Wandering Heart: Chapter One

Submitted by Almarien Elarinya on Mon, 06/02/2014 - 20:25

"Daddy! Daddy!" I call, running down the hallway to the room at the back of the house where my father Cennanon sits behind his potter's wheel, shaping a clay vase.
He looks up and smiles at me. "What is it, Indiel?"
I twirl around, spreading my arms wide. "Spring!" I sing out happily.
"Come, my little one. We will go see spring together," he laughs, standing and washing the clay off of his hands. He takes my small hand in his own large one, and we walk outside together.

A Curmudgeonly View of Valentine's Day

Submitted by Sarah on Sat, 02/08/2014 - 17:19

It’s that time of year again – the Holiday is upon us. The one with sentiment and disgusting feelings. You know what I’m talking about.

Wait, no; not that one. Have you been living under a rock since New Years? It’s the horrifying one. It’s the one rampant with commercialism, and attempts to purchase affection. The one with desperation lurking on the edges of every smile while fisticuffs take place in the local Aldi’s over the last remaining overpriced and sweetened box of chocolates.

you are the bird in my hand

Submitted by Anna on Mon, 08/05/2013 - 17:08

you are the bird in my hand
our friendship is living and fragile
I can feel its heart beat fast on the vein in my palm

you are worth two in the bush
we are not entwined like undergrowth
two is the number of unattainable birds and lovers

nothing makes a bird sing like flying
nothing makes me write like falling in love

flaws for me, flaws for you
a bird in the hand cannot fly
you do not even like poetry

love one part onions

Submitted by Anna on Tue, 04/30/2013 - 01:55

come gift-wrapped in gossamer gauze
and split into spirals of pearl

wear a raven rag worn to feather-down
and bury unplumbed depths of body beneath

is shaped of (one) the yearning for you
and (two) the ambition to act well by you

I will rather hold soft than shiny
I will rather taste sweet than sour

you grow deeper than any root
and I, a storyteller, garden souls

(three) still fear to rip apart never grasping
what first desires or second requires

eyes eyes brown

Submitted by Anna on Thu, 02/28/2013 - 03:01

brown-eyed boy met four-eyed girl
six years ago now? almost seven
so when the ones syrup deep shot through with glass grass green
meet mirror reflecting window strong in numbers
lip corners turn skyward without knowing why
she returns from hot sun country lovely shulammite dark
she has not set free one or two “dear my friend” letters but
always writing multitasking while they catch up she scribbles
he thinks this message is mine and so it is
but little does she know he can read upside down

everything will love you

Submitted by Anna on Wed, 09/26/2012 - 15:19
love me and I will trust you

     with every drop, even the sweat
     over every skin cell, even the freckles
     on every finger, even the pointers

     with every word, even the warnings
     for every look, even the glares

     with every gift, even the wasted
     inside every box, even the empty
     hid in every room, even the locked

     with every tear, even the rips
     on every page, even the dog-eared

      with every wound, even the open

Missin’ You, Girlie

Submitted by Anna on Mon, 10/10/2011 - 19:42

“What’s your girl like, then?”
“Eh? Wot?”
“That letter you’re writin’. Go on, tell us what she’s like.”
“Aw, my lady, she’s smashin’. Mad, too.”
“Mad? How mad? Does she throw pans and ‘oller?”
“Nah, mad about flowers. An’ clothes. An’ flowers on clothes. She paints roses on ‘er stockin’s and ties wreaths in her cloudy red ‘air…”
“An’ by cloudy, you mean…”
“Sticks out in waves every which way. Ain’t ever lied flat, s’far’s I can remember. Gives kisses of its own, it does.”
“Sounds… strikin’.”