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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
September 3, 2012
Air by ~SugarHeartedGirl Suggester Writes: This poem is a lovely meditation that gives us something we all need on occasion: deliverance from the maddening broil of the world.
Literature Text
You do not have to be empty.
Go, now, to the high places, the thin spires
of mountains and skyscrapers
the roof of your house, tipped with snow,
and fill yourself up with the air.
Drink it in, taste it, roll it around
on your tongue, feel it settle
in the caverns of your lungs. Feel the dust
and the ice crystals and the scraps of newspaper
brush your lips, and fill yourself with them, too.
Fill yourself up with the moonlight, the frost,
the dusky rose of the rising sun,
the night, the morning, the calls of birds,
the sillhouettes of telephone poles,
the shadows of people and clouds and alley cats
that dance across the pavement.
Fill yourself with the feel of your lover's hands,
the smell of the cold wind (mint and forests)
the taste of afternoon tea, the sight
of birds pinwheeling in the snow.
You do not have to be empty.
Go, now, to the high places, the thin spires
of mountains and skyscrapers
the roof of your house, tipped with snow,
and fill yourself up with the air.
Drink it in, taste it, roll it around
on your tongue, feel it settle
in the caverns of your lungs. Feel the dust
and the ice crystals and the scraps of newspaper
brush your lips, and fill yourself with them, too.
Fill yourself up with the moonlight, the frost,
the dusky rose of the rising sun,
the night, the morning, the calls of birds,
the sillhouettes of telephone poles,
the shadows of people and clouds and alley cats
that dance across the pavement.
Fill yourself with the feel of your lover's hands,
the smell of the cold wind (mint and forests)
the taste of afternoon tea, the sight
of birds pinwheeling in the snow.
You do not have to be empty.
Literature
To Us- Synesthesia
i.
every sound
excites a burst
of color; an
exploding
firework,
dancing and
twirling.
ii.
your voice
tastes of mangoes;
sticky
and sweet,
caressing my senses.
your flavor is
personal.
iii.
the letters
all become a
different personality.
"T" is crabby
and "I" worries.
"J" is strong
and mighty.
iv.
closer and
farther away;
each number becomes
its own plane
and point
in space;
perfect details.
v.
all the numbers
form lines
becoming an army
of curvy rows,
swirling round
and round.
a perfect pattern.
vi.
letters take
on colors,
each and every one
a different hue,
a different shade,
forming rainbo
Literature
epitaph
in the end
when i'm almost gone
and all i've left
is a red lamp
and a ragged song
to pave my way
into the thunderstorm
let every raindrop murmur
i loved you and lost
nothing but emptiness
and the company
of ghosts
Literature
no dear
.
the chimney smoke
blows like hair
like love
like you
in the wind
its ashen hum
rising through
the clouds
my reverend
heart beats
a trembling dove
a man without
love pinned
to a crux of spine
dear burden of mine
o father have i sinned
what fire turned
this bread to stone
what sent
my voice
to roam
without my ribs
that gnash
like children
weeping in the gloam
my chest is pried
a tongueless jaw
with nothing left
to steal
or say after
those words
how much
lonelier
i feel
.
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After Mary Oliver's Wild Geese.
© 2012 - 2024 SugarHeartedGirl
Comments98
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This is so wonderful. Thank you for sharing