The Crimson Cardinal

It's the first of April for me already, and I will post my very first poem in this post as an edit. Making the thread will force me to comply. Hopefully I'll remember to update every day. This may or may not happen.

Much luck, all. I hope what follows is what you enjoy.


This day is mine

She said - what is love but time
folded into your dress, a stroke of belly
and neck marking the heat of you, chakras
of desire. We have stood here so long,
lips cracking - she said, if you run, do it now
when his hands are shaking, he can know
before it becomes. This. Waiting for a moment
breaking against stained-glass windows.
If, she said, you run.

You have my permission to hate this. God. All kinds of permission. (I certainly do)

Ghost

Five lines down this black pitch
the shoulder slips into nothing,

grey-barked gums are combined like coy maidens,
elbows hooked together, smiles taut between

their withering branches. I watch
as the dim dash of white fades

behind me.

Summer

Aphids have discovered our lemon tree,
small slits of hunger covering the hard shine
of leaves, the lemons are untouched, and pull
easily from the green tipped branches.
When I was fourteen, my grandmother
taught me how to bake, the lemon became
our fruit.

Hey you, Pengu.

Aphids have discovered our lemon tree,
small slits of hunger covering the hard shine
of leaves, the lemons are untouched, and pull
easily from the green tipped branches.
When I was fourteen, my grandmother
taught me how to bake, the lemon became
our fruit.

This is lovely. Like, superduperluper lovely. Unfortunately, I'm not crazy about the last clause, as it is a comma splice. Also, the tenses are different in the aphids and baking bits. However, if you were to play with those a little, I think that this would be 10 levels above fantastic. Which can't even be put into words.

Summer Showers

She stands barefoot, ankle deep in swirling debris.
Rain pools at the base of eucalypts,
the soft sieve of earth packed against the sleet,
tight with heat as the table rises, salt edging
into age rings. The leaves tip, sleek and heavy
with residue.

This. Waiting for a moment
breaking against stained-glass windows.
If, she said, you run.

Beautiful.

Some others lost focus strangely in the imagery towards some parts, but in this one, at least, the focus remains fairly visible. My favourite from you so far.

And what is there but love that brought us here

Her skirt is static, a brief cling of fabric that keeps
everything motionless, paused on the edge of seat
and action. Everything takes two steps longer when you forget
about speed, the break between her thighs
and plastic, the turn of her head to the side,
the breakdown of language into sign.

Everything takes two steps longer when you forget
about speed, the break between her thighs
and plastic, the turn of her head to the side,
the breakdown of language into sign.

Love this.

Gaww you are amazing If it WAS a competition, you would have a big chance of winning

PenguinAttack wrote:Summer Showers

She stands barefoot, ankle deep in swirling debris.
Rain pools at the base of eucalypts,
the soft sieve of earth packed against the sleet,
tight with heat as the table rises, salt edging
into age rings. The leaves tip, sleek and heavy
with residue.

Miiine. ;_; I would pay you to write this on a pretty piece of paper and send it to me.

I love this. "Summer" is my favorite. I especially enjoyed:
"When I was fourteen, my grandmother
taught me how to bake, the lemon became
our fruit."

Beautiful.

Spoiler

Okay folks – OMG A LONG POEM?!?!? – Don’t fret. This was written with Hannahbobannah and she has also posted this. You’ll notice some differences in my poem, this is purely line breaks, none of the words/structure has been changed otherwise.

Sister Dear

you have feathers in your hair.
did you know? just there
the dimple of your right cheek
is deeper than the left,
when you smile you seem tilted.

a little more weight on your right foot,
a little more weight round the middle.

i've noticed you eating outside -
the sun kisses the point of your nose
more strongly than everywhere else.
just there under that green tree
where your sister carved her name.

did you know

she used cursive, because your mother taught her
that night before the world broke in half,
the speckled blue of her ball point
etched into the table
between the lines of the tablecloth
and the knives set out in rows,
ink leaking over into the wood and you
have feathers in your hair,
did you know?

the birds got in while we were sleeping,
i see the dent of their claws
to the side of your eyes,
stepping outward
in a little bitty two step
underneath the attic door,
they got feathers in our hair
and we rushed down stairs
to the smell of breakfast burning again,
eggs black and crisp,
crumbling up the sides,
i could see the leaves in them.

i could see those little bulbs in green and pink
where the blight kisses crumbles and leaves insects.
underneath the see-through veins
they curl up,
keeping the warmth inside their tiny bodies,
even as they congeal into your skin,
slick without purpose or intent.

they remind me of last night
when i waited for sleep to come.
i waited with my eyes pulled open
by your stubbed finger tips
and you bent down over me
with feathers in your hair.
did you know?

i have no roots.
i suck water from the air.
choking on dust
because i have no filter.

did you know?

there are feathers in your hair.
they are small like chicks
nesting in the flick of your fringe -
did you know?
i never asked.

the filter has gone the way of the rains,
and the dust is a sieve in my throat.
i sound like you.


Also, thanks guys, you're too sweet!

This thin-skinned offering

White pawed monkies steal the almonds
from my mother's tree - eco, eco, where are my leaves?
and take them tooth by lip into their slim bellies,
peeling away the dark skins to reach the
warm centres - the sun is hotter here
than at my fathers, where the trees are
lime and sweet mandarin. I have forgotten
how to get home.

*flails* I adore This thin-skinned offering. Can I take it home and keep it? *pets*

July

The treehouse is pine wood pushed against
itself like the tree, shaking in the wind, leafy
and blossoming with rain and patches
of frail cicada shells, it seeps maple sap
through the centimetre gaps of sky and branch.

Below this, trunk split and brushing down
to the turmoil soil, my feet are moving
again. There are storms here which tear
limb from limb and my tree is too thin
to keep together.