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Under a Witches SkyAnd lo there he said: "I am darkness rising"
— ‘an apparition bleeding into a dreaming sky
Distilled in the timbre of windswept voices,
black feathers enchant earth in fevered-song
Magick ebbs & shimmers thru earthen veins,
seething like a migration of hungry wolves
Silvery eyes peer, drinking the ether of souls;
watching the spirit world fold into the mists
And where Shadows and Witches conjure,
— myriad talons beshrew Winter’s prayer

For eons I hath wandered in forgotten lore
— a sleep walker thru ash & fire, hunting ..
Beneath Moon solemn and drifting,
I covet thy ghostly figure velvet, undressing
Pools of

The Man and the MoonHer mouth corners hung themselves
and I began to wonder if that was the death of them.
A simple, quiet death;
without broken fingernails lining the walls
with the stripes of a despairing end.
I began to ache with the questioning in my heart
with the echoes reverberating in my capillaries
of her face scorching sunshine in her smile
right before it crumpled
and nothing was left but a frowning moon
set firm in its resignation to an upcoming eclipse.

SpeakeasyI can feel you like a phantom,
sensation without touch,
like breath in winter
or a misty mountain morning
that stays with me
until the stars fall in evening.

Your eyes contain the secrets
your lips would dare to betray,
but your body tells the story
and I am trying
to read between the lines
of your paperback smiles.

A grazing touch, a covert glance,
the memories remain
as skin grows warm and red
beneath lying fingertips
that claim incidental contact
a thousand times a day.

Of course,
it's not the kind of thing we say
when we are speaking
without talking and feeling
without touching
and thinking without knowing...

all of the things

Dandelion QueenI dream of the ocean;
that paper-thin line where
the current swallows the stars
and the water churns violet

(you tell me to be
quiet,

dandelion queen, we've
heard all these words before)

tonight
I will sleep heavy
and wake a few hours before dawn,
only to forget my name

my wave-weathered heart will cry,
I will cry (my biggest fear
is drowning in too many
of my own weighted words

you tell me to be
quiet
so I can hear the world breathe)

I want to go home

Overgrown ColorsRed like blood on a rose.
White like bone and stars.
Black like reclusiveness.
Green like dead air.
Orange like the savage instinct.
Purity like a god's heart.
Red like thawing hatred.
White like a frozen, severe cry.
Black like the night's deprived shadows.
Green like the wind in the grass.
Orange like the light in the shadows.
Purity like the sun rising.
So discharging through the moon in a wheeze is like luminous white, dispersed red.

We Can't Be Together.Every kiss you plant on my lips,
Takes a little bit of my soul away.

You're stealing the passion,
You're invading my heart,
And killing what emotion I've left untouched.
Stop this.
I can't love you.

I've tried to before,
Oh my god,
Have I tried.

Tried to unlock the doors to myself,
Tried to open up,
And let you in.
But as soon as I took one look,
Negativity took it's opportunity,
And struck the hot iron I'd been molding.

Every word you mutter
My knees falter under
You're killing me

You're my kryptonite
I'm your paradise
But in this odd peace that seems to be approaching
I can't find happiness.

We aren't meant to be together
But this

WindowsHere am I, repeated,
and beyond waits everything
but everything is more
than I can bear.

I am not built for altitude
nor looking far afield;
groves and granite-sided mountains
stop my gaze

like rest for every tired wing;
a cover in the coldest time
snugged up beneath my chin.

Windows nothing more,
but safe lies there behind them
as the chambered hours pass;

safe sleeps there behind them
on the soft side of the glass.

Poet as PainterThe world
Your dusty palette,
The pen
Your muddied paintbrush:

Dip into
The impossible
Colour
Of imagination

And stain
The pristine slate
With an
Image distilled.

Dry Spell I am immobilized by time.
by the idea that it is somehow slipping,
fleeting,
evaporating
through the cracks of
my fingers and high

above my head.
I am terrified by the incessant notion
that no combination of thoughts,
words,
silences,
or actions
could possibly satiate it.

I realize only now that it can never be filled:
all which is tossed into it is swallowed in haste
or stretched
so far
that it dissolves into non-being.
I find that I am caught within its furrows
much like the words it devo

BoyfriendI thought you were good.

