carefully to
catch curious creatures;
trapped by the allure of Circe’s
web of lies. Glistening
and bright from distances, yet
dead upon impact; sticky, dull.

A corner, so decorated with
cobwebs and dust; Arachne
spins her loom in the dark, a room,
that is used seldom, with the exception
of the dinner show;  always
on time, 8 o’clock sharp. Witness
the cunning I lack, benevolence
she disregards; a fly—simple in intelligence,
but chaotic when trapped
in a small room; nuisances
that need dealing with.

Once caught, the struggling ignorant
victim chokes on
mistakes of days past, cheating on
a test, beating the ******* boy; observed
errors of judgment, punishable by death.
Every victim is different, but each is caught
screaming, praying, gasping
for life, only to be
muffled, hushed, stifled;  No remorse
during mealtime.
willy knight Apr 2010
"See! warp is stretched
For warriors' fall,
Lo! weft in loom

'Tis wet with blood;
Now fight foreboding,
'Neath friends' swift fingers,
Our grey woof waxeth
With war's alarms,
Our warp bloodred,
Our weft corseblue.

"This woof is y-woven
With entrails of men,
This warp is hardweighted
With heads of the slain,
Spears blood-besprinkled
For spindles we use,
Our loom ironbound,
And arrows our reels;
With swords for our shuttles
This war-woof we work;
So weave we, weird sisters,
Our warwinning woof.

"Now Warwinner walketh
To weave in her turn,
Now Swordswinger steppeth,
Now Swiftstroke, now Storm;
When they speed the shuttle
How spearheads shall flash!
Shields crash, and helmgnawer
On harness bite hard!

"Wind we, wind swiftly
Our warwinning woof
Woof erst for king youthful
Foredoomed as his own,
Forth now we will ride,
Then through the ranks rushing
Be busy where friends
Blows blithe give and take.

"Wind we, wind swiftly
Our warwinning woof,
After that let us steadfastly
Stand by the brave king;
Then men shall mark mournful
Their shields red with gore,
How Swordstroke and Spearthrust
Stood stout by the prince.

"Wind we, wind swiftly
Our warwinning woof.
When sword-bearing rovers
To banners rush on,
Mind, maidens, we spare not
One life in the fray!
We corse-choosing sisters
Have charge of the slain.

"Now new-coming nations
That island shall rule,
Who on outlying headlands
Abode ere the fight;
I say that King mighty
To death now is done,
Now low before spearpoint
That Earl bows his head.

"Soon over all Ersemen
Sharp sorrow shall fall,
That woe to those warriors
Shall wane nevermore;
Our woof now is woven.
Now battlefield waste,
O'er land and o'er water
War tidings shall leap.

"Now surely 'tis gruesome
To gaze all around.
When bloodred through heaven
Drives cloudrack o'er head;
Air soon shall be deep hued
With dying men's blood
When this our spaedom
Comes speedy to pass.

"So cheerily chant we
Charms for the young king,
Come maidens lift loudly
His warwinning lay;
Let him who now listens
Learn well with his ears
And gladden brave swordsmen
With bursts of war's song.

"Now mount we our horses,
Now bare we our brands,
Now haste we hard, maidens,
Hence far, far, away."
Njal's Saga
Conor Letham Dec 2013
Look at your spider legs

clambering out like that
as though your crab cage

has stayed too still, sat
too long as a street tumour
spat up on the pavement.

You must miss the frailness
of the skin that sheltered
your birth, the patterns
strewn across the sheets

in blurs of stripes and dots,
colours and tones. But now
it's a sickly sight, those ribs
scuttle like limbs pushing
through a shell that suited

