My gloves in my hands.
My snow boots are in my feet.
It’s opposite day.
Happy New years Eve!!!!
Random poem I wrote about wishing to live moments again.
We hear the people saying as we walk the square.
That they wish that time was a spool of thread.
A spool that they would unwind and unwind till the present they fled.
In the gallery they speak of art, of Picasso and Monet.
That they see magic in the strokes of the brush on the paint.
The only things the present hasn’t begun to taint.
You and I shall go, to the bridge.
The bridge over the sun-set splattered water, red.
And then we shall see that the art is not dead.
We shall go to the pier.
To see the ocean waves.
And watch the fishermen catch their fish, sparing them a watery grave.
We shall go to an open field and see the moon is calling.
We will feel in our hearts the heart-felt call of the stars.
And in the clouded sky the red twinkle of Mars.
And today we shall remember these moments.
And wish that we lived it again.
And then you and I shall unwind our life’s spool of thread.
This is a poem I wrote about how snowflakes are like memories. Enjoy and comment!
Snowflakes are like memories.
They drift down on to your tongue.
Stay there for a fleeting second.
Then melt away into nothing.
They fall thickly, accumulating in thick piles and mounds.
They cushion your falls.
And chill your bones.
Then melt away into nothing.
They come in blizzards.
And in muddy slush.
They can be ugly or beautiful.
Then the melt away into nothing.
All seem the same.
But all are different.
Everyone is unique.
But they all melt into nothing.
Some stay for ages.
Others do not.
Some disappear as they are falling.
They all eventually melt into nothing.
The only thing we can do is put them in the freezer and hope.
That our memories don’t melt into nothing.
Gray wilting branches.
Drooping over cold hard ground.
Maple in winter.
The battlefield is shrouded in an eerie silence. The only sound other than the cries of the wife’s and children of those men killed in yesterday’s bloody massacre is the sound of the river next to the the crimson battle field.
Death, a cloak, so heavy, of the memories of lost comrades and friends. Soldiers from both side see the carnage and bow their heads in respect of the fallen. Regret and guilt spills over some, tears fall on to the stained ground and the soldiers wonder how this horrible thing could've happened. The sin of war.
Hello reader, if this book has found its way into your hands, I know that I can trust you.
Welcome to the diaries of Lyr Tolasquiss.
In the land of Saltinea for the beginning part of your life you can’t talk. You have no voice. Then when you reach the age of twelve you are turned free into the city in search of your voice. No one really knows how you find it. But most people do find it anyways. Now that I am turning twelve, I will leave my parents forever in search for my voice.
This is my first diary entry and I hope to have many more. Today, my twelfth birthday and along with many other gifts, I received the typewriter I am writing these diary entries on and a diary for me to glue the entries in to. It wasn’t much, Mother baked a cake and we all sat around the table as I blew out the wax candles. To me this tradition seems very strange. In the birthday dinner, the snuffing of the candles and the making of a wish is the highlight of the dinner. But it seems to me that birthdays are meant to celebrate life, not focus on snuffing it out into darkness and smoke.
But today has even more importance than that for today I enter the city alone, for the first time in my long life I will finally be able to freely explore Saltinea’s dark alleys and tiny shops. For the first time I will be alone.
Lyr walked out the tall wooden door of her house and tasted the crisp, sweet fall air. Finally she thought, some privacy. She hopped briskly down the cracked stone steps that separated her house from the cobble stone road in front of her. A sound rang through the air, filling the street with music. Walking down the narrow street was a street performer carrying an organ grinder. Sitting on top the interment was a jacket and hat clad brown monkey. She smiled enjoying the melody that floated lightly away from the ever-cranking organ grinder.
The man smiled too in a wide grin that showed Lyr a yellow holey smile.
“A bit of coin for a cold old man girly?” he asked hopefully. Holding out a red velvet pouch.
Lyr shrugged, then shook her head putting on what she hoped was an apologetic face. “I’m sorry, mister,” she whispered. She then walked quickly down the road. The organ man followed her.
“Don’t like to talk missy?” the man asked smiling in amusement. Lyr shook her head looking down at her brown clogs. “Well then, why don’t you let me help you find your voice?” He asked seriously. “I be an expert at speaking as it would happen,” said the man thoughtfully. Lyr shrugged once again, shifting around awkwardly. “Is that a no?” asked the organ man disappointedly.
“Yes sir,” mumbled Lyr finally making eye contact with the street performer.
