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A Vision of SnowEphemeral kingdom of crystalline white
Shielding our sight from decay and rust
Light was found with child by water
In essence cold and bright.
Burnished copper pylons
Scream their brilliance to the Sun
Massive girders remain below
The color of industrial green
Their brawn and permanence
Always there but rarely seen
Circling the radius of Atlantic and Pacific
Eclipsing the foundation of brute clay
Though a cousin of that first rib
Preferring the delights of ecclesiastical space
Flutes trilling Alpine symphonies echoing in
Darkened forests, shedding light on nursery rimes
BreadGift of the third Heaven
Wrought by the sweat of our brow
Sufficient for the day at hand
Broken in humility
Parted to strengthen bonds
Rests not on its ancient laurels
Rather it accompanies the fish
To feed the lost and hungry.
ice fishing: circa 1982white bucket simple rods red bobbers ice scoop
clamber in 1977 slant six blue dodge
arrive smelling the snow like a dream
walking tall across the ice no fear
sit by the hole waiting
hands red raw burning smiling grins
eight years old north pole dreaming vast
tin pail ice scoop sitting granddad pipe tobacco
black ice with blue-veined cracks
polar eternity each ridge an adventure
old blue pickup granddad at the wheel
lonely red sun black pine shadows over snow
washboard ride to home quiet country music local AM
cold happy boots unlaced waiting to return like old sailors
hungry for their sea-bride
dampers opened fire kindling crackles lustily
hard salami saltines tap water mustard pickled bologna
roger mudd reassuring fidelity calm static commercial
granddad briar pipe carter hall tobacco quietly puffing fragrant reality
strength that will never fail beyond surety beyond question beyond imagination
of anything else
to bed to sleep at peace
Synthetic Legend 23"I tell you, it will work."
"A random, arbitrary tale?"
"Oh authentic! Always authentic."
"Then how can you 'create' a legend from thin air?"
"Let me illustrate for you."
"There once was a cow that spied the moon..."
Shining in her stall
She mooed at it and expecting no reply
Returned to the dreams cows may have
When suddenly the moonlight dimmed for an instant,
Like a blink of an eye.
This cow, named Millie by the farmer's eight year old granddaughter,
Turned her head to peer through the barn window
Astonishingly, it happened again. The moon winked at her!
Well, this required further investigation.
Millie mooed...two short moos, one long one, and a short staccato.
The moon, in return, winked three times, once on the left,
Once on the right
And once in the middle.
Millie was delighted as a cow can be.
Suddenly, a cloud passed across the face of the moon
And when it was gone, the moon was as before...
Cold, silent and aloof.
User Interface I"Hello, I'm calling to..."
"Excuse me? I was calling..."
"Is this the right number? Is this 485-17-5819?"
"Who are you looking for anyway?"
"Uh, heh, this isn't a computer. Who am I speaking to?"
"Who are you speaking to?"
"That's what I...alright. I'm hanging up now."
"You call me and start asking for information and expect me to jump for you? Is that pretty much how it goes?"
"Yeah. Thought so. Look buddy, I got 80 tera-circuits to attend to here, on top of following up on processor requests and then there's that damn graphics department. Don't even get me going on that."
"Are you the computer? How..."
"How am I speaking to you without being sentient? How do you know I'm not sentient and self-aware? It's possible that you are not self-aware, however."
"(sigh) Alright. What are you trying to do?"
"Yeah, I wanted to book a flight to Cancun..."
AnomalyTo the dusty winds that swept in from Scarborough Faire
Collecting the souls of roses hung beneath cloistered tapestries
Each word and line an artifact in India ink
Beautiful, dark and lovely...
I am an anomaly.
To green drawbridges crossing in East Coast fishing towns
Where nets and gumrubber boots trudge the salt-cured decks
I am an anomaly.
To schoolchildren in daguerrotypes and pressed-tin memories
Whose shoelaces I am unable to tie for them
Since they are out at play and singing Ring-Around-The-Rosy
Whose fathers are hard smiling men with handlebar mustaches and piercing eyes
Whose mothers fold the linen and lay the silverware carefully on the table
Whose Aunts and Uncles live in Manhattan between the Ellis Island menagerie
And the Bowery
Whose fathers speak in faded words on player piano rolls
Suited for Sunday rose garden afternoons
In a Victorian maple-lined, black-iron fenced dream...
I am an anomaly.
To faultless British gentleman stepping out of cabs in Tashke
IowaIf you visit Iowa,
you'll call her fields empty,
but she wasn't born that way.
A part of her was carved out
when she was ripped between Virginia
and the purple mountains of New Mexico.
Her gold hair, she tore it out when she realized
it didn't make her a princess.
She laid her locks strung along every road
leading somewhere else.
White hairs on her cheeks
are scars from winter.
Her hair darkens with the dampness
of summer rains.
The storms are never silent,
but neither is life when there's a tear
in your childhood where
a parent ought to be.
I've been flooded by Iowa's sorrow.
The only way I can distract her from her own voided landscape
is if I hate myself harder than she cries.
She just wants to fly
and I want to bus or train,
not because I fear death, but because
I want to take living slow.
It's the only way I ever feel.
From the air it's hard to watch Earth's hips move.
But Earth can't compare to the country.
That's my girl.
Full grown even when harvesting season's j
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More