You WERE good.

You played with my hair.

You held me when I cried.

You were a gentleman.

You made me laugh.

You kissed me.

You loved me.

I loved you.

It was then that I learned the truth.

The dirty, rotten, stinking truth.

About you!

You cheated.

You played with her hair.

You kissed her.

You loved her.

You made her laugh.

I saw you – don’t you dare deny it.

I saw you giving her that love.

That same love you gave me.

I break up with you.

You don’t even seem to care.

Did you ever love me at all?

Or was it only ever her?

Much later, you’ll realize what a mistake you made.

I

with thanks to frosttwo roads diverged in a soulless dawn
and you pull over,
idling on the shoulder of route 50.
it's a polaroid morning and
the world is as grainy
and sleep-heavy
as your eyes,
and one million miles
is not far enough.
it plays back, filmstrip,
blurred along the length of
optic nerves,
and here you are:
facing a choice between
on
and
out.
and this?
this loosejointed, hollowbodied
weightless ache--
this is what
gone
feels like.

He doesn't write poetry anymore.He doesn’t write poetry anymore,
even if he still collects it, reads it, saves it, treasures
faded verses from his wife the way connoisseurs
savor vinyl over metallic rainbows on disc.
I don’t mind not knowing, but I can’t stand not asking.

The record needle hits the groove wrong;
he stumbles over words that aren’t there,
rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore
and his confusion is strangely endearing.

But there’s a lyricism to his words that I love,
poetic lines inserted between the daily grind
of character names and who said what;
voiceless boys in white a

PocketLeftover religion in the pocket
Of my trenchcoat
A key that unlocks nothing
A penny, a scrap of paper
With half of your name
Written in black ink

A song that is usually in my head
In the shriveled carcass
Of a long-dead dream
In the pocket
Of my trenchcoat
With the lint

You Don't Know ItYou don't know it, but you kept me sane
I nearly went over the edge
With a knife in one hand and a gun in the other
But you grabbed me
Pulled me back on my own two feet
Emptied my hands
And when you realized that I couldn't stand on my own
You hugged me
Like a mother would do for her child
Like a friend would do for, dare I say, another friend

You don't know it, but when you saved me
I felt free
I felt wanted
I felt needed
I felt, dare I say, loved

You don't know it, but when you showed me kindness
I fell in love
In love with your kindness
That same sweet kindness you saved me with
It felt like I found a new home
One that I could be, dare

untitledGold abundant at your feet,
Heart ripe and pumping on your sleeve,
And eternal admiration;
To say happiness has evaded you
Would be asylum-esque lunacy
For you have nothing to lose,
Fate is on your side,
The odds are in your favor infinitely
Do not waste the gift you’ve received

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Thought ProcessThere are many things in this universe which have no reason. And yet, as human beings, we look for a reason anyway. And if there is none, we pretend to have found one anyway and formulate a fine-sounding explanation, even though there was none in the first place. For instance, why did I choose to take out paper and pencil to write my spontaneous and bizarre thought-process? No reason. Why am I me? Why not a zebra? Why do we live and breathe the air of this universe, and not a parallel other? Again, no reason.
We may think that there is a reason in many cases, as there sometimes are. These are cases where there is no reasoning, and we preten

On the topic of dustAfter Dreams are done in a person's mind,
they seep through the ear canal and filter down through the mattress
to buzz around under the bed for a while
like confused moths flitting around a light bulb.

And after crashing around in cardboard boxes and dirty socks for a time,
these Dreams may come across Dust.
Dust, in itself, is a fine, fluffy, dry material that contains as follows:
plant pollen, human and animal hairs, textile fibers, paper fibers,
outdoor soil, human skin cells, burnt meteorite particles
and many other materials which may be found in the local environment,
until it becomes a shapeless mass of gray fluff.

This fluf

'Dead Souls' Found Poem--Page 47(Words taken from Nicolai Gogol's "Dead Souls", in the form of a "Found Poem Verse".)

