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the trouble isi'd like life to be
quiet and lovely
like distant church-bells
chiming through snow,
muted by the smell of
an old book and the
feel of a fire warming
me into my chair, and
a mug of tea, steeping
the moment in hushed
gratitude, easily in reach.
Liquid Cityhere, at the bottom - lovers.
there are lovers disassembling
themselveslost in and to the
desperate motion in
of - waves.

- did you think the continents
moved themselves? see them slip,

in an open sleep. less go, come.
come and, and - again. trembling

here, at the bottom - their eyes
are lightless. hollow bodies left
restless,

          the sea does not sleep.
The Best is Yet to Comeif we grow old
there will be a sigh
an attention to the change
as your muscles slacken underneath
your faded, favorite shirt
the one that's threadbare, "holy"
in a sense less than divine
I'll have washed it for
the thousandth time
our eyes will crinkle, wrinkle
in ways that start to match
and we'll hold hands and ask:
when did the nerves and veins
begin to let our hands get cold?
-if we grow old
despondenti.

"are you sleepy today?"
"yes."
"but you were sleepy yesterday."
"i know."

ii.

she stirs her pomegranate green-tea until it turns from clear to purple
setting it on her bedside table and climbing back into bed again.
her fingers follow the bluer-than-usual constellation veins on her wrists and down
to the freckle on her forearm and then the scar on the inside of her elbow
crossing the tendon as if it were crux.
and then she remembered that God hasn't been with her lately.

iii.

today is long and sunny but when she steps outside the humidity creaks her bones
and her skin starts to inflame.
she assumes that if getting the mail
la musica dulceheartbeats are psycho-
-somatic, dear;
the ocean has swallowed
me whole.

hay una guitarra bajo
mi almohada, y
sueño de música cuando
estoy solo.

you came here with
city smoke in your lungs,
and i
forgot to breathe.
The Nature of LungsThere's that
feeling
you get
when you
keep
breathing in and
are
so concerned with getting
air into
your lungs,
to fill them up
so fully
that
you'll never
need
to inhale again,
that you forget
about
breathing

out.

But when you do,
the emptiness feels
so
much better than all
the oxygen in the world
pressing out on that one
overcrowded lung.
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?
                 
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
6.12There are days when I recall the litany of your kisses over my shoulders and I wonder, numbly disconsolate, how I ever maintained my disbelief in god, when your movements over me were so profoundly biblical, when my name filtering between the fog of our joined breaths was so much like a prayer - when I would think, for those minutes or hours or days we spent locked in the grip of fever, unaware of the movement of those heavenly bodies outside the reach of our bed, that there was hope for me after all. That I could be saved.

I remember so clearly the feeling of loving you and I wonder at what point, when it was, the exact moment, when that lo
relearning          i. stardust scatters with the
direction of my pupils –
maybe secretly i am an
astrology teacher, waiting
for a sign to wink
happily at me.

         ii. excuse the rambling
nature of forgotten question
marks, but tell me:
would you like to be the
object of handwritten clichés
would you like to whisper
secrets in my palm
and would you
like to be the possibility

         iii. air brushes against my
skin like the torn petals
of a flower still standing.
[ hold your head up high, honey,
and tell tomorrow to wait just
a while,

         iv. so you can figure out
the difference between
patience and having all the
starspunobserving the romanticism
of hooded cemetery kids,
smoking cigarettes pretending
they are not dead.

you were always so sure
about my uncertainty,
you watched
all my pick up lines
drop things.

we built the heat
of the evening from the solidity
of starlight,

pretended
that two teens at the park
at midnight
is the stuff of teen novels
(cliches dim on
our leaf-gold horizon)

your eyes darted
from the gray expanse
of the churchyard & wandered
in thoughtful
paths.

i wanted to ask you
if i could follow. shove
the words aside &
remember that i came here alone.

i remember our innocence
in the static b e t w e e n
stars
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.
crystallophonethere is a punchcard sin
like a queen of spades smoldering in an alley.

Engine,
you hear how the gears churn,
singing faster than we did before
back when black magic dropped like a
pair of socks from the sky with supplies
taped to a note that said
(oh, look at you now)
'U.S.A.,
freedom.'

such a beautiful brain:
what
what girl
runs on gasoline?

have a gallon
or we can call it a balloon,
and a new pair of glasses
for your tapered eyes
(you peel the bark back on the logs,
darling,
but you're not sure what you see),
and life says,
either nail jello to a tree,
successfully,

or keep your
icicles hanging from the eaves,
ca
Ottumwa ShamanIn Iowa, weeping willows dream of
Tigers, born in pagan fog, their
Coat of stripes singing shaman
Songs; shrill symphonies of grief.
Heaven tilts, crashes, and we race
The dirt to get away. We drink the
Earth with bullets of air and grow
Dizzy, light-headed from breathing
Some far off flame. Perhaps a poet
Who braved the fog of Ottumwa, and
Caught fire. Every cowboy has his
Six chances before high noon, before
The fog forms wispy jackals to take
Them home again. Every son inherits
An empty gun, six voids to fill with
Answers, skimmed and guessed from the
Covers of books their fathers used
To read. There is no other way.
In s
the hungry look...the hungry look,

the wolves
weaving through
and around
  the gully of your throat like wraiths,

we can feel you rusting, lost one;

i know that drainpipes and fenders
begin to crackle after winter wet

and that there’s a touch of snow
in all of us,

but no one,
no one could hold you as tightly as you do,
your whole body, bloodless in this arrest,

and if you will not let your fetters show
i will show you
there’s a place for going, and you haven’t gone there yet;

where quantum particles, once in contact, can retain a connection
even when separated

where you
wander up to a stranger
with your shirt inside-out
and say &lsq
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More from ~changers-n-mash

Soft sunlight stirs us from sleepSoft sunlight stirs us from sleep
with sweet sighs and smile

as we grope (blindly, too sleepy to open our content eyes)
between sheets for fingertips,
to fill those spaces between
us.

