Submissions by Bowtruckled (Shelley Marie)
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
Images: Gather the smoke from the candle into a jar so that it can be viewed plainly from all angles.
DARK POEM
Published
11th Mar 2013 6:29am
11th Mar 2013 6:29am
Tonight
It is late
and I am alone;
the house is still,
and growing cold.
A light turns on –
even though
I have not moved.
I almost missed
the flicker of shadow
across the hall;
silence.
I wait in the cold
while the chill
sweeps up my back.
My breath is paused;
perhaps it was nothing
…
Suddenly, the light is off;
I sneak a breath,
stifle a shiver.
The house is quiet
and the cold is lingering.
©Shelley Marie 2013
and I am alone;
the house is still,
and growing cold.
A light turns on –
even though
I have not moved.
I almost missed
the flicker of shadow
across the hall;
silence.
I wait in the cold
while the chill
sweeps up my back.
My breath is paused;
perhaps it was nothing
…
Suddenly, the light is off;
I sneak a breath,
stifle a shiver.
The house is quiet
and the cold is lingering.
©Shelley Marie 2013
791 reads
7 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
10th Mar 2013 5:07am
10th Mar 2013 5:07am
In My Small Hands
In my small hands
your morning is spent,
as you hold for me
an organic blend from China –
donated by mother
earth and jasmine –
I hold your form,
small, solid and smooth
with my warming fingers –
we exchange body heat
as my morning is spent
with you
in my small hands.
©Shelley Marie
your morning is spent,
as you hold for me
an organic blend from China –
donated by mother
earth and jasmine –
I hold your form,
small, solid and smooth
with my warming fingers –
we exchange body heat
as my morning is spent
with you
in my small hands.
©Shelley Marie
697 reads
2 Comments
STORY POEM
Published
10th Mar 2013 5:00am
10th Mar 2013 5:00am
the Lake
I
Alone in the lake,
away from the strangers
is where the waters’ breath would tickle
her ears, filling and emptying as she swam
to escape the winds’ prodding fingers – cold
from travelling constantly.
II
At the far side of the lake,
where the woody skeletons stood jagged
and naked as victims of the water,
she laid her egg in the grass:
it welcomed the unborn infant into
its family like a visiting cousin.
III
The next morning brought rain with it:
a...
Alone in the lake,
away from the strangers
is where the waters’ breath would tickle
her ears, filling and emptying as she swam
to escape the winds’ prodding fingers – cold
from travelling constantly.
II
At the far side of the lake,
where the woody skeletons stood jagged
and naked as victims of the water,
she laid her egg in the grass:
it welcomed the unborn infant into
its family like a visiting cousin.
III
The next morning brought rain with it:
a...
726 reads
2 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
9th Mar 2013 6:32am
9th Mar 2013 6:32am
I Am Female
I am beautiful
But I am not confident
I am talented
But I don't believe the compliments
My eyes they sparkle
But not back at me
My figure is ideal
But not from what I see
I am very loving
But I hate myself
I want to help others
But I don't deserve any help
I am a shining light
But my thoughts are dark
I have soft, clear skin
But I cut it leaving marks
My voice can sing on tune
But it cries alone at night
My mind is learned and smart
But too weak to win this fight
I could make it far in...
But I am not confident
I am talented
But I don't believe the compliments
My eyes they sparkle
But not back at me
My figure is ideal
But not from what I see
I am very loving
But I hate myself
I want to help others
But I don't deserve any help
I am a shining light
But my thoughts are dark
I have soft, clear skin
But I cut it leaving marks
My voice can sing on tune
But it cries alone at night
My mind is learned and smart
But too weak to win this fight
I could make it far in...
764 reads
10 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
5th Mar 2013 6:39am
5th Mar 2013 6:39am
secrets
in every dream
there is a moon
with a face and hands that point
at the earth because it’s time to wake up.
in every morning sky
there is a blue whale flying
through the orange clouds
that are stirred into a warm stew
by the breath of his fanning tail.
in every passing stranger
there is a hidden gaping hole
that has lost its saturated cork
and has begun to leak black ink
soaking and staining the satin
that covers their nakedness.
in every book that has been...
there is a moon
with a face and hands that point
at the earth because it’s time to wake up.
in every morning sky
there is a blue whale flying
through the orange clouds
that are stirred into a warm stew
by the breath of his fanning tail.
in every passing stranger
there is a hidden gaping hole
that has lost its saturated cork
and has begun to leak black ink
soaking and staining the satin
that covers their nakedness.
in every book that has been...
699 reads
11 Comments
STORY POEM
Published
4th Mar 2013 7:19am
4th Mar 2013 7:19am
Within
His sleep is silent and seemingly peaceful;
his chest, as it rises and falls, swells with what he knows
and deflates with what he hopes. Light
from the fire, as it flickers and fades, brings life
to his resting form projected on the wall,
pulsing and wavering as each flame gasps
for air. A log collapses in defeat and a snap is heard –
even as he suddenly shifts in his chair, he sleeps on;
his thoughts moving like the wind carries the snow,
dancing from here to there – pausing for only a moment
until it is sucked once again into another...
his chest, as it rises and falls, swells with what he knows
and deflates with what he hopes. Light
from the fire, as it flickers and fades, brings life
to his resting form projected on the wall,
pulsing and wavering as each flame gasps
for air. A log collapses in defeat and a snap is heard –
even as he suddenly shifts in his chair, he sleeps on;
his thoughts moving like the wind carries the snow,
dancing from here to there – pausing for only a moment
until it is sucked once again into another...
