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Wildflowers, Imperfect BirdsI breathed your name like wildflowers under vast broken skies, in wide-open spaces. The wind blowing through them spoke of dew and dirt and petrichor, and there was sunlight on the ground like a mosaic patterned by god's own hands.

I said it like a monarch claiming new land: a declaration, a butterfly breath over old earth; like it was coffee on a warm morning with the sun in my eyes, interlacing with my lashes; like it was a dream; like it was a prayer like it was a miracle wrought of air and bone and body: you, in, out, in, out, in and in and in.

I cried it out like an earthquake between lip and lip, continents that don't quite fit: your
forestfire exhalationher verses burn silent, in an existence lost in forestfire's exhales
a wildfire waltzing inexorably over her naked forests drowning in untouchable glass.
she crowns me queen in the city of desertfire,
they burn blackholes over scientific studies; (over the skin that wraps me,)
like an empty gift burning in the smoke that rises,
over star-reaching treetops:  
wastefull consummation to the greatest.

[ her porcelain hipbone
is my perfect canvas
to ink all the beauty i know ]

we are the earth's nonbiblical scapegoats,
questionmarks tremble over our complexion—
asymmetry and contours of a shadow-city in the comas we l
I Belong to The HurricaneI belong to the hurricane –
the screaming, untamed maelstrom that cleaves away puppet strings
and sharpens its teeth on misconceptions.

I belong to the harsh cold winter of an aching truth –
one that beats a drum like a heartbeat under the graveyards,
whispering things that our ancestors knew (but we have forgotten).

I belong to the hurricane –
yeah, that's the one – the same storm that broke my back and scratched at my eyes.
It flayed open my chest and showed me my own diamond bones.

I belong to angels with battle-torn wings and voices raw from howling!
I belong to war –
and to the air that sings a dirg
A Petal Fired By MoonlightA petal fired by moonlight’s glow,
Pure white, translucent as a pearl,
Discarded on a portmanteau,
With velvet in its curl.

A poet’s hand upon the sill,
With ink about the fingertips,
With blood upon the ragged frill
And ice about his lips.

A knife upon the dusty floor
Lies scattered in a pile of scraps,
Of gems discarded, ancient lore,
While on the window taps

A raven of unnatural gloss,
In iridescent cerulean,
Come to remind him of his loss
And stare at him and preen.

A carmine trail begins to stain
The woodwork on the floor,
And seeps into the weathered grain
And trickles toward the door.

A moon upon a sea of
i saw god leaving the shoreLast night I dreamed of blue-grey shores
Of miserable black rocks 
that pushed back a tide that crawled with the dull wind 
And how I moved so quickly, 
Towards the salty edge of the earth;
She told me to run, 
To kick back the sand as hard as I could 
until something appeared.
And I suddenly saw haunting, stone walls
Gleaming in their symmetry
Made of pale, sturdy nostalgia 
with deja vu dripping down
Slipping like liquid mercury 
I ran towards it eagerly, and chased my own reflection - 
But whenever I caught a glimpse of myself 
The drops would dribble and scatter away.
She told me to run further 
And my heart ached and my spine arched
against the stinging, salty wind
Yet before I knew it, the ocean floor moved 
And I ran down shores 
at every turn-
each perpendicular to the previous one.
Everywhere, identical blackened stone barriers
They are all the same, she said
Their crashing waves make the
scar-crossed(my fingers are colder than the solemn blue
buried in her eyes. so much dead beauty,

like an ocean without waves).

she is fading and i cling to her,
and in this tiny little moment
between breaths

we barely even exist.
NautilusI

the rest of my life should be early
mornings; when God is still sleeping.
I should wake up curled in a corner of the sofa,
pearlescent, like the primordial ammonites.

II

I follow you every night-
the hunter shooting at the celestial bull,
shimmering crusts of bread through the dimmest lands of passage.
Suggesting a way home.

Home, or across the ocean,
or everywhere under the moon if,
early mornings, when God still sleeps,
I wake up warm in the corner of the sofa,
and you are not an idea anymore.

