|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
SeashellsI found a matched pair
Of broken seashells.
They were halved, but not from the same whole.
Each orange half-moon had been trampled
By a careless tourist with eyes only for the waves;
Each had been bored through and gnawed at from the inside
By some seafaring worm;
Each had been beaten by water and stone,
Battered by wind, tossed by the gulls.
Their tips had been worn down to points like wings.
It was as thought hey flew together and met in my path.
I threaded wire through them to make earrings,
So that the pair would never be apart.
Ella Violo - Chapter 2Ella liked autumn. The sun didn't rise too early or too late, and the air was still warm while gaining an air of crispness. She rose on the morning of the thirteenth with an enormous yawn. A mouse in the corner echoed her sentiment.
"Good morning," she said to the little creature. The mouse skittered back into its home in an old holey chest against the wall. "Gotta get a cat," muttered Ella as she threw off her blankets and poked Tomas and Alejandro awake.
Maria was already up and about, frying eggs in the kitchen. She was only two years older than Ella, but she already looked like a mother. Her brown hair was tied up in a messy knot at the base of her head, and smile lines were appearing around her red lips. The smallest thief, a four-year-old boy with quick fingers, clung to Maria's apron as she swept around the room, stirring bubbling pots of porridge and soup.
"Up already, Ella? Must
SistersWe are the worriers, the wishers
on low-flying Boeings, willing them up and
away from our homes and businesses.
We found ourselves in old England in
New England, winters with no heat and
summers of more weight.
We see love in white and wrinkled faces,
in cupcakes and pencil boxes, in train schedules
and in ordinary time, cut time, and thyme patches.
We may sit quietly but we will never be
silenced save by shouts and each other's
We were the perfect girls, and we are the working
women of east and west, the white North,
wit and will and worship.
Panick 3Do you ever worry about going mad, Mother?
I do. It started one day
when my mind stopped sounding like poetry
or conversation. The transitions rambled.
I found that my head was off-kilter, or my eyes
wanted blue and red more than usual. Did you
ever feel that, Mother?
I had hoped it would go away, but internal
monologues don't stop when the script does.
The crazy, I mean. Why does
it linger? I would think that better minds
than mine need the twisting. But what if
we all went out of our heads for a while?
Could that fix things? If we could forget,
maybe problems would vanish like the ponies on the highway.
Wouldn't they? Like the posies? I've never
seen a posy, Mother.
Ella Violo - Chapter 1Chapter 1
So, you want a story? How about The girl who grew up too fast? Its one of my favorites. I know, youve heard it before, but theres so much you can learn from it. Especially if you want to grow up to be like me. Dont give me that look, Tomas, I saw you watching my hands on that job earlier. Good thieves dont come from nowhere.
Here goes. But you only get part of it tonight. Weve got a big day ahead of us tomorrow and you lads need your sleep.
Once upon a time, I had a little family. Just me, my Papa, and my Mami. We lived in a modest house in Caligari territory. Papa was a merchant, and Mami sewed and cooked. She and her friend Amelia made the most beautiful things with linen and lace, and Papa sold them to traders from Castille. I went to the market with him one day, when I was about four,
breathe that soul straight down my throatyou are my full-lipped muse
and half-lidded siren
humming a broken chorus
breathing to a metronome
sighing in crescendo
an evangelizer of acoustics
the ministry of instrumentals
I've been baptized
in your anarchist hymns
you've made me a believer
of vinyl and a religion without god
INFINITELY LILITHI am not dead for I cannot die,
once Man thought I could be easily misused,
exiling me to an epilogue no longer remembered
as he blotted out my blush from staining
the Earth's chrysalis rind, if only he knew
that beneath my touch knowledge took root
and pumpkins were hollowed out into shapes
-seedless and skinless-as infinite as the mind.
I am not dead, I cannot die
for I am the memory of primevel bliss,
though blackened my skeleton still exists,
licking the Silence clean so my name can
bite more soundly, a thousand serpents hiss
from my nebula center, welcoming to me
my children who bring the blood that feeds
my dessicated garden, ravenously growing,
I cannot regret for I live too purely to repent
the pushing and prodding of my blossoms to be
known by the timeless exuberance of eons past,
in the Moonlight I move and speak of dark things
not really dead and the light not really blessed
without me being known first, infinitely I say
I am not dead for I cannot die.