“Calls me sir she does,” laughed the man a grin painting itself on his face. His face suddenly turned somber once again, “But are you sure about my offer, girly? I’ve been wanting to go on an adventure for a while now, this is my last chance to have some fun with my life,” said the man sadly shaking his head. “I can help you find your voice,” he offered hopefully. “Everyone has a voice you know,” the organ grinder pointed to himself, “I found mine years ago when I was a child. It was easier for me than it might be for you. The trick is to see something that you can’t keep silent about,” he said knowingly.
“So how about it,” said the organ man logically, “ You need your voice, I want an adventure, everyone wins,” he paused, “So what do you say,” he asked.
I know that I already posted this, its just that I really want feedback. I will be entering this poem into the MA science poetry contest. So please give me your constructive criticism. I want my poem to be perfect when I enter it.
The orchestra of the storm booms in victory over its arch enemy sunlight. The violins of swaying trees and the cellos of creaking trees are joined by the loud timpani of falling trees.
Deep gray storm clouds push away the sunlight rudely dismissing it as inferior.
Bright lightning flashes, splitting the spines of frail tress roughly apart. Boom! The ground shakes as the weeping willow falls on to the soft spongy ground.
The willow is not the only one weeping; a mother bird sings a lamentation at the sight of the circle of twigs that has been crushed under the heavy trunk of the willow.
The sadness of beautiful songs that will never be sung.
A mural of rain paints the soggy sky adding more to the symphony of the storm.
The storm slowly becomes dormant once again waiting for the right moment to strike once more.
A few centuries ago the kingdom of Tillsyn was flourishing. The sun shined in the sky, sheep bleated in the grass, and the Philosophers and bards wrote in their houses. But most importantly the wall stood tall, protecting all the people of the kingdom from the wild lands to the east.
Bandits had snuck into the land and had stolen 7 kegs of gunpowder and had used it to blow out a section of the wall. Somehow they had gathered what seemed to be all the bandits from their side of the continent and informed them of the soon to be hole in the wall. Once it was open they came flooding through, hammers swinging. In seconds what had once been a ten-foot hole was transformed into a seventy-foot gap. Mayhem ensued.
For its 31st anniversary celebration the town of Overlevnad had decided to open a reed garden, for we the citizens were very strong thinkers and good philosophical writings were getting increasingly rare what with all the illiterate book-burning bandits around.
The garden was to be built around the thought provoking Whisper Stone in the center of my town. There were three things amiss about the Whisper Stone. The Whisper Stone had appeared about two years ago but for some strange reason nobody could remember when, and it seemed like it had always been there. It gave off faint whispering noises in what seemed to be a foreign language from across the sea. And lastly the town always seemed to have good supply of luck. All the blizzards and white outs mellowed around us, all the diseases never quite managed to reach our herds and taxis were relatively low.
I ran a tea-shop in that town. It was quite profitable since it was well known that a good cup of tea (or two) did wonders for the mind.
The reed garden was made up of four concentric circles of water. In between two were strips of land covered in reeds. Connecting all those circles were quaint little wood bridges. The third piece of land like the others had its edges covered with reeds, but the center was paved with cobblestone and in the midst of all this sat the Whisper Stone.
For a long time my village had been ignored by parties of bandits, partially because of our almost complete absence of riches and partially because of our strange luck. Well, as one of my customers once said to me “Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.”
Our luck rubber-banded the night before the reed garden was set to open. I was wakened by a loud crash from downstairs in the shop. I opened my eyes, pulled on my robe, and realized the building across the street was burning. I stood there wondering what was happening until several crashes followed by a smash shook me out of my train of though just in time to see a looter peal away from my shop, carrying away the remains of my money drawer.
I ran down stairs in close pursuit and skidded to a stop as I observed the world of fire and death my town had become. I turned around to see my house go up in roaring flames. I heard an insane laugh and saw something silver blur past my head, heard a thunk sort of noise, and saw a knife handle protruding from my door frame. I threw myself left as another throwing knife thunked into the space where my right eye had been occupying only a moment ago. I picked myself up and turned to face my attacker. He was a youngish bandit, about 23 year of age and he was wearing a smile that seemed too big to be able to fit on a human face. I knew instantly that that was the smile of a mad man.
I ran into the ally way on my left and made a break for it. As he ran after me I heard the sound of a sword being unsheathed. I turned onto Thorn Street and saw that most of the buildings were missing one and a half floors; there would be no hiding here. The two other streets I tried had no good hiding places either.
My feet eventually took me too the reed garden. Why not? I thought. So I ran in. my pursuer was still only about fifteen feet behind me. So I ran to the most accessible hiding spot: behind the Whisper Stone. I slid behind it as the young man pulled up in front of the entrance. He immediately started searching. I pushed closer and closer to the rock until something immensely strange happened: I fell inside the Whisper Stone.
And now all I can do is to repeat this, and hope and pray that someone will listen.