|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
The carriage slowed and jostled Alexander in his seat. More than slightly confused, he brushed the curtains aside and leaned from the window to peer ahead.
There was a commotion in the street--a boy rushing around on the cobbles calling to people. His voice was pitiable.
"Monsieur?" The driver said, noticing his passenger opening the carriage door to step out.
"Un moment." Alexander took his violin case and shut the door behind him. He moved closer to where the boy was grabbing onto coats and pleading with passers-by. The child was wearing the livery of some manor. People were rushing away from him with wide, uncertain eyes.
"Please!" The boy said, his hands out.
Alexander caught him by the arm. "What is it?" He said in his best French.
"My monsieur. He is very sick."
The Englishman nodded, leaned down. "Are you in need of a doctor?"
"Non, non. A musician, Monsieur. That is the only thing. It will calm him, but only that. Is no one..." The child went on in a frenzy.
How Your Mother and I Met
Your mother flicked me with her wrist
jewelry flying, and her teeth were made of
ivory filings, her eyes of ebon embers
she was passionate and knew each step
every man who stumbled through the doors
his worth, his wealth, his wounds
both metaphorical and metaphysical,
we were altogether in this mystified;
she was a Bathsheba waiting.
She was stretched out on a roof
her milk-white skin a constellation
begging for a ship, begging for
direction in this endless night-time
when ground rivals sky and Reno
bright in its intoxication
flashed a million smiles, but
and this one
she waited for.
Her arm outstretched, her son
silent and straight-backed in uniform
navy blue, trimmed in white
never knew who she waited for.
She is still looking.
Burning stone and ash
make a slender wisp of smoke,
carry our prayers.
II. yellow jasper
Mercy be a red-
wing'd blackbird amid gold wheat,
humble as the earth.
III. blue fluorite
Dreams come, the color
of water beneath tall pines,
Days wax golden bright;
they give us much to think about,
windfall and harvest.
Moon and loon on lake
haunting night melodies like
trees gathering snow.
No gleaming secret
mountain pulse, veins bright and deep
a fool's trick of sight.
A too-brief lilac
fallen and crushed against path
has the sweetest scent.
Night's edge softened by
growing light in the east, a
morning song of doves.
Jack o Lantern
so I fear
I slump in
day by day
He came back again. The best at the agency, knocking on her door. This time she was sitting cross-legged among candles burnt low. There were circles under her eyes; they were deep violet in the dimness. She leapt her bony frame and grabbed his arms by both wrists.
"Come sit with me!"
What could he do but be led by her to the rug worn with holes? And she took his fingers forcefully in her own. "Ah," she said, running her eyes over his open palm. "Here is the sea, and the light and the gold," she said. "It is coming to you. Patience shall be the platter that you dine from!"
Then her smiles fell away. "Tell them that, please."
He could say nothing to that. The best at the agency, and even he failed in the face of her charm.
Much later, her bills finally paid, accounts settled, rich dark earth patted down, he would think about that time. He would think about it lying in his meticulous blue bed, its covers turned precisely under his arms.
Collectors know better. There is no platter, there i
like cracks, slither and
writhe across sidewalks,
fall upon a pile of dogshit.
trapped in the foyer, cries
an ageless sorrow
for passing music students
bowed with cellos
over their backs.
The things that bring you are unspoken;
a lilting smooth-stone current
boughs and tree branches
the way that morning's cold
with dew and river fog,
quietude like habit
settling around your heart.
But the things that tether you,
tie you tight so that you stay
are unnamed ones;
you know them, have felt it
humid nights swathed in
wicker porchlight and cricket song,
that something familiar.
We awaited moon faces,
shrouds of swamp reed and irises.
We shared it without words;
sometimes in mingled breath
our fingers entwined with stardust,
eyes full of buffalo ghosts.
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
longdead leafa longdead leaf
burnt brown in the depth of green
cups a handful of fresh water
a leaf left behind
holds something of worth
forgoing death with its dead body
Keep in Touch!
scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More