Sprawling spires lean, bend, sway
and collapse in a heap (between quiet moans,
and tender whispers) like puzzle pieces once swept aside
now rediscovered and cherished for they fit effortlessly;

complete,
whole,

perfect together.
Best of Me: Deadline - 12AM11:25 PM
Mindless mechanical clicks (direct vacant stares
through chrome windows to) inform
yet again that the “Best of You” is required
and immediately sigh…

11:30 PM
Apologies starved of guilt almost eke out a measly reply
but no.  No amount of honey(-ed words could milk
the remnants of inspiration, but hopefully)
stops the badgering of apathy.

11:40 PM
A sudden surge of self-annoyance speaks
on behalf of desperate poetry
gasping for life before sleep
and silence suffocates absolutely.

11:55 PM
Perfection alights in smouldering rage burning,
with disappointment, the page that should never have been –
a black
PE: Two Forms, One ThemeAll I Can Do Is Kiss His Little Head
by ~changers-n-mash

Utterly helpless and confined to his bed,
Moony eyes striking stars and a fragile heart ‘til
All I can do is kiss his little head.

He can’t talk, can’t walk, can’t lift his own head.
“Cerebral palsy,” the doctors had said,
“Utterly helpless and confined to his bed."

He’s smiling and laughing, (and I know he has sight,
his folder has written – “baby responds to light”),
All I can do is kiss his little head.

He struggles with swallows; aspirates instead
And eats through a tube in a vein in his leg,
Utterly helpless and
I left my Father when I came of ageI took my blessing and my share of wealth
And left my Father when I came of age.
He spent his youth, and stupidly his health,
On farm and flock and earning weekly wage.

Through lavish food and wine, I became friends
With opulence, but woke from my drunken
stupor when squalor struck and brought an end
to waste, acquainting me, now, with famine.

Starving, I crave the slops I feed to swine
For these mistakes, I have myself to blame.
Disgraced return, He said “O, Son of mine”
but what true son would smear his Father’s name?

He celebrates despite my shameful state,
For He abounds in love and faith and grace.
All I Can Do Is Kiss His Little HeadUtterly helpless and confined to his bed,
Moony eyes striking stars and a fragile heart ‘til
All I can do is kiss his little head.

He can’t talk, can’t walk, can’t lift his own head.
“Cerebral palsy,” the doctors had said,
“Utterly helpless and confined to his bed."

He’s smiling and laughing, (and I know he has sight,
his folder has written – “baby responds to light”),
All I can do is kiss his little head.

He struggles with swallows; aspirates instead
And eats through a tube in a vein in his leg,
Utterly helpless and confined to his bed.

He’s coughing and crying and I
ViennaVienna is hope
and promise, wishful-thinking
and silent goodbyes

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December 28, 2012
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[x]

A Parenthesis

:iconchangers-n-mash:

You were (a parenthesis, that paused
the daily, mundane stuff
of life;
a bundled breath
of fresh joy,
and borne in the wonder
of love.

Gasping and grasping,
'til in quiet you laid
still;
and I, my Child,
lie in quiet, still
tears).

And now, that is all you are,
and still so much more.
:iconchangers-n-mash:
Ever seen a premature baby take its last breaths? Let's hope the answer is a no and stays that way :)

All critiques welcome :)

UPDATE: 19/01

Thanks so much for all your faves and watches guys. I REALLY appreciate it. It's humbling and encouraging getting this sorta recognition

A BIG thank you to ^NicSwaner for suggesting my piece for the DD. *salute*
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Daily Deviation

Given 2013-01-18
A Parenthesis is a beginning without an end. Powerful words from ~changers-n-mash of a moment that should be embraced as parenthood, that is now parenthetical. ( Featured by ^NicSwaner )
love 1 1 joy 0 0 wow 1 1 mad 0 0 sad 0 0 fear 0 0 neutral 0 0
:iconlupusintus:
~LupusIntus Jan 23, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
This is very beautiful.
Reply
:iconchangers-n-mash:
~changers-n-mash Jan 24, 2013
Thanks ^_^
Reply
:icon12who:
*12who Jan 21, 2013  Hobbyist
Congrats on your Daily Deviation!:squee::heart:
Reply
:iconchangers-n-mash:
~changers-n-mash Jan 22, 2013
Thanks so much! ^_^ I'm pretty excited about it
Reply
:iconnixiecole:
~NixieCole Jan 20, 2013
This is well crafted, leading the reader but letting the reader puzzle it out as well. The emotion is given in the feel of the words, not too much, not too little, and the poem is a celebration of something lost, saying goodbye and sharing the experience. Well done
Reply
:iconchangers-n-mash:
~changers-n-mash Jan 21, 2013
Thanks for the comment and the compliment ^_^
Reply
:iconzireael07:
~Zireael07 Jan 20, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
This is brilliant!
Reply
:iconchangers-n-mash:
~changers-n-mash Jan 20, 2013
Thanks! ^_^ I'm glad you think so *egoboost* :P
Reply
:iconyourwickedclown:
~YourWickedClown Jan 18, 2013
Very beautiful work. I love how at the beginning of Parenthesis is "Parent". This piece encapsulates many intriguing concepts. So very sorry for the inspiration, but what a lovely way to deal with loss.
Reply
:iconchangers-n-mash:
~changers-n-mash Jan 20, 2013
Thank you. To be honest I didn't really notice the "Parent" part until you pointed it out :P I'm glad you enjoyed this piece
Reply
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