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Crayon ChildYounger Me,
still fending off nightmares
with plastic swords
and MONSTER-B-GONE lights.  

I was rarely gentle with you.

I blistered our hands with blacktop;
I choked our sandals with mulch.

Yet you remained untouched
by life's failures and faults,
only marred on the skin
by two frolic-scars.

There are seven chin stitches
from a monkey bar mishap,
and three on your upper lip
from disgruntled floor tiles.

But that never halted
your gap-toothed grins.

I fought by your side
during alien invasions,
where broccoli trees swayed
beneath the 1% lowfat Milky Way.

We cradled dirt-stained snowmen
that lasted weeks in the f
An old kind of loveOne hundred years from now
The paint we picked out
Will be seven shades different,
Or old bricks made wise
By some graffiti prophet.
The note you hid in my mittens
– All I dream about anymore
Is the ocean
And you
(But mostly just you) –
Will be drifting through dream-catchers and
Those sapling hopes with
Roots tangled like our fingers and
Branches trembling with the vastness of our memories
Will be driftwood adventures
Nodding off with the tides
But I know in this heart of mine
That the smooth-bark-rain-soaked Beech Tree
You planted for me (there's a swing on it now)
Will still be there
And it will remember wha
Creature - Ch.1The Pie Shop

Ms. Trinket's Pie Emporium was a tiny five-table diner squashed between a convenience store and highway 93. It had a bright painted sign and screen doors – no air-conditioning – and its bathrooms were pit toilets in a row by the road. Behind it the Rocky Mountains rose from sloping green hills to jagged snowy peaks that brushed the sky. They were immense and other worldly, and as Hannah knew they were also dotted in flowers. Chiming Bells, violet Penstemons, nodding Beargrass and Glacier Lilies would all be clinging to the mammoth rocks, and they were also all either potted or growing wild in front of the Emporium. Han
if she were any more tomato she'd be blueberryxvii.
i want to write about how this world of
absolute truth, knowledge, and solid food—

that which we hold high between two fingers is always
full of watery applesauce and little white half-truths.

and about how utterly strange
it is that all the simple things that people
write about on pages are, in reality,

very few and far between.

xvi.
and i want to write about how there is
peace and war and
poverty and treasure and
cruelty and sometimes,

sometimes,

small and
important
moments
of grace.

xv.
i want to write a poem about why the hell i'm wasting
my time writing poems when i could maybe
actually be doing something produ
Hubris.today
we're younger
than we're ever gonna
be.

i. and we finally did it,
drove to the mountains
watched meteors
and let the mattress
grow damp
under our love
under the stars

ii. there are things to
be reconciled

iii. my eyes sting like
chlorine, but from
crying,

I finally disappointed
them;
the highest order of shame

iv. but you cannot put
people into pockets;
good, bad
don't mix
with them

v. and I cannot choose
who I love

vi. your lenses are straight,
elite and proud
mine, open and accumulating
filth

vii. maybe
I should run away more often,
we never talk like this

viii. and you have to realise
that I live in
Working ClassSmoking is a working class disease
They said; he smiled at this.
Lean in body and broad of mind
With shirtsleeves rolled,
A modern man's philosopher
Who stuttered over the words
Like his fingers did over her chassis
Detroit rolling iron beneath his palms
Grease and lubricant under the nails.
The cigarette cherry glows in the dark
Giving him a hard edge aura  
The gloaming settling into the lines
Of his work-worn face
LingerieEvery woman owns one garment
that remains tucked away,
saved for special occasions
when it will be seen.

It is almost always midnight
black, or blood red, and
covered in lace, or made
of mesh, soft and delicate
as the skin it covers.

Such things should be hidden,
lest the owner be labeled
as something other than "lady."

It has a power we can't
control, one that transforms
denim and cotton clad
ragdolls into Barbies,

perfectly proportioned plastic,
smooth and flawless hourglasses
that turn on command.

We groan and flinch
as satin strings pull us
apart and together,
and heartstrings are plucked
as we scrutinize our reflection;

we are not
Twenty-Sevenyou're a dick
with your obscure pop culture references
and brazen hair,
tangled
and sprayed.

your bones curve,
flinching, from drug metaphors;
addiction,
and sex on x.

fingers reach for a
cigarette stash, Jack Daniels
and blotters –
an acid-ash diet.

you slur words
like broken guitar string twangs -
offensive
as your last words breathed.
Garden Shed!Abandoned in the garden shed
Through winter months neglected
We stare at each other for a bleak moment
Dreaming perhaps of summer.