The rain was loud on the roof,
Cascading in streams.
Dogs bark in every pitch:
One, head uplifted, howling with so much effort
He might have be earning God knows what salary;
Another clipping it off, and in between, like a door-bell
Rang a soprano voice, a puppy's.
All were clapped by brass, a grandfather maybe;
He was a husky contrabasso in choir,
When a convert is at eight
And the tenors are standing on tip-toe.

'Dead Souls' Found Poem--Page 17(Words taken from Nicolai Gogol's "Dead Souls", in the form of a "Found Poem Verse".)

The author is nevertheless fond of every detail;
His intention needs not take time or space.

By nature, he was reserved.
He had an urge for enlightenment,
That is, reading books without much heed to their content.
It was absolute indifference
Whether he read about adventures, a simple primer, or a prayer-book.

He perused all books with equal attention.
What pleased him was not what he read,
Rather the process of reading.
That letters were composing some word,
Which meant only the devil knows what.

'Dead Souls' Found Poem--Introduction(Words taken from Nicolai Gogol's "Dead Souls", in the form of a "Found Poem Verse".)

The spirit defies analysis.
It follows as it pleases,
In the most unexpected places.
Beyond that, it seeks nothing:
If it does, we pay little attention.

With the immediate and the particular,
We fail to catch hints, and miss its point.

But there are few,
Despite differences in time,
The ridiculous still remains,
Which we accept for its own sake,
And beyond which, we ask for nothing
And need no effort to enjoy its absurtities.

Collector of the Unwanted: Introduction"How did the fire begin?" The voice spoke, aged and serious.
He listened as another voice spoke. A man as well, with a tone gruff and dripping with a dark humor. "Fault wiring. That library didn't help much. Kindled and fueled those flames, and when the roof fell in, escape was impossible. The whole family roasted like chestnuts. Poof. Flesh to ash. Horrid shame, really," the man snorted.
"Doesn't sound like it, the way you put it," the first said. He prefered this man over the other.
He, unknown to the others, lay in a stiff position, eyes painfully closed shut. Was he even alive? At the time he could not say, and merely lay still, l

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Submitted: June 11, 2012
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The Walking

by ~EnitanStitches, Jun 11, 2012, 6:18:28 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

Underneath the torn shoes of the Walking
The jelly of his pale eyes faced downward
To the shifting undergrowth and fern
More of a growth
Than it was a wood.

The Walking
Tipped his hat
Folded thin hands
And shifted the vertabrae in his neck
To the sky.

The darkness

Could not hide the shape

Of beauty

And death

Possessing the form of corvus corax

Witnessing the Cephalopod and the Walking.

The Cephalopod moved slowly and evenly over the Barrens

Separated the debris with ever-moving tentacles

As its spiny cover grew

With the gnarled trees
Twisted bicycles
And rusted parts never to be used
Entwined within the roots and tendrils.

The Walking shaded pale eyes
From an ever-white moon
Shining above him

Upon the Cephalopod

Shifting over the Barrens.

The ever-white moon

He thought

Was more of a face

Rather than a stone.

A face

Staring down at his flesh

Sliding over sinews of muscle

Over aging bones

The clicking of tendons as he tred

The finite overgrown shell.

The shell

He should clarify

Was more of a realm unto its own devices

Governed by its own rules

That the Walking lives by.

Unnecessary actions

Sleep feed and drink

Were ignored.

The Walking

Merely did as title stated

To travel the lovely deadscape

Of the Cephelopod

Traveling over the Barrens

Only witnessed

By the feathered corvus children

Of Death.

The Walkingby ~EnitanStitches

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

The Walking in his realm upon the Cephalopod: an ancient, prehistoric-appearing creature shifting over the Barrens, a dead, wasteless land. The deadscape is the space of its growth--its shell--dead, but more alive than most. The deadscape, with its twisted trees and lost dreams and inventions never born. Through this strange cycle of Walking over deadscape, the ravens, corvus corax, witness all.

Mayhaps this is how he, the Walking, shall spend his strange death.

This was also meant to be more scattered with its stanzas and ideas, as that's how my actual thought process works. : D

Inspired by Creaturesfromel's fantastic sculpture, "The Cephalopod and the Raven":
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