III

the rest of my life should be early
mornings; when God is still sleeping.
I should wake up curled in a corner of the sofa,
pearlescent, l
in dark eyeethereally floating there
envying the lust of life
luridly at a rolling boil

expansive outcome of supernova
distant alluring signal
behind fine line lashes

comet trails pioneer the iris
tease of civilizations incalculable
ancient creation secrets born anew

granted before wish uttered
just a shy blink leaves me
ethereally floating there
Three-way road of desperate strugglesi-) 
                                  The flame tastes ever so sweet this subtle time of sundown;
                              watch its poetry burn a new azure for the summersong of tomorrow.
                                     Moonlit magma awaits my presence and I shall not deny
                              her wishes, strike a flame and let it rage (never end, my sweet...)
                                   Infernal symmetry blackens the lustful essence of my being
                           
into the sea belowa lock on a door, in a place well-known
the withered-windy-whisper wood, whickered-flickered candlelight
soft illuminations and hints of dazzling-decked, twin-leafed
cardinal vascular canvas.

a musical blend of blue and grey.

--

the lock on a door, in a place well-worn
beneath the melancholy-painted, cerulean-white cliffs
and the tri-pigment, undertone-hued sky
never can meet with its widow-burned key.

singular musical drops unwittingly fly
only to fragment and fall
into the sea below.
coffee painti watch the coffee pot do cannonballs
through the air and bellyflop into the
kitchen wall-
glass licks the air in cartwheel spins
and coffee stains melt down the paint and boil
into the wood of the cutting board like
liquid sandpaper
and i think to myself-
this is better than a picasso.
Magic of the TreesWe walked, painting footprints in the dirt,
reminders to recall trails blazed.
We peered up at the sky,
squinting against the sour lemon sun,
flickering down between dream catcher leaves,
and we made wishes come true.
The trees stood tall as giants,
supporting our spines, improving our posture,
for kisses that smelled of woods and tasted of sap.
And woodland creatures sang songs,
songs of love pushed to limits,
whispering careful reminders in our ears.
We tried each one out,
the big and little trees, the fat and skinny ones,
needing to know which one felt best,
when our lips pressed together.
And pictures only we would see we
Sky PebblesThe sky,
a sloped portrait,
grazes the horizon;
shooting stars skip past Scorpio's tail,
laughing.
ScornHer restless heart cries, Love! I am here to be found,
Everywhere - here - following voices of all in Greece,
Yet from her mouth, there is no sound.

A fair nymph's merry voice once rung from sky to ground,
Until the cerulean-eyed Queen gave it cruel release –
Her restless heart cries, Love! I am here to be found.

And vainly she, swift of wind, silent of voice, follows round
Her beloved, who scorns her with lips of cerise – 
Yet from her mouth there is no sound.

The wind carries her silent lament, for he himself is bound
To one who wears his scornful azure eyes and vain fleece;
Her restless heart cries, Love! I am
L'OMBRE I - SHADOW I (+ audio reading)
(English adaptation below) version audio ici

Pour Neura

L'ombre I

Quand vous verrais-je au sortir des songes et des tombes il ne reste que des lisières
Frangées d'or et d'herbe coupez vos désirs d'au-delà lorsque l'écume affolée efface la tempête et
Si vos yeux glacés sur mes mains stupéfaites j'aurai voulu vos chants sous des feux de
Tambours et l'ombre de vos danses enroulée sur mes cuisses un éclat de vermeil la
Ménade mâchant le coeur de nos combats des tonnes de serpents silencieux sur le sol et la crête
Des dunes rayée d'horizon morne votre bouche à la lune reste la nuit vacante et mes rêves
Blanchis l'automne est déjà là dans
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More from ~melodythelittlepony

The Observer's Book of Birds1928

‘The sky is white, Deirdre!’
he cries with a 3B pencil
because it happens to be
nearby,

And Deirdre is appalled
by the grey-laced horrors
and the brazen lacuna of
blue, in which her sword has
become stuck.

The moors are easier.

There he can sit
without listening
to the cawing rooks and the
kee kee
of the kestrel.

He can cover his ears.

He can bury his pencils
and lodge himself in
the blissful permanence of the land,
and forget that he ever
encountered Deidre’s word-sword
that night at the inn
on the hill.
He can forget that he fell in love
altogether.

Deirdre doesn’t want to forget.
She gra
To the briefly unfortunateI am lacking
fingertip-touches,
exquisite spider-dances,
tarantellas on taffeta skin,
and curve-brushing
smoothness –
Venus has been
cruel.

I need not sapphires
nor ocean-eyes,
nor eyes that mirror
mine –
merely eyes that
are an open book of
Keats.

I am lacking
closeness,
no one with whom to share
a butterfly-embroidered
blanket
or honeyed words,
which butterflies
might enjoy.

I lack
exhilaration –
entirely unnecessary to me.

I need
petal-flesh,
rib-tracing,
mind-locked,
word-littered love;
elaborately simple;
river-hair in which I
might drown –

Too much to ask…?