your broken spindles just
fine. Maybe you need a fix
of a skin to get you in shape,
web the joints in the hope
someone will hold you again,
your handle gripped in hand.
Based off seeing mangled umbrella spokes sticking out of a bin.
Kara Rose Trojan Sep 2011
Three nonconsecutive generations that can --
No -- Will – spit the timeless fairytale of that princess
Who never lost glass slippers -- or
Touched poisoned spindles -- or
Ate strangers’ apples -- or
Dealt with witches – and
We are that dry, plain Eucharist-wafer taste on your tongue
                That paralyzing cramp between your toes
                That still-alive, still-wiggling earthworm’s six separate, butchered body parts
We stole the words from journalists’ larynx,
His statistics, his inference, his prowess
His bias came hungry and ate the bread crumbs from our hands.
The name mother-bird doesn’t carry as much weight these days.
Collectively considered and individually squandered,
                We’re the nonsense jumbled-word search in your local Sunday paper.
                And you’ll have us whether you like or not with your large coffee and bagel.
Cole Nubson Nov 2014
We fear the idea of inevitable, so we embrace each other
And I inhale the scent of your coffee stained blouse.
I knew you were the universe and I was a galaxy
And I knew my mind would get lost in your sleep spindles.

The alignment of the sun and moon tore me away from you.
All of your water colors were just components of rain and tears.
The first thing I noticed about you were the band-aids on bruised skin
The second was the sight of you in your coat after the first snow fall.
Samara Nov 2023
birthed into a golden birdcage
safe behind upstanding spindles
endless nectars and suet at your beckon
knowing only the showcase of your plumage
and the sound of your tunes

layers remain
between you and the grackles
painted a nuisance
yet they stay unshackled
only poisoned and disregarded.

still they know the freedoms
not found atop
swings and perches
dig deeper
until you find what lurches.

the gate can be opened
when you realize yourself
to be the gatekeeper
yielding what's mine
using wings of more than feathers
making up for lost time.

looking back at the captivity
you couldn't see from inside.
entering a new world
with the grackle as my guide.
Io Oct 2021
A blur that breathes, growing and abating,
tides of people, entombed in steel,
flowing and fading on riverbeds of tar.
A place of nomads,
all draped in cloth.
A place of symbols,
of concrete and rebar

Sheets of cold, ice grey
Falling spindles, cold rain
A graceful procession
With a bellyful of tears
A dreadful cortège
A heralder of fears

A young forest paved with ancient crushed stones
Nothing left but the inheritance of a thousand unknowns
Nothing left, but old fossilised bones

All that has happened is what I know
And all I know is what will happen.
All that remains is what I know
And all I know is ruin.
Jonathan Witte Feb 2017
We gathered our water
and packs at daybreak
to hike hand in hand
toward the distant ruin—
a tall stone chimney planted
on otherwise empty acreage,
a kudzu-covered tower,
the ghost of a farmhouse
now a home to field mice,
black beetles and bats,
with bricks the color
of weathered blood,
vertebrae stacked
a century and a half ago
by a stonemason’s craft,
still solid and bonded
despite the slow decay
of arthritic mortar.

How long have we
walked together?

The morning
is all we have
left to ponder.
We walk for hours;
the chimney grows
larger at our approach.
I want to ask you
a question about
the night we met,
what you said
just before I held
you for the first time,
but then I catch sight
of my hand and realize
I am walking alone,
moving inexorably
toward a ruination
of my own making.
How could I have been
so careless? Unable
to stop, every step
strips something away:
my hair thins and falls,
as white and weak
as sickled wiregrass;
another step and my
body atomizes into
the stuff of stars,
pollen scattered
on a rising wind.

So this is what it
feels like to decay.

By the time I reach
the ruin I am mostly
cinder and ash,
a sorry vestige
sown in a quiet field,
a forgotten landmark
that strangers will visit,
if only to contemplate
how the evening fog
spindles like smoke
along the enduring
column of my spine.
Kat Raven Aug 2021
Can I be loved?
Or is it overrated.
Is self love enough?
Or am I walking on a thin rope, my eyes, shut closed, I may die in my misery, a façade of continuous joy.
Am I to be loved, in my embodiment of Aphrodite herself.
Maybe I am too closed off.
Or maybe I am too pure.
These contradictions are my addictions and I can never seem to pick between the two.
Maybe love is too good for me, like a curse that strings me to the depths of insanity where love cannot even be justified.
Maybe I am a monster in my drowning tears.
Or maybe, just maybe, I am juxtaposed.
Once they fall in love with me, they fear, run away like cowards with boneless spindles.
My walls so hard, can dynamite even be crushed?

To feel that feeling...
Sensual pleasures...
To hold, to actually feel...
I've lost meaning of the word.