Dried grass clings to rusty blades
Clumps of last years summer
Counting the months till the seasons change
In the cold wooden shed I shiver.

Memories linger of a perfect day
I've gardened and cut the lawn
Impossible to forget that emerald smell
Waiting for winters end I mourn.

2012 Delice1941
RecollectionsTan-orange waves break
Upon a magenta
Ocean.

Someone
Is touching my shoulder,
Their purple breathing
Overwhelming my mind.

Why
Am I lying on the
Floor?

And now I see that grey footprints
Surround me,
Encircle me and then fade.
Solid, translucent,
Gone.

Just as I open my eyes,
More voices are starting.
The overwhelming medley that
Usually, I can recognize,
Is pushing me back into a gaping
Darkness.

What has happened to me?

Between sharp bursts of color,
I can see eyes,
And the eyes see mine.
Someone is pushing me upright,
Repeating my name,
A fire-red mantra.

My own voice is shuddery,
A small purple cloud,
GiftsI'm a finicky soul, with an infinite void to fill.
I've been told I have a gift for making the confusing tangible.
But I can't hold onto that.
I've been told I have a gift for caring for everyone around me.
But I don't care for me.
I've been told I have a gift for brightening others' days.
But I can't find the sun.
I've been told I have a gift of a face men would kill for.
But I can only see its reflection.
I've been told I have a gift for writing verse.
But I can't type my soul.
I've been told I have a gift for the song a lark.
But I can't sing for my freedom.
I've even been told I have a gift for skill in bed.
But my own skill
Stealing WednesdayJust this once,
let it be an angel plume
floating on the borrowed breeze.

Something living but also alive.
A bouquet of forget-me-nots nestled
in the arms of Alzheimer's …
the hands of hatred.

We aren't asking for a field-
No gardens.
The strength to take back tomorrow

Just this once,
Give us something we deserve:

Calm seas
The hidden dirt road

A chance
I did not save her from the sea.The pond was small, the cattails fair;
The algae drew a shining veil
Across the waters waiting there
For her to come while wandering
And stare beyond the dreary pale
Expanse of fog and starry glare
Upon the pond within the dale
Where she had ventured, pondering

The many dreams she'd had of late
Of sandy-shores and broken shells
Upon a beach along a strait
And of the ocean shimmering—
She heard the wave's cathedral bells
Come crashing with a dreadful weight
'Till she, afraid of violent swells,
Could no more see the glimmering

Of pearly foam, nor shining seas
But only turbid tempest-doom;
No more the fragrant, salt-laced
the Chandler's Around the WayThe hose slipped out again. Chan cursed, and shoved it back into the incision he'd made, adjusted his mask, and bent over the pump. He yanked the cord, and the pump started to life with a cough of biodiesel. It bounced on the sand as it grumbled away. Chan kept one hand on it and held the hose in place with the other.
If fucking Fathers would spend the bone on a new one, I wouldn't be all night at this, Chan grumbled. He ached for a smoke, but didn't have the hands to spare. Plenty of hands here, he thought as he glanced at the riverbank. Some of them even had a pulse.
"Hey," he said to whoever was closest.
It was a sunbather. A walker who drew enough bone to slot time on the beach without having to fight for it. She had each arm draped around a man, both of them tattooed in the same place with the same sigil. Chan was jealous. Someday he'd have his own numbers, but they'd be women. All of them. He was old-fashioned like that.
The walker answered without raising her sungl
Reversed Singularity? but of time, i do digress
& my intentions have been writ
in sumerian, and dreamt; but

here to live obsolete:
swift swing, precarious pang
with my heart's guiltless intention
--fingernails scratch & fit

your name; tasting still
succulence, feeling still
tyranny of will, being still
drowned cortex-deep, hearing still

--the wisp of a faltered laughter
sheltered & swaying & playing

amongst the dead, the horned
honoured and torn, formed
long and forlorn'd--

oh time, my bittersweet demise
dying is no longer a sacred art
and is sincerity in its purest form
cloaked with fault & artless bourne
Browse More Like This

More from *Blacksand459

Rust In PeaceEngines rusted in deep deep sleep
Through the vines we see at last
Decades exposed have not been
Gentle
Moss and ivy cover the grief.

Rains come in and dilapidate
The leaning hulks, the tired frames
Empty windows staring out
A hollow voice we could hear sighing
If we understood the language.

So much time has passed, and so little was
Done to stem the tide
The circus is gone, the war is done
We rode the carousel horses out of town
Feeding them sawdust and apple cores.

