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A love letter to my devotedHear me read it!

A touch without invasion.
  That ever elusive exhale of love in the skies.

The quiet stateliness
of fingers searching palms
  He held my hand.

A kiss without allusion.
  The constant thrum of light specks chasing sun rise.

The tenderest smile
of knowing, to be known.
  She held my heart.

The patient sun without intrusion
  Lit the world aflame through devotion in their eyes.
Rock BottomThey say a rolling stone gathers no moss,
so when I shudder to a halt
The rocks in my feet continue to grind.
I feel the sand in my lungs
and the regretful mist silting in my heart
as the waves come back in
reaching eagerly for my legs, spooling, churning
over me. Rooted in my misery.
I know the rocks in my feet will help me drown.
Hard.On days like this it is hard to move
It is hard to dress myself.
Blouse a chest plate; dress me in chain mail.
- with the helmet on it is hard to see
it is hard to open my eyes, or lift my chin.
On days like this, it is hard to be human.

It is hard to raise my hands, to button
or to brush my mangy hair.
It is hard to construct the image of a person
out of these destitute materials.
it is hard to pump clotted, crumbling blood.
On days like this, it is hard to be human.
BlackI chew on the blubbery meat of my tongue,
But it revulses
So whenever I swallow I gag.

I try not to inhale the acrid hiss of discontent
That seeps out of the corners of my mouth
And runs a river down my chin;
It reminds me of peaches. I cry.

I have digested the venom
The black rotten root of my own plague;
Ingested it. Injected it. How quick I am to accept death to me.

As organs revolve, revolt, regurgitate
I caged butterflies in my abdomen
As if lushness couldn't catch them there.
I knew better.

I ple'd to the sewn-in stars and their makeshift tenants,
For salvation and for suicide.
They offered neither.

So I sit and stew in these bodil
The EditorMakeshift by the lake,
I watched you finish my sentence
- Hastily retracting the bitterness
and editing out
     my overstated meaning.

A fly serenaded you,
As you derooted the root,
- Deflowered the bud
and edited out
    every semblance of a meaning.

I allowed it, in the summer haze.
For you to slather me
- In someone elses
typewriter ribbons
     soaked in someone elses feeling.

But when you slept at last
I arose, painted bleach by your tongue
- Shook off your petty rules
and crossing outs
    and ran away, free - and feeling.
Haiku: The Wake Up CallDolls head; smashed in road.
Cotton contents flutters by.
Drunk driver sobered.
OIt permeates everything
It is the cells. It is the cell
in which I am rotting.

The sheen over my eye,
the flesh I rip from the side of my nail,
the teeth I grind it with.

The tears, blood and sweat.
It is below carbon and hydrogen,
embedded in the air I breathe.

It is sleeping under my fingernails,
It is the undeniable, genetic, atomic truth.
Oh, my oxygen permeates everything.

It is the cell.
Mother EarthMy body is the earth;
See how under this bruise
A seed of malcontent sleeps.
See what grows out of each pore
As the pain pours over again.
There is rust in my fingerbeds
That poisons the roots
Of all good that hopes to grow here.
I am the convulsing, revolution
of the convoluted Earth...
I am the tectonic blades that clash
and shout when I curl up and hide.
You will feel me when I tremble,
and fear me when I explode
for under the magmanimous skin
There burns a core of hate
That can't be marred by human hand.
BuriedUnder the paprika house,
are the bones of my father
and nestled between rib
and reason, is our love.
HAIKUWRIMOCOMPLETE 2013

February 28th, 2013

Dire desperation
A feeble whimper for help;
roar of these raw times.

February 27th, 2013

Gluttonous ash cloud
sucks the moon's blood
and swallows the night.

February 26th, 2013

Bark! An explosion!
Angry bodies escape the
network of lung cells.

February 25th, 2013

Silently cloning,
multiplying, honing in,
determined to kill.

February 24th, 2013

Tea and sympathy
readily available
for my dear sister.

February 23rd, 2013

I will hold my breath
as the north wind does the same
waiting for your love.

February 22nd, 2013

He hovers behind;
Hamletian apparition.
Always following.

February 21st, 2013

A lo
The White ThingsNothing is as far away as a minute ago.
No matter how hard you row against the tide
we can never reach it, never return there.

It's hard to sleep in the light of my regrets
that creeps through curtain and barriers
to rot away and bleach all things white.

It's hard to sleep knowing that no distance
is as far away as sixty small seconds ago.
Immalleable, we rot, and things turn white.
ArtI tapped yellow and rouge onto his high cheekbones.
I wanted to dull their sharpness. Dull his shine.
I swiped royal and tiffany across his forehead,
An impermanent reminder of how precious he was to me.

A fuschia flush down the bridge of his nose
dipped into the corner of his eye - he went cross eyed
and I laughed, dropping pink glitter on his collarbone,
he became serious as I pondered. He wanted to be Art.

The sun rose on his temple, I wanted to give him life.
I wanted every day to be a riotous sensation for him.
I left his eyes as they were so he could look at me,
I guess that, deep inside, I wanted to be Art too.
AfterIt follows me.
My silver skeined ghost.

An almost imperceptible thread;
only visible when you shine light
    directly upon it.
It follows me.

It rides the underground.
It hides under bridges,
Under trains.
It is woven into the spools of tar
         that form the roads between.

Inevitably if I walk too fast
it reminds me -
Like the tug of stitches in your cheek
that reminds you; you have lost your wisdom.
It reminds me.

It trips me in doorways,
when my mind is elsewhere.
If I look away from it -
           - it slips round my neck.
Another knot to throw over the beams
it mauls me without a fair chance.