Can I be loved? Or am I too powerful?
Michael King Dec 2018
Redolent May sings,
lays of perplexing antique,
wooden rose flounders.
...
Fungi is in rout,
war of mushrooms is halted,
desolate treescape.
...
This is not a game,
the colours rest in spindles,
the flag is in truce.
...
Paragon of ice,
tractive glacier, no friction,
chronotropic death.
...
Scourged almighty sea,
symphonic ocean blasted,
tranced undertaking.
...
Mort, syphoned blood grass,
waving like entrails, flooded,
blood spins, grave now swims.
...
Gritty stagnant bole,
refurbished hybernation,
the scent come to play.
...
Reminiscent moon,
gather ye, encompassed light,
that we may know life
st64 Apr 2013
1.
Sweet love
Oh, such sweet love.



2.
Stick into the pincushion of hope
Gentle pins of far-off dreams,
Holding wispy threads of desire
For which time (as a heading) is never enough.


Push down and drown all thought
Which beckon expectation -
And trust to want less.... or nothing;
Thus reduced, we get no fails.



3.
All up to the sky
We cry,
Agonising -
That waiting of footfall.

Then.....
Lovely flow.
Yes, let's dare to increase
Irregular patterns of abdicated pain.
To fulfill what is so held back.



4.
Because of you
Three days can last a lifetime
Full of affection and delicious warmth
Within the bearings of your arms.



5.
Dreams in the coffee whorls
Willing spindles now
Turn as they eddy...like happy tidings
All around my head.

Dreamscapes thrive
In dulcet whirls inside our core.



6.
No shipwrecks here,
No abandoning of esperance.

No deserting,
No dereliction of love.

No grief,
No castaways on hopeless coast.

These proffered crumbs on palm
Become sought-after......and precious gifts.



7.
Sweet love garnered over time
Poured slowly.....into sacred cup.
Where phantoms run to hide away
No abode for wicked despair.

Oh, for lovelorn hearts and broken dreams
To find such gladness in a cup
We hold hope, ever bold....so deep in heart
And sink away in woven bliss.

Capsule of infinity.....



8.
Come, let us drink
From our coffee-cup.....
Of love.

Oh, come......



9.
Time to kneel and give thanks
Place forgiving wafer on tongue.
Take none in haste
Accept only when ready.

To....
Drink sweetness of sky's nectar.



10.
Of pastures plain
And meadow green
Swift do echoes fall
As moments slip away....like clouds.



11.
Oh, and....

One sugar....
(No analogy needed, surely :)

Hot.....
(Nor here!)

And BLACK, please.



S T,  11 April 2013
Love in the coffee.....oh, yeah.

Don't spill now, guys!    lol

You never know what marvelous tales and fabulous moments await....all inside that small cup.

Could well be a hopeful taste of some swell luuurrrrve!
He he


A somewhat (semi-facetious) version of a modern Grail-tale......whatevr, man.

And......er, please do keep yer hair on, dear chaps!
Not intended for anyone to be offended, I ask ye on bended knee...

:)

Have a cuppa, then?
Kira Ferguson Jul 2014
She walks with purpose
Strides like roots,
Her naked toes break even pavement
To turn the gears at the deepest core
In her favor

She runs the wheel
Collecting coins and gold stars
Which she blows coastal with a mighty gust
Morphing trophies into sea spray

Her neurons work as spindles
Making into thread
The fibers of daydreams
And she weaves it to webs daily
Despite the destruction that comes before dawn

She is creation
She is the West Wind
Bringing bouts of turbulent change and
Opportunity?
Who knows but her?
Joe Cole Oct 2014
I've put a lot of it together over the years
Tables, cupboards, display cabinets
Not been a problem
IKEA specials
Get them home and a few hours later
A work of art
Until this last week
I work part time as the handyman in a large office complex
Got a call "can you come in for a few hours"
Not a problem!!!!
Can you assemble those desks
Those cupboards
Those six foot storage units
Easy, done this so many times before
Opened the boxes
All the instructions were in French
Trying to follow line drawings
Cam locks, cam spindles, nuts, bolts, screws
Honor was on the line
Failure not an option
11 million pieces later and all was complete
And 755 pounds going into my bank account
It wasn't 11 million pieces but it sure felt like it
Never did figure out where all the left over screws etc should have gone
ERR Nov 2010
Today I witnessed a ****** in the cobwebs
The swift and crafty arachnid ensnared suspended cicada
The cicada several times his size spun into his spindles
Soon a drained addition to the cemetery of exoskeletons
It twitched but with an air of hope long gone
He embraced his fate long before forced by spider fang
The stalker surveyed him, perched like vicious acrobat
About to perform his grand finale among the dust and decayed wood
The drawn out death captivated me, stole my attention
Like the gallows in the streets of times past
I watched and felt the transmission of energy and life
The power to spare a creature, but I let the world turn freely
This one lived and died similar to you and I
The universal experience of limited time
Bacteria to insect to man to deity
Some day we are mummified and disintegrate in the attic
Word Hobo Mar 2018
her first cry

