[x]

SolsticeOnce upon a time, when you were still sunlighthouses and shimmering existence wherever you were needed most, you found him. He was November, shaky on his first last legs, and you saw through the mind-twistings he feigned to the mind-twistings that were really there, knotted up in his dreams.

You were still birdsong then, and thunderstorms, and your bodyheat melted the frost claws that held him tight. You held onto him as his November deepened. When he howled, you howled with him, and the wind played with your voices and pressed the softness of your lungs against your cageribs—and then against each other's.

November became solstice, and

if only, if only.i.
we drove nowhere
and we spoke a language
that nobody understood
underneath a foreign sky
blanketed in the scent of pine.

ii.
you told me
my eyes were like envelopes—
because they were always
opening
closing
fluttering to the sound
of breaking seals
and ink stained fingertips.

iii.
i told you
we should run away
to a new land
with new faces
because
i was enamored
with people i had never encountered
and places i had never gone.

iv.
you laughed at me
and said that
if i didn't spend
so much time with my head
buried in world maps
i would realize
that i was living on one.

v.
i remember
it rained that day
and the tea went cold
but the

rootslike drowned men who have lost their
clothes and faces, they lay suspended
facing the sun and grinning without
eyes through the ripples of the water.

those passing by wonder how they got here,
these homeless men without fingers or toes
long spindly stumps twisting into lost roots:

reaching to the east, to the south,
to the homes they have forgotten.

mosaics.sometimes unique
is not loud;
or bright, alive and raging,
possessed of a hunger for the atypical,
up front and too close,
or thrice-pierced and drenched
in the rebellions
particular to the latest generation.

sometimes it is a girl with
mouse brown hair and eyes
the color of weak tea,
who stands with her schoolbooks clutched
to her chest, in uniform shades of grey-blue
like the midmorning autumn sky

who has a wide mouth prone to nervous smiles,

pale lips and pale cheeks
and words that don't always come out
the way she means

who holds the universe
in the intricacies of her fingerprints
and laughs in treble clef notes
and u

red leaves and Robert Frost.When I was young, my virginity was sacred. Entire religions pray over it and my father bought a gun so long as it meant protecting it.

We throw away half of our refrigerator each week – meanwhile, 24,000 people die of starvation every day.

Hardest part is, sometimes wasting things can't be helped.

At the bus stop, before I could drive, boys would ask for my phone number while I tugged up the neck of my shirt. Asked me how old I was while I crossed my legs under my skirt.

I told them I had a boyfriend even when it wasn't true, because they'll always respect another man more than my disinterest.

Hearing "I love you" for the first time

in the seams(a) when I was young I was a robin that stole the eggs from another's nest.
fitted upon my stare there was a warning –
personal's too personal for me, well i
would not use wings if i had 'em.

a child of rye with a silhouette spoiled by the sun, I was, I am.

and sometimes I see some vengeful sparrows still under my fingernails;
their glistening beaks snap melodies that rib a hundred bird-bone cages,
so light you could blow 'em away with a twist of your lungs.

and there are still words jailed between my teeth and my tongue and I do not speak of,
do not think of
them,
but they rattle between bone and flesh and I
drown them s

Liquid Cityhere, at the bottom - lovers.
there are lovers disassembling
themselveslost in and to the
desperate motion in
of - waves.

- did you think the continents
moved themselves? see them slip,

in an open sleep. less go, come.
come and, and - again. trembling

here, at the bottom - their eyes
are lightless. hollow bodies left
restless,

the sea does not sleep.

for unseeing eyesladen with sky
we stumbled
and painted mockingbirds
on loveless branches
folding in our slender limbs
and ducking under our own
voices, fidgety and frail
against the wall of night.

between the dipping blades
and drawn shoulders
we learned to craft our words
steady-soft,
a drumming rain
that carved canyons
in open hearts and
drew the sunshine to
our supping lips.

keen-eyed, we watched
remembering the weight
of unseeing eyes
and scalding remarks
and we learned to slip
the noose-knots and slide
through the soul-cracks
and somehow
build kingdoms under
upturned noses.

with lyrical uncertainty
and tender determinat

Pausing By The WineMarriage is
the frustration of reality

when the man who works the wine section
pauses in his tracks to make sure
you've found everything you "really need...are you sure?"

With a look that tells you
he finds you sort of beautiful

and you wonder how your life
might be different,

if any man other than this one
had ever looked at you like that.

WhitmanI am all that grows from me
and all that grows from me is sacred—
              my hair, dirty roots reaching towards sky,
fed by sky, shifted by its undulating currents
              my fingers, spiders, crescents, twigs,
gaunt, blunt, probing, inquisitive...prurient
              my ears, awkward conch shells jammed on as if by mistake,
rigid and ridged, elven,
innocent like unexplored caves for children to bound gaily into
resounding with echoed cheers of courage wanting
as if a dozen more children waited within, fearless guides;
              my nose, obdurate.
The reach of my eyes knows no bounds;
what walls are there to throw my body against?

RosesYou love too much, I am told by a man with a briar heart, thorny sinews and collapsed ventricles bearing down on him, hardly beating in his tight chest. He looks at me with flat, slate eyes, chipping and eroding. His hands are dark with cigarette burns and rough with calluses; I feel them on my shoulders as he looks down at me, face collapsing in at his eyes like a dead man's.

For the first time, I realize he is dead. His briar heart dried up when winter killed his rose; my father, he is all thorns.

He squeezes my shoulders, too tight. You look like your mother, you know, he whispers, eyes shifting to the garden, to the yellow rose I plante

Lightning Bug CosmosI lace my skin up like a corset, peel back the blinds on my eyelids, and take a step forward, waking from the poppies to the
lightning bug glow of truth tapping on my eardrums.

In front of the mirror I stand, but what I notice is not the awkward crook of my nose or butterfly lashes. I look into the lighted mirror as if searching for answers hidden under
Ribbon-like sets of
veins, arteries and nerves.

Sometimes it all flows correctly; sometimes everything becomes
knotted up in all the wrong places. Skin toughened by beatings brought about by the

Automatici.
"So where are you from?" The boy leans toward me, questions swimming in his eyes. I smile.

"Oh, I'm from Boston."

"No, I mean, where are you from?" My smile falters as I realize where