I tried to sever it. I can't.
with a whisperthis is how we rule the world,
       the underclassed
       the uncapitalist
          (uncapitalised)
the forgotten, lobotom-ised,
                       relics
            of a long lost dystopast.

not with a SHOUT,
     we do not argue.
         we do not even unsheath
         our mightier-than-the's.
we whisper in your children's ears
    the memories of what should have been.
                 the life we all crave.

                 the death we all crave.
    WE do not discriminate
              or obstigate
                 our opinions onto others
     pressing the side of the blade
              down onto the fles
Haiku: GoneThe moonbreath exhales,
Skypaint blurs the horizon,
Stars go out. You're gone.
Browse More Like This
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More from `KathrynODriscoll

Haiku: Vile HeartMy vile heart beats on,
Unaware that you are dead.
How can it not know?
Haiku: GoneThe moonbreath exhales,
Skypaint blurs the horizon,
Stars go out. You're gone.
The RingsHear me read it

Almost everything about my funeral was perfect. My body rested, awaiting its captive audience, in the church hall over night. A Catholic tradition only afforded to true believers of the faith.

My entire family gathered and told stories of my better days. They remembered my contagious laughter, my love for them, and how I would cheat at cards to help my grandchildren win. They remembered the best parts of me, and my suffering fell into nothing.

I'd always loved flowers, and so there was no shortage of them that day. There were more flower heads in the church than there were people, but then, most of those I loved were waitin
ArtI tapped yellow and rouge onto his high cheekbones.
I wanted to dull their sharpness. Dull his shine.
I swiped royal and tiffany across his forehead,
An impermanent reminder of how precious he was to me.

A fuschia flush down the bridge of his nose
dipped into the corner of his eye - he went cross eyed
and I laughed, dropping pink glitter on his collarbone,
he became serious as I pondered. He wanted to be Art.

The sun rose on his temple, I wanted to give him life.
I wanted every day to be a riotous sensation for him.
I left his eyes as they were so he could look at me,
I guess that, deep inside, I wanted to be Art too.
The Waiting GameHear me read it

I gripped the ladder fiercely until my knuckles whitened and my bones complained at the strain. I remained this way, like a rigor mortised superhero until my mind associated the tight throttling hold on the wood with the concept of choking someone; at which point I let go, momentarily, alarmed by the violence of my own thoughts.

The slight shudder rippled up through the fluidous wood and you complained loudly of my carelessness. We laughed and you dripped paint down trying to cut open my scalp with splashes of mint. Mrs Coraline banged her walking stick against her kitchen window with a resolute scowl and we tried to straigh
a Novella of LoveShe wrote a novel on the back of my left hand,
It washed away when she left me.

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Of Forests

:iconkathrynodriscoll:

Pinecones are the skeletons of foetal trees.
They are the hopes, desires and dreams of a forest
reduced to the brittle, breakable bones under it all.
They are the unburied memories of loss.
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:icontalia-wolffang:
~Talia-WolfFang Jan 27, 2013
These metaphors are beautiful... It showcases your ability to tie so many feelings into such a tight stanza. Gives the reader an almost tangible, but still so ethereal image. Just... beautiful.
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:iconkathrynodriscoll:
`KathrynODriscoll Jan 27, 2013  Student Writer
Thank you so much. I often write very short works, people confuse brevity with simplicity sometimes. I'm really glad you liked this!
Reply
:iconastrangeallure:
Mood: Love *astrangeallure Jan 21, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
Superb...really...very visual and thought provoking...:heart:
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:iconkathrynodriscoll:
`KathrynODriscoll Jan 27, 2013  Student Writer
Thank you marni, I am so glad you liked this
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:iconastrangeallure:
*astrangeallure Jan 27, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
Oh, yeah, loved it...made me see pinecones differently!! And also think, now why don't I think like that????? :D Very welcome. :heart:
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:iconkathrynodriscoll:
`KathrynODriscoll Jan 27, 2013  Student Writer
:giggle: No one thinks like me, I am broken
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:iconastrangeallure:
*astrangeallure Jan 27, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
Or! Maybe everyone else is broken, eh??? :laughing: :heart:
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:iconstory-of-a-mind:
~Story-of-a-Mind Jan 21, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
I find this one fascinating. I feel I can not fully untangle it, but then that is the fascinating part. Each time I look at it, it tells me something else. One time I focus on the pinecones as hopes, desires and dreams and the promise of future live, next time on the skeletons (in my closet) the unburied memories and again the next time on the brittle breakable bones, the vulnerability. Great work!

I also liked how the twisted mirror form Zervais interacts with your poem.
Reply
:iconkathrynodriscoll:
`KathrynODriscoll Jan 27, 2013  Student Writer
For me, it is just as simple as I wrote it. The pinecones ARE the hopes of the forest. They seem dead and isolated, unwanted...

Every year we go to where my sisters ashes were scattered and that involves walking through a beautiful thick wood (like a forest :P) and then up the side of the cliff. When I was little I used to take primroses (the number of primroses would match how old she would have been that day) from under one of the two cherry trees in our garden. Our parents said they were symbols of us, because we had both been ill as children. So i would take the primroses and put them like a tiny bouquet under the tree at the top of a cliff where her ashes were... like a funeral rite.... and along the way through that wood I would collect three small pinecones. To symbolise the three children (her, me and our other sister). I dont know why, it just seemed so important....It seemed so important...
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:iconstory-of-a-mind:
~Story-of-a-Mind Jan 27, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
I think rituals are often underestimated because they often seem so 'illogical'. I think rituals can really help us to fell better. So if that beautiful ritual helped you, keep it.
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