685 reads
4 Comments
DRUGS POEM
Published
4th Mar 2013 6:58am
4th Mar 2013 6:58am
In These Past Ten Days:
Two lives have been lost…
Both deaths unexpected, but hers
was going to come, regardless.
“Pulmonary Embolism,”
the doctors had said
to the family, as they stared,
disbelieving beside her small body,
still and void.
His was feared, suspected.
Three times he was pushed
within the reach of death,
until the fourth –
when, the heroin finally took him
before the rest of his life could.
It was a trap
and he didn’t see it. Or did he?
“Your body can’t handle another
overdose.” So he...
Both deaths unexpected, but hers
was going to come, regardless.
“Pulmonary Embolism,”
the doctors had said
to the family, as they stared,
disbelieving beside her small body,
still and void.
His was feared, suspected.
Three times he was pushed
within the reach of death,
until the fourth –
when, the heroin finally took him
before the rest of his life could.
It was a trap
and he didn’t see it. Or did he?
“Your body can’t handle another
overdose.” So he...
654 reads
2 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
3rd Mar 2013 00:17am
3rd Mar 2013 00:17am
Teacup
An immigrant to this market, placed
upon the shelf of teapots and cups,
cousins of yours; some in boxes, some in dust,
all waiting to be chosen, cradled, and warmed
with steaming tea, steeped to meet the fine line
between tasteless and bitter.
(London – fair and slender, flaunts her white gown;
the swirled handle intricately flowered with little yellow buds.
Seoul’s rose of Sharon wraps itself around her
delicate waist, it’s leaves tickling her open brim.
Tokyo hosts a dragonfly that has perched on his protruding crimson belly; ...
upon the shelf of teapots and cups,
cousins of yours; some in boxes, some in dust,
all waiting to be chosen, cradled, and warmed
with steaming tea, steeped to meet the fine line
between tasteless and bitter.
(London – fair and slender, flaunts her white gown;
the swirled handle intricately flowered with little yellow buds.
Seoul’s rose of Sharon wraps itself around her
delicate waist, it’s leaves tickling her open brim.
Tokyo hosts a dragonfly that has perched on his protruding crimson belly; ...
839 reads
5 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
3rd Mar 2013 00:08am
3rd Mar 2013 00:08am
The Train Yard
The young girl, wandering the train yard in late afternoon, goes there often. She isn’t afraid of the rabid dogs that sleep behind the old grain elevator – she pets them and they sit with her when she cries. The setting sun always makes her hair look orange and she imagines it is a fire, but it does not hurt her so she cuts her arms with a shard of glass left behind from the drunk who got hit by the train last night. She gathered up the remaining colored pieces in a small pouch and saves them. Sitting in an abandoned boxcar with the pouch in her lap, the shards poking through to her thin legs...
669 reads
0 Comments
STORY POEM
Published
1st Mar 2013 6:02pm
1st Mar 2013 6:02pm
Vines
When you were still a young man and I was
a child, your house was grand with
its immaculate walls and tall white pillars; they appeared
thicker in the white paint. I would see your garden
flowers and the carrot tops, green and
curly beside the raspberry bush
full of juice (that stained my lips). You were
willing to donate a bucket, or two
as long as I brought you a piece of the pie
and helped you chop the vines that climbed your house;
they were always so persistent and you often said
they would be the death of you.
As I...
a child, your house was grand with
its immaculate walls and tall white pillars; they appeared
thicker in the white paint. I would see your garden
flowers and the carrot tops, green and
curly beside the raspberry bush
full of juice (that stained my lips). You were
willing to donate a bucket, or two
as long as I brought you a piece of the pie
and helped you chop the vines that climbed your house;
they were always so persistent and you often said
they would be the death of you.
As I...
837 reads
7 Comments
STORY POEM
Published
1st Mar 2013 5:57pm
1st Mar 2013 5:57pm
The Artist
For her, the paintings move like falcons’ wings:
their direction, beating movement and color schemes
guided by swift strokes of bristled feathers,
shaped and crafted to soar through landscaped dreams.
Today, the sky has been lit with ocean blues
and greens that own no top or bottom end;
the clouds are passed beneath, leaving the empty
space where private castles can suspend.
But as breath once lost from falling to no bottom
returns, an eye looks back to the canvas below:
solid, without flight and inspiration,
an empty mind...
their direction, beating movement and color schemes
guided by swift strokes of bristled feathers,
shaped and crafted to soar through landscaped dreams.
Today, the sky has been lit with ocean blues
and greens that own no top or bottom end;
the clouds are passed beneath, leaving the empty
space where private castles can suspend.
But as breath once lost from falling to no bottom
returns, an eye looks back to the canvas below:
solid, without flight and inspiration,
an empty mind...
676 reads
4 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
1st Mar 2013 5:32am
1st Mar 2013 5:32am
A Goose
A goose alone on a frozen river,
standing with his neck extended
to full length. He is tall,
unmoving, staring straight ahead,
across the ice.
A nearby magpie takes notice,
tilts its head to one side,
“where are the others?”
The goose clicks his beak,
adjusts his stance, continues
looking on. The setting sun,
now reflected in his right eye,
illuminates the icy ground
on which he stands –
waiting.
©Shelley Marie 2013
standing with his neck extended
to full length. He is tall,
unmoving, staring straight ahead,
across the ice.
A nearby magpie takes notice,
tilts its head to one side,
“where are the others?”
The goose clicks his beak,
adjusts his stance, continues
looking on. The setting sun,
now reflected in his right eye,
illuminates the icy ground
on which he stands –
waiting.
©Shelley Marie 2013
646 reads
8 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by Bowtruckled (Shelley Marie)
