[x]

rootslike drowned men who have lost their
clothes and faces, they lay suspended
facing the sun and grinning without
eyes through the ripples of the water.

those passing by wonder how they got here,
these homeless men without fingers or toes
long spindly stumps twisting into lost roots:

reaching to the east, to the south,
to the homes they have forgotten.

Down By The SchoolyardThere is a rather cliched phrase that states that some people live double lives. I have always found that to be an intensely misleading statement and I guess you can call it a bit of a pet peeve of mine. No one leads "double lives", they just lead fucking lives. That those lives are more complex that the singular one-track existence of lesser creatures shouldn't be a matter of duplicity, but of common sense. No one is exactly who they seem to be.

Julio is one of those who they would later say lived a double life, but it is no more true for him than anyone else. The difference in this case is that there are two of him, rather than one.

Perha

SolsticeOnce upon a time, when you were still sunlighthouses and shimmering existence wherever you were needed most, you found him. He was November, shaky on his first last legs, and you saw through the mind-twistings he feigned to the mind-twistings that were really there, knotted up in his dreams.

You were still birdsong then, and thunderstorms, and your bodyheat melted the frost claws that held him tight. You held onto him as his November deepened. When he howled, you howled with him, and the wind played with your voices and pressed the softness of your lungs against your cageribs—and then against each other's.

November became solstice, and

Winter 2012 Haiku Set12-6
cats in the hall
shifting to find
the last afternoon light

12-7
all day the old cat
follows a spot of sun
down the hall

12-8
all my raked leaves
now a pile
at the back door

12-10
cold wind
street empty
a faceless penny

12-12
a cat's balance-
if you stop petting me,
I'll fall

12/21
rusted clouds
seventy miles per hour
towards the coming dawn

DormantWinter is a blank slate,
but not like Rousseau's—
it cleanses
sucking out warmth like poison
leaving only windburnt frost
tacked to the window pane

all we remember
is the numbness
the shuddering
skittish steps across the ice
snowflakes pasted to our faces
smoke rising from our lips
dragged across bleak clouds

winter has us captured
bound by fur and walls
drifting in our eggshelled silence

bone cold until we birth ourselves by warmth
emerge from our shells wet and heaving
uncurl our fingers one by one
joints crackling like fire at our backs

until spring comes
drip by tender drip
old wounds thaw
we are found raw,

WhitmanI am all that grows from me
and all that grows from me is sacred—
              my hair, dirty roots reaching towards sky,
fed by sky, shifted by its undulating currents
              my fingers, spiders, crescents, twigs,
gaunt, blunt, probing, inquisitive...prurient
              my ears, awkward conch shells jammed on as if by mistake,
rigid and ridged, elven,
innocent like unexplored caves for children to bound gaily into
resounding with echoed cheers of courage wanting
as if a dozen more children waited within, fearless guides;
              my nose, obdurate.
The reach of my eyes knows no bounds;
what walls are there to throw my body against?

The Substitution ParadigmThe Substitution Paradigm

Ramu came up to our table. Glaring at me, he said, “You either order something or get out.”
I glanced away from the threat, and turned to Raghav. A single drop of sweat was running down his brow. Ramu saw that too and identifying his prey, he sprung.

Swinging around, he faced Raghav, “Order something or get out.”

Then Ramu just stood there. It was not as if we had rehearsed it before hand, but he knew. He knew that my co-occupants generally folded in the first round. Only the stout made it to second level, but they too buckled under Ramu’s relentless gaze.

I always had a policy of n

Whiskey Laden DreamsBitter eyes and tears might taint a drink, but sitting in this bar alone with your stool pulled out next to me, and the Martini poured regardless of your presence still brings a smile to my face; despite the taste. I'm having a whiskey myself; dry. Yes, I know I don't drink, but every once in a while you need whiskey to solve an intricate problem, and mine is the distinct lack of alcohol in my life.

There are people everywhere and it amazes me how none of them are you, from the woman in the black dress coming down the stairs to the signing couple in the corner, laughing silently. They're not you at all, and that's what's amazing – in an

darwin's revengein the embryo of the city
in their cage
they paint their nails not
knowing

that the sun is watching
from his trap door
in the cloud ceiling where
whales can't swim but go

to dream
and drop down their weight in rain
not measured in pints
but lives overflowed

in lost archipelagos full
of automatic islands
that catch the eyes like needles
when viewed from further away

than the end of the world

They Also Serve Who Only Stand and WaitI don't know when we first went underground. I don't even know if it was one mass exodus, a swarm of mankind trickling through the earth's crust so vehement we carved our own caverns by the force of trampling feet, or whether it was a gradual process, perhaps even a repetitive one, a family here, a neighborhood there. For all I know, the echo of the damp subterranean machine has always reverberated off the cave walls, created long past by the Angels, who think of our well-being even while they shake their heads helplessly at our flaws.

They say that those who remained on the surface were raptured away in a great flash of light, like a millio

bedIt's a stabbing sight
Letting in the morning with a crack of the shades
And you forget you could page-turn horizons
Waft through free territory
Where acres are just beds
Made of fresh land

Wrinkles in the river
Tell remembered times
About old languages that could make you cry
About soft beds that carve away canyons
A speaking voice lifted from the earth
Begging you to remember

Submerged in Swan Lake

Swans and wings are floating by
on a breeze imbued with jasmine and
willows outstretching their arms in welcome.

Through deep breaths he arrives
plunged in murky, pungent water.
A quiet whisper, and he prays -

"Please... may I linger here?"

Willows lower their arms
and jasmine falls to the Earth
where the wind dies and finally rests.