never   teared your eyes


her first smile

never   dimpled your cheeks


her first giggle

of joyous recognition

never   mothered your heart


her first word

never   tickled your ears


her first step

never   reached your arms



almost



a prayerful pause ~ spindles time

through its aperture ~ she has your eyes !

‘tho a minutest inflection ~ you see your face !

what joyous recognition ~ self ~ in-dwelt

her flutter ~ divinely felt



You named her   Grace



gv 18.29.3  18a
Kyle J Schwartz Oct 2013
When the boxelder beetle died in front
of me, it was in good company.  The drapes
covering the wood and pipes softened
the sunlight illuminating stain-glass arches
behind the *****, shrouding dozens of other
dead boxelders that littered the tiles.  As
the bug slowed to a halt, each leg twitched
instead of moving forward.  The sunday service
then began and the larger pipes of the *****
rumbled through the chapel, causing the floor
to hum along with the numerous insect corpses.  
Each beetle vibrated to a slight blur and shifted
in one direction or the other, except for the one
still living; it gripped to the tiles beneath.  But
as the song continued, the boxelder began
to shake like the rest, and by the final
cadence of the prelude, the six spindles
carrying the bug curled like hooks under
its shell, lowering the boxelder bug
enough to allow a fraction less light
to fall underneath it, just like the rest.
Makiya Sep 2012
hips are farther apart when I sit, hands are toes are
spread fingers like spindles like broken into minute portions of
matter, moving about in this



                                
                            ­             big                            &                        empty




                                                       not mov
                                                              ing but
                                                              breath
                                                                   ing and
                                                                   tingl
                                                                        ing, too
Erin Suurkoivu Oct 2016
You could never picture me in the pockets of my West Coast.
I flew out of your story and into another, and then
Even into another, always the phoenix.

No longer yours, but his.
No longer his, but mine.
Perhaps I suffered these little deaths to forge a heaven with him.

A king, he’d follow me to the ends of the earth, thrice over.
His queen I’m still too shy to let shine through,
A star stubbornly obscured by cloud.

Though before I complained of rain,
On the Island it never bothered me.
Even in the dead of winter it kept the grass emerald-green.

An emerald city:
Ivy shrouded trees; moss fluorescent.
Our castles were those green giants.

Siamese blue to denim blue.
Betwixt the Spit & Seabroom.
It was all I dreamed and ever wanted.

The only thing missing was the garden, the garden,
Sheltered by walls made of cob.
Or a whole house, the air inside delectable.

Tendril of dream,
Is a cinder girl deserving of bees,
Turning honey into mead, of wild things?

No. Exiled to a foreign land,
A barren land; the ghetto forest.
Those halcyon years now only a memory.

Ridiculous to expect the bald
Rocks to yield to a surfer’s paradise, of
Blue-green ocean. Long hairs cannot thrive under puritans’ eyes.

Green things tremble for sun.
For all the rain, I remember the sun,
Filtering down through the forest canopy,

Upheld by the cathedral’s true pillars
Rather than these thrifty spindles. In reverence of true
Beauty, all is quiet & hushed.

The birth of a princess may bring us back.
Pioneers, we’re still in search of our happy ending,
To live lush in nature’s majesty.

I know the Pacific is still out there
Roaring somewhere,
Crashing itself onto stony beaches.

