Theme

Display Mature Content

Suppress AI Content

literature

garden

Deviation Actions

Daily Deviation

June 22, 2017

garden by prettyflour

Featured by doughboycafe

prettyflour

Published: Jun 5, 2017

2K Views

Literature Text

the morning light slants
all golden and violet,
color radiates
all through my geraniums,
never to be picked,
only to be admired,
while we walk through the garden

More by prettyflour

Literature

She Heals

It’s in the blood. Sprinkled among the human elements is something other-worldly, something…magic. At birth there’s just a spark of it, nothing noticeable but as one grows so does that spark; manifesting in one's early adulthood. It’s not as scary or disconcerting as one might think…To them, it feels very natural and freeing. From her palm it rose White light shimmers, she begins Healing our bruised world

Recommended Literature

Literature

anfractuous.

and I have so many things yet to show you. none of this is beautiful when compared to hair whipping out a car window in a night so deep and far-flung from city lights that you can see by starlight for miles. desert grass desert dust sighing in the wind chasing at the tires and the sky– oh my god the sky oh my god that sky, she calls for only her wildest children tonight. she calls for us to gallop against each other against each other our shoulders brushing with canyons with coyotes like brothers like sisters she calls for us calls after us as we pelt free and far-flung beneath her blue-black belly pregnant with planets

Literature

keyser

how many summers did you spend couched in west virginia? street smitten, sore legged pacing the fence of adolescent mess in mountain’s maw, raining angel’s ash, the absolute heat death of july forever finding homes in someone’s sister’s basement, curled in a messy bedroom, growing pains in your shins getting taller couldn’t relieve against grainy adult swim shock toons estrogenic mall musk and slurpee vomit mom going on and on about some lie you told, or didn’t as if you culled the children to the cellar and beat them before you were born, as if you were a songless canary in a coal mine collapsing do

Literature

Umbrella March

One, two, three, four Hear the coming uproar March! (two, three, four) See the mighty downpour. Weapons out, banners bright Every shape, hue, height; Rain barrage and passing spray Remember this Umbrella Day! And yet! (two, three, four) This is anything but war Hup! (two, three, four) This is earth and sky rapport. Waterfalls from building tops Ripple-watching, puddle-hops Heavy awnings, glowing shops ... But we're all glad when it stops.

Suggested Collections

Prose and poetry

Literature

She's Not Gone Forever

Her soul's still here Her soul's not gone In the wings of the wind In the first gold of dawn In the joys you share Every break, every tear A frozen rose underfoot In your eyes, dark with soot No flood you pour out No feelings of strife Can extinguish the fire Passion in your life She may hide a while 'Neath the guise of a smile But just give her a taste - With her gifts you'll be graced.

Literature

Like A Leaf Come Away From The Tree

this loss it feels like a leaf come away from the tree which once held it safely securely bound by the promise of an age just one step away from eternity now to be borne away by wind without sound without the promise of a soft landing found

Literature

Watching Children

The old well behind the abandoned train depot was a gathering place for children; I sat and watched them, weekday evenings and weekend mornings, envying their ease of company. Their secret languages were a marvel to me, and I strained to hear as they screeched around mouthfuls of stolen candies, crouched over the gaping chasm into which they hurled the wrappers, sweaters hanging off their small backs like the shrouds of crows. Every so often, one or another would glance suspiciously over a thin shoulder, marking me as an unwelcome intruder, and the lively chatter would reduce to the comforting hum of inside voices used in the open air. The we

Poetry

Literature

interior design for broken homes

i. here in isolation, we begin the fallout. everything around us makes us pull the knives out. once i turned to you when all the world was making chaos sounds; now we run away and run our ships aground, entire days lost. what cost can be discerned of loss and lives set fire? churn my stomach into wreckage, lover. what will we have learned? ii. as the night evades, we are tyrants in our ruling places. color me so purple that the worries fall up into space. ardor isn't earned, it is the currency of loneliness. i'm spent. iii. i've spent the last three days in solitude, a quiet i can't place now that it's over; what a melody is overbearing noise! no choice stings quite like you, and no regret is louder than the truth. up on the roof, the rain gives all of us illusions: we are not what we believe to be revealed. iv. if i had to explain it— and someday i worry i will— i would first look for paper, pen, mercy. v. the blueprint of a heart is volatile; everyone knows but no one

Literature

Prayer

the last time I was in a chapel I got a nosebleed at the start of when peace like a river I don’t get nosebleeds I took it as a sign I retreat inside my skin not because it’s safer but because I know this temple was built to withstand the burning spirit that inhabits it these windows shatterproof these walls flame resistant at home I make my own stained-glass busted mirror —pools of silver crimson-dipped fractals of my busted fist repeated my mother always said I had too much fire in me I am a fire sign after all what did she expect I contain it within myself no, I try when I open my mouth embers erupt I catch the

Literature

Rats

I’m sat here in this heat, little one, trying to find the poison. It is the thread between me and you? The thick blood in our veins, slowly killing us even as it keeps us alive? When the time comes, if I can will I? You will not thank me, little one, you do not have to. To give one’s life is one thing, reputation and honour another. Can I do the right thing in the dark, when no one will see? Or am I no better than the rest? I keep asking why this is us, little one, or if this is us at all. In the 70s the rats escaped the cage only to lock us in it.

Featured in Groups

choka poem poetry projectdfc jubilantjapanesejune geranium fixedformpoetry

Written for Jubilant Japanese June over at

The form:

A choka literally means ‘long poem’ and features alternating syllabic lines of 5 and 7, where the last two lines are both 7. The minimum amount of lines is seven and this form allows for infinite amounts of lines. The minimum (7 lines) sequence is: 5 - 7 - 5 - 7 - 5 - 7 - 7

This piece was inspired by a wonderful photo by