The crows are cawing hymns,
begging to be swans.
But only the duck submerged in Swan Lake
has delved the desired shore.

Its waters dangerous and plagued
by monsters baring their teeth;
most ghastly and putrid they are
that no crow may ripple its surface
nor any songbird seeking beauty fair.

The Swan M

for unseeing eyesladen with sky
we stumbled
and painted mockingbirds
on loveless branches
folding in our slender limbs
and ducking under our own
voices, fidgety and frail
against the wall of night.

between the dipping blades
and drawn shoulders
we learned to craft our words
steady-soft,
a drumming rain
that carved canyons
in open hearts and
drew the sunshine to
our supping lips.

keen-eyed, we watched
remembering the weight
of unseeing eyes
and scalding remarks
and we learned to slip
the noose-knots and slide
through the soul-cracks
and somehow
build kingdoms under
upturned noses.

with lyrical uncertainty
and tender determinat

hindsightAt one time, we followed
the fires of July like fools in love
with heat smothered on our raw anatomy--
but fall has wrought our kindling into cinders,
carried it away on the earth's currents and sighs.

Here we see the girls with pressed skirts and
polished Mary Janes catch drifts of oak leaves,
pale-downed arms reaching for the bleached clouds
of late September,

and when the boys with all their chivalry abandoned
come searching for pig tails and rounded thighs,
we watch the snow eat an old world
from our separate park benches.
Cigarettes lay crumpled on the ground,
dead soldiers from our last war.

But when I open my eyes again,

Send Me the Raintoday, they're all talking about the fires.
the people on TV, the voices on the radio,
the mouths that open and whisper
and softly touch tongues. even the sky is

revealing black plumes of smoke,
flaunting shameless and seductive curves.
the rain's been too dry and the lightning
isn't wet enough, panic is
rising out of control in this
burning city. that's

not all;
we have a crisis on
our hands- the balloons are
running out of air and even

the experts don't really know why,
and on top of those sinking rubber toys

my soul is losing moisture
faster than the crackling grass under the duress of flame.
i'm sta

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- ¿Adónde van nuestros recuerdos?
La pregunta flotaba en la mente de nonagenario hombre que miraba por la amplia ventana principal de la casa: los vestidos largos de las señoras de sociedad casi tocaban el suelo que todos por igual, sin importar el estrato social, pisaban. Después el viento se encargaría de llevar el polvo a través de los confines del mundo material.
- ¿Por cuánto tiempo puede perdurar un recuerdo?
Estaba más que harto de tener que formularse esa clase de preguntas todos los días, y que éstas existieran por tanto tiempo en su gastado cerebro. Mientras él filoso

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Lintukoto

by ~Cronosmu, Oct 9, 2012, 3:29:43 PM
Literature / Poetry / Nature / Free Verse

Life as a stained glass window in the cosmos:
a well of misfortune, shattered hours,
pieces of night and liquid decades.

A bird crosses the universe
and in the corner of eternity it warbles
a song that encloses everything.

I escape to the route of tempest:
the galaxy, oniric labyrinths,
a spiral path to madness.

Lintukotoby ~Cronosmu

Literature / Poetry / Nature / Free Verse

According to Finnish mythology, previous to Christianization, Lintukoto was a place at the edge of the world, which was also the entire universe that was born from a waterfowl’s egg, where the birds migrated to during winter. If Greeks saw the Milky Way as the spilled breast milk of Hera, for the ancient Finns it was the Linnunrata or the route of the birds, by which they travelled every year to the border of the Earth. In strictly metaphorical terms, lintukoto refers to a heavenly place.

For Spanish speakers, don't forget to visit my blog: [link]

Aquí una traducción al español:

La vida como un vitral en el cosmos:
un pozo de infortunio, horas quebradas,
fragmentos de noche y décadas líquidas.

Un pájaro atraviesa el universo
y en la esquina de la eternidad trina
una canción que lo encierra todo.

Huyo a la ruta de la tempestad:
la galaxia, laberintos oníricos,
un trayecto espiral a la locura.

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Given 2012-11-27

Lintukoto by ~Cronosmu ( Suggested by ~Routsofboredom and Featured by `thorns )

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~Ateendra Dec 22, 2012

~Vether Nov 27, 2012 Student General Artist

I clicked this the moment I recognised Lintukoto. Made me fool cool. >:V
I like your use of words throughout the poem; very sophisticated.

*GUDRUN355 Nov 27, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Marvelous poetry. Really does justice to the ancient story.

~Rhyiant Nov 27, 2012 Student Writer

This is lovely.

~VincentValentine13 Nov 27, 2012

This is--a poem. That's really about all I can say. It's not bad, it has some very nice wording but it feels like you're trying too hard to be deep. Trying a bit too hard to be meaningful or something. I can't really put into words what it's trying to be without sounding perhaps harsh or mean-spirited but I guess the best way is that it was laid on a bit thick. Melodramatic, is probably a good word to use. For some poetry fans, that's okay, I guess it's just not my thing.

=slowslicksnails Nov 27, 2012 Student Writer

I agree with you, but I do kinda like the poem. (I have a thing for mythology poems)

Nice icon/avatar btw,

~Daionii Nov 27, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

This is incredibly beautiful, I especially love 'pieces of night and liquid decades'. I hadn't heard of Lintukoto before! I love mythology so I will definitely read more into it

Congratulations on the DD!

*catelee2u Nov 27, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

Great!

~Gemdrop Nov 27, 2012 Hobbyist Photographer

Awesome. I had forgotten the beauty of that story, I heard it last in the elementary school.
And a good poem as well

I like the rhythm.

=Daghrgenzeen Nov 27, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

Congrats on the DD.

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