No –

for day
EleanorEleanor, Eleanor,
Thistling through the undergrowth,
Carrying off the matador
Before he’s gone to tea –

He gasped to see you standing there,
For all the world without a care,
Knew you shot Eros’ love-tipped arrows
Better far than he.

Eleanor, Eleanor,
The chancellor’s an awful bore,
So sail him to Capri,
And teach him how to be…

He’s far too shy to hold your hand
So pin him down upon the sand
And prove to him that he can smile,
Then, having capered, stay a while.

Eleanor, Eleanor,
Pott’ring ‘round the hellebore,
Pluck a sprig and give it to
The princess with the pea –

She doesn&
Ode to a HedgehogShe beams.
And I, all of a whirlwind,
am spirited away!
so maddening impishness
possesses us –

a simple grin from her –

we dance, we dance!
flailing our arms about
as though stranded at sea,
screaming silence to each other,
waving hands, flexing nonexistent muscles,
pouting, leering,
laughing –
loving she who makes me laugh,
she whose smile has flown over an ocean
(for me!)
bearing its message of yesterday’s love –

so I cannot help but
grin back.
The SurrealistI – no, she –
pauses,
submerged in iridescence

lifts the pen,
pauses,

creates, cries,
wonders what she has
left, wonders what she ever had.

some carousel morals and
an oak tree resolve,
pinwheel cares,
the desire for more than Pluto
and half-gypsy alacrity,
ideas all a-darkened
by the sublime horrors of
afternight.

For I – no, she –
lies in wait for that sliver of time –
so unattainable –
between the blackness of ink
and the clashing of the cymbals
of Eos.

and then time
disappointingly –
necessarily –
glissades from firefly-fantasy to
firmament
and, with that,
the reality

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January 30, 2010
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Elysian Autumn

:iconmelodythelittlepony:

These are
ginkgo days;
and we,
autumnling,
Arcadian
asphodel,
blooming
away from
the sandals
of shepherds,
who trample;
myrtling victors
and wreathing
the walls of
sea-lucked caves,
Arachne-webbed
and dew-bedecked,
where
jewel-rosetted
nymphs make
play;

and is it because
you are not
quite as
gentle
as me
that I
fear and despair?
chastity chaos
but never was
one so
considerately
fair;

it's simple
to love when
you're watching
the world with
such grace
from a place
in the
grass by
a lake far
away.
:iconmelodythelittlepony:
Slightly different from the way I usually write... I'll catch up on comments soon. I have been busy with reading group and making preparations for our newly formed poetry society at uni, Symposium. :) Poetica gratia poeticae!

:heart:
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:iconparsat:
*Parsat Nov 28, 2012  Student Writer
Wonderful demonstration of less as more. I enjoyed your use of line breaks to allow more "surface area" to the reader's eye...it really helped me as the reader to absorb the words and rhythms you employed. The mythological allusions are wonderful, and the poem is well paced. Well done.
Reply
:icondailylitdeviations:
=DailyLitDeviations Nov 27, 2012
Your wonderful literary work has been chosen to be featured by =DailyLitDeviations in a news article that can be found here: [link]

Be sure to check out the other artists featured and show your support by :+fav:ing the News Article. Keep writing and keep creating.
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:iconladyofgaerdon:
=LadyofGaerdon Oct 6, 2012  Professional Writer
:wave: Hi! You have been featured by The Favorites Project at #LITplease!
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:iconladyofgaerdon:
=LadyofGaerdon Oct 5, 2012  Professional Writer
and is it because
you are not
quite as
gentle
as me
that I
fear and despair?

:heart: Beautiful.
Reply
:iconripari:
Mood: Joy ~ripari Oct 20, 2010
i have never had a poem give me chills before.
this is exquisite.
this is more golden than leaves.
Reply
:iconmelodythelittlepony:
~melodythelittlepony Oct 20, 2010
I'm honestly touched. Thank you. :)
Reply
:iconleurindal:
~Leurindal Mar 25, 2010
ah, finally - the Pre-Raphaelites' splendour is restored! :rose:
Reply
:iconmelodythelittlepony:
~melodythelittlepony Oct 20, 2010
I meant to reply to your comment ages ago, because it meant such a lot to me! I always hope that reading my poems is something like looking at a Pre-Raphaelite painting, so I appreciate your comment a great deal. :)
Reply
:iconleurindal:
~Leurindal Oct 26, 2010
:) you're welcome.
Reply
:iconmarine-ala:
~marine-ala Mar 19, 2010
You have painted a very elegant and floral picture before my eyes! It has put me to a 'pastel' mood especially when I read the last lines! :heart:
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