[x]

Haiku: The Wake Up CallDolls head; smashed in road.
Cotton contents flutters by.
Drunk driver sobered.

A chance secondI lie awake, staring at the cornices.
3AM: my fingers worry at the corners of my sheet.
My anxiety worries at the corners of my rib.
I bite and tug and huff out my misery
As the silence keeps me awake.
I lay with pressure of your absence
Pressing down over my nose and mouth.
A soft asphixiation of the heart, of the sanity.
It is a hot grey night in London.

You are awake, startled by the sunlight.
7AM: you can't lift your weighty skull from the sheet.
The day sirens, but you stay, settled,
Under the weight of your shroud, your loss,
Only the silence keeps you awake.
Unknowingly, for the first time in weeks
We are unintentionally in sync;
Laid

Not yet"father, are we belonging yet?"

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

JoeyWhen I was younger people called me Joey. I never knew why, it wasn't my name and I hated it. Eventually the name became a fisted ball in my gut until one day it smashed out through my windpipe, cracking my teeth as I screamed that I was not who they thought I was. They thought I'd gone mad, disclaiming my name, the identity they had saddled with me... but I thought that they were the mad ones. For who wants to be an identity decided by someone else. No one calls me Joey now, but if they did I would let them, safe in the knowledge that I know who I am not

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.

Of ForestsPinecones 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.

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.

Haiku Vwinter winds whisper
melodies as they caress
our fragile bodies.

Isabelleisabelle,
you are nothing but
an injured bird,
losing your way
in a world of uncertainties.

your wings
have been clipped,
by their ignorant words
(not good enough, not good enough)
and you’re grounded:

stuck.

unable to rise
to the light of the sun –
instead you’re alone below,
drowning in the droplets
of their adamant rain.

not good enough,
they whisper once again,
not good enough…

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.

Of Nuisance LeavesHear me read it!

Leaves clutch their ropy fingers around the tree's limbs. The zesty leeches bloom, crack open overnight and slip silently up the nearest oak or maple. They pierce the crunch of bark and penetrate deep into the rubbery veins.

They feed. They pauperize plum and peach until they are heavy and brown; heavy laden with the stolen sap.

When at last they reach their fill the tree can finally shake them off emphatically, desperately, until at last it is clean again. The tree reaches its black bones to the sky in praise and as a new year begins vows never again to be the victim of leaves.

by a threadby a thread

miles I wandered
to finally find myself
face down in a poppy field
- a disarticulated doll
in the cold of the night
trying to remember that
the pitchest of black
lightens up with dawn

-SophieCT, 2012, reworked april 2013

you need to have a plan...so here's to
conventional wisdom.
1. relocate
to some forgotten shore.
2. fall desperately in love with
i. the ocean
ii. the sky
iii. the honey sunrise and
iv. the steelgray winter dawn.
3. sink
soul-deep into the water and
breathe.
4a. search out the requisite words
i. from behind white and blue curtains
ii. and underneath clam shells
iii. and in the wakes of fishing boats, and
4b. pluck them from the ceaseless
scrawls of sunlight
against the slopes of waves.
5. make time for
i. poetry
ii. and other
selfish
pursuits.

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More from `KathrynODriscoll

Morning Dew - Draft One /Placed surreptisiously by needlework
The dew christans the morning leaf
As it turns over to face a new day.

The crystalline crown flashes its teeth
Glares of a violently pearl white
A polite reminder, keep off the grass.

Our Journey's End - Draft One /I can't help crying and you can't help but say,
Things will get better, tomorrow is another day,
Searching for a meaning, looking for a cure,
How many tests can this friendship endure?

I wait for my end, while you look for our journey,
I want my noose, you tell me our friendship is worth enduring,
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It isn't, yet, but I know it's our line that you're still towing.

You stroke my hair in the cold hospital room,
Bringing some comfort to the pain and the gloom,
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My heart is heavy, it c

Outlived - Draft One /Outlived

You asked me to write you a poem,
That shows what I really feel,
With words of silver and crystal,
Words that can really heal,

But I struggle to find the letters,
And twenty six just aren't enough,
The words all pale in comparison,
So this poem is just double bluff,

A poem about how there are not words,
No words that could possibly say,
Any more than a simple ''I love you'',
And ''I love you more everyday'',

Rhymes about repeats and forevers,
Words reused and reborn,
I turn over my pen to lost property,
And look upon poets with scorn,

Find me a word that explains it,
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'Cos flowers ar

Pity - Draft One /Pity

Give me precious hope,
I beg you. Or pity me,
The mope-on-a-rope.

Pretty - Draft One /I'm almost certain I could be pretty.
I just need some time to rip holes in my flesh
and restitch the lines into somewhat smoother curves,
I'm almost certain I could be pretty.

I could be pretty,
If I had the right tools or the money,
Hack a chunk of skin from my belly,
so I could be pretty.

In my mind I am pretty.
I am planning every dress I shall wear,
Once I slice the strips of unwanted fat off
In my mind I shall be pretty.

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I don't need so many fingers anyway,
and I am certain I could be pretty.

Who wants to be pretty
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The Cord - Draft One /The Cord

I think about the people,
Living long long ago,
I think about people seeing,
A future I'll never know.

Might there be utopia,
And a sparkling light of hope,
Or is it just the glitter,
Of this old halo of rope.

Eyes raised to the ceiling
And oh if there's a Lord
He'll kiss me with a blessing
And not break this cord

Music swimming round me,
And drowning in my tears,
I'm hoping I'll be quiet,
So that no body hears.

Don't catch me, I'm falling,
I don't want you to see,
Don't hold my legs or hand now,
Just let me be free.

Don't catch me, I'm broken,
And no saviour could contend,
With broken neck, and spine,
And hea

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a Novella of Love

by `KathrynODriscoll, Jan 6, 2013, 11:08:35 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

She wrote a novel on the back of my left hand,
It washed away when she left me.

a Novella of Loveby `KathrynODriscoll

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

©2013 `KathrynODriscoll

~Story-of-a-Mind Jan 12, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

..... *speechless*

Only one little thing left to say. I don't know if you where aware of it , but in German there is a saying 'Die linke kommt von Herzen' - The left hand comes from the heart. So it fits perfectly for me, not only because the 'left hand' resonates with 'she left me'.

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`KathrynODriscoll Jan 12, 2013 Student Writer

_{I didn't know that, thats wonderful! I wish I could say that was intended. Damn. haha}

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~Zevais Jan 7, 2013 Hobbyist

She left a note on my heart
I can't throw it away since she left this world

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`KathrynODriscoll Jan 8, 2013 Student Writer

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*Laura-Lie Jan 7, 2013 Writer

short and powerful, i'm a fan

Reply

`KathrynODriscoll Jan 8, 2013 Student Writer

Yay! Thanks Laura :]

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~KuraiTenshiV Jan 6, 2013 Hobbyist

... yes

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`KathrynODriscoll Jan 8, 2013 Student Writer

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