Mists wreath those mountains.
The drums beat.
That muted boom, my thud of heart.
"Fairytale" can be found in my book, "Blood for Honey", available at Lulu.com and Amazon.
Lindee Aug 2014
my fingers are spindles of thread, unwoven from blankets of strong women who fought harder fights than I could withstand.
my neck is a porcelain clock. engraved with wisps of words, it's cogs churning to keep my brain functioning.
my torso is an storm. lightning leaves scars acrioss the lining of my stomach, spreading out like spiderwebs, covered in dew. thunderheads boom when I walk, rattling my ribs and awakening this hummingbird heart.
my spine is a garden, blooming. daisys and forget-me-nots bloom from the soil tilled into my veterbrae.
My hamstrings are tightrope across the twin towers, quivering.
My knees are doorknobs left unturned, the room contents dusty and cobwebs string the corners.
Amethyst Fyre Sep 2016
1, The princess never has to do anything for herself
2, The princess isn't allowed to do anything for herself
3, The princess must do exactly as is said by everyone else

Strike the first from the list- this is the real world, no time for fantasy
The other two work out, the second especially now that

Time is splitting away! This down the rabbit hole, this through the looking glass, until
all that's left is a shame, there's no time at all for the princess

Lock your lips, breathe in, breathe out.
How do you keep choosing and choosing to do the right thing
when time and again
everyone else pushes poisoned apples and sharp spindles down your throat?

Take your orders, little marionette, dance away your nights and days
Tatter your shoes, dear princess, step by weary step in this dazzling cage
And pray that when the music stops
someone will notice that you have started to fade.
taylor roff Nov 2011
this split level sickness ***** spindles of sadness out
climbing clay walls
tasting tenderly treated Turkish candy
splashes of sound surround
and pounce quickly
on
small plated quills of sugar
spun so softly
that only a queen
could see its beauty
Aden Burns Dec 2014
Young, slender, soft and small,
Twigs stretching from thy palm,
Rings of shining dew at morning’s call
Clashing beautifully against my arm.

An ode to the thin spindles of affection
Tightly tangling around my heart’s string,
Sharply strummed with sleepy, dainty precision
Playing a song that only dreams could once sing.

A medley of feelings: peaking elation
And troughs deep enough for hot brews,
Between branches and amidst conversation
It seems my mind and heart can find truce.

It is said flowers that bloom tears to eye
Should be left to grow as beauty unpicked,
I must agree to admire and assure I am nearby,
To offer my service to such that has me rooted, fixed.
The blackest of eyes
penetrate the mind
the dullness of life
only causes the excitement
to cover the boredom
in which people confide in
they're not hopeless or helpless
in this slow parade
they are just blessed with the magician's mind
to convert and trick the naked eye

Oh! but no me
the cursed minority
where reality won't satisfy
the take by meaning

judges, you fool yourselves
priests, you can't justify this life
leader, you cannot change me!
friends, thanks for betraying me
lover, thanks for noticing me
me, you wish you knew yourself
teacher, thanks for encouraging
life, quit denying me

Manipulator manipulate this face
the broken hands
the finger spindles

If metal cant stop bullets
why don't we make it an atmosphere?
foil up the thriving earth
insisting that we won't be baked

but if the sun-rays keep on stopping us
and frost freezes off my face
crystal lakes are crystal lakes
but the mist in the air is raid

breathing is the anchor to awareness
did you realized that you're doing it
right now?
Aaron E Nov 2019
If it's a distance empty from the A to B we can't decipher.
lined along with bricks and mortar, stick and stone left how we like em.
How do efforts scurry through assuming light could bless the shadow
nose to sky with hopeful glances honing in on roads of gravel.

Growing disillusion suits a lofty breadth of chest to beat on
knowing in the end a setting sun eclipses better eons.
Apropos of nothing and devoid of any hopeful signal
known to try imposing gold on weathered stone, and broken spindles

Drew the yoke upon a sect who we prescribed a disposition
drawing red each sordid line, insuring they'll be sent to prison.
Never free. The harvester assumes the fruit have grown impatient
failing here to see them printing license plates on new plantations.

Maybe in the future we'll refuse the craven role, observer,
graduate to breaking through, return the lives we stole with fervor.
Maybe while elites are keen to trim the fat and clip the losses,
we'll discover links they hadn't seen, between our little boxes.

— The End —