I am Lilith.
The Lost Who WanderI find myself
at the feet of a god,
not with expectation,
praying falsely for
of divine intervention,
but out of sheer desperation,
like those who murmur
prayers to St. Jude,
within the darkness
where there is none
over the rocks
with the blind,
not counting how many
along the way,
all to hear enigmatic
from the parched
of a mad woman
with hallucinatory visions
living in a cave
which sweeps over me
in waves of nausea.
I martyr myself
for your pain,
and grieve unaccountably
for your loss,
it seers through me,
like St. Sebastian
I find myself penetrated
full of holes, bearing the marks
of a guilt which should
never have been my own.
But that dose not entirely
absolve me, there is
no escape from my own
all I can do is watch you
and wait for dead prayers
to be answered
by the indifferent
sages who devour
our fates making
bets as they attempt
at the endisthmus tossed over the edge
wipes the bull's back
in the odourless sun
the tiger could rest
could perhaps be crossed
the temple is marble,
white and final
the boy stands up
In the WoodsIn the woods my spirit wanders
it goes where now my feet shall follow
the trees, they speak with silent tongues
where wind will pass through every branch
my eyes alight with newfound life
I know this is my lasting home
the ground beneath receives me warmly
soft-spun soil has kissed my feet
the air around has touched me deeply
soaking in my every pore
the birds are singing in the trees
with peeping frogs drawn up and down
the waters of the streams are murm’ring
the distance now is not so far
and what is near is father still
the world it breathes in through the roots
where my soul is rising to
digging deep in untold heights
my spirit wanders with the breeze
here is where my people lived
where they fought and drank and built and died
the forest is our endless home
whence our finest tribes did hail
fare we well to come back home now
to bring soft flesh to bare
bear it out along the way
softest skin on rough hewn bark
the palm may breathe in with the wood
and out the lungs give a cath
UntitledToday, Father, we need Your aid
For in the in the present, battles rage
With Your guidance, victory will be made
And Your praise will be sung from age to age
Memories of Days of Peace to ComeMemories of Days of Peace to Come
Midnight, silence echoes through the void;
A sight once seen, the earth ever recalls.
In wordless wait, time comes to an end;
A tale of anguish, by curse and decay,
To be cleansed by the coming of a King.
Heat goes away as all things perish;
Universe being poured out unto death,
Longing for the hour of redemption,
Whence the high price of man's sin is paid,
Foretold since the old days of the fall.
Mountains weep with great tears from the heights;
Magma blood erupts through earthbound pores;
Pressure tightens the core in the deep.
Humble, the moon comforts grounded cries;
Thrice the quakes submit to divine will.
All of nature stands tortured and shamed
By the bloody hands of foul mankind;
Murderous, desecrating the holy.
The deep growl of God's wrath reverberates
Like judgement on atoning innocence.
Starlight pierces the black of the night;
Words of white tell their ancient witness.
The firmament bleeds its precious glow;
Holy brilliance she
Now, BecauseNow is the time to be tough.
Even though you don't want to be,
even though you'd rather just weep.
Now is the time to be strong.
Even though everything in you cries,
screams against it.
Now is the time to be happy.
Even though all you care about is fading,
falling rapidly into the background.
Because weeping does nobody good.
Not even you.
Because faltering only hurts you.
Not even screams help.
Because happiness is the glue
that is holding you
that is keeping you
from bursting apart at the seams.
Because even though everything, everything
Is falling away and is meaningless,
("Meaningless! Meaningless!" cries the Teacher)
You still need to ignore your grief
Keep moving and
It'll be fine.
Now is the time to be tough.
Even though it's so hard,
the hardest thing you've ever done.
Now is the time to be strong.
Even though yo
THAT PAIN YOU FEELThat pain you feel is muscle building,
destruction of the worn away pieces.
Staircases being built while you work away,
signs saying "Construction: please use detour".
Walking partially on the backs of past foremen,
who built their own homes and left behind the blueprints.
The world can't show restraint in its assault,
but the paths have been cut for those who would spit in the eyes of gods.
Look down at yourself now,
That six pack didn't grow itself.
Keep in Touch!
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