Don't you know the songs anymore
We recited them by heart long ago
Childhood treasures found amid the lilacs
Have you forgotten the melody?

Lumberjacks once ruled this place

Featured in Groups

:iconwriters--club: :icondd-catalogue: :iconhometown-pride: :iconwritersink: :iconscribes-are-beckoned: :iconontheup-and-up: :iconthehonorablecause: :iconusmc1775:
×


Old Boys

:iconblacksand459:

Riding down country roads
to local farms on a Saturday
with my granddad
to see equipment auctions
as the old boys cashed in

Standing there in bib overalls or Dickies
with their dark glasses on
smoking pipes and cigars
they'd talk politics or crops
their deep voices rumbling quietly

I was enthralled...listening to the auctioneer
rattle off prices at breakneck speed
for a Farmall tractor going once
going twice
Sold to the man in front...

Or grandpa would take me with him
to the local VFW Post 6464
on Thursday evenings
to play Euchre with his friends

I'd bring along a few dog-eared
Reader's Digest magazines to read
as they played
Every so often I would walk over and
say hi, see how grandpa was faring

Usually he was cleaning house
winning almost every hand he played in
The ladies would bring a cake
and we'd have that with coffee

It felt...comfortable in a way
I find hard to explain
Sitting there surrounded by veterans
men who still wore those black-rimmed glasses
and their hair was buzz cut.

Dark tattoos on their forearms
faded from years in the Sun,
of anchors and snakes and women
from battles fought long
before I was born

Yup, I grew up around
the farmers and the vets
those old boys
who kept this Nation running
when things were in the red.

Here's to all you fellows
long gone but never forgotten

So long...

4,539

221 80 82
:iconblacksand459:

Old Boysby *Blacksand459

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This has been featured in :icondailylitdeviations: :[link]

Please check out the article and the other incredible writers featured. Thank You!

EDIT: I always wondered what it would be like to receive a DLD, and now I know. I am elated! Especially to get one for this poem, because my grandfather meant the world to me, and this is just sublime. B-)


EDIT: A DD??? :wow: I am ecstatic!!! My immense thanks to Nic Swaner for the feature. And to each and every one of you who have taken the time to comment and fave: my heartfelt thanks! :handshake: This is SO UNREAL. :D





All Rights Reserved. 2012.
Comments welcome.

These events took place in Howell, Livingston Co., MI and the surrounding area.
©2012-2013 *Blacksand459
Category: Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

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September 1, 2012
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Daily Deviation

Given 2012-09-20
A tribute to those boys who kept their lives in order and their countries running when things took a turn for the worse. Old Boys by *Blacksand459 ( Featured by ^NicSwaner )
love 3 3 joy 5 5 wow 1 1 mad 0 0 sad 3 3 fear 0 0 neutral 0 0
:iconcebinc:
*cebinc Feb 14, 2013  Hobbyist Photographer
Wonderful! I remember those day:D Thanks for bringing them back...
Reply
:iconblacksand459:
*Blacksand459 Feb 15, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
Thank you very much. :D They are always close to my heart. Those were the days. :nod:
Reply
:iconcebinc:
*cebinc Feb 15, 2013  Hobbyist Photographer
:D You're wonderful with the pen!
Have a great day:nod:
Reply
:iconpuppypal1000:
~PuppyPal1000 Dec 1, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
This is wonderful :)
Reply
:iconblacksand459:
*Blacksand459 Dec 1, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
Thank you very much for the compliment, and for taking the time to read my work. :)
Reply
:iconcallerofcrows:
*callerofcrows Oct 2, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
CONGRATULATIONS!!

This is absolutely beautiful, and the imagery was heart-achingly sentimental. You're an amazing poet.
Reply
:iconblacksand459:
*Blacksand459 Oct 2, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
Lizzie!! Thank you so much! That means a lot coming from such a good poet as yourself. :D
Reply
:iconcallerofcrows:
*callerofcrows Oct 2, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
You're welcome, and thank *you!*
Reply
:iconblacksand459:
*Blacksand459 Oct 2, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
No problem.

Hey by the way, I know you've been super busy with school, so how is it going for you? Hope everything is fine in your neck of the woods.

And speaking of woods, have you guys gotten your fall colors already? Ours here in MI is just starting. I love this time of year.
Reply
:iconcallerofcrows:
*callerofcrows Oct 23, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Sorry that I'm responding to this super late!

Things are going well for me! Some financial stress happening, but what else is new? When you sent me this, the colors were JUUUUST starting to come out. They're hitting their peak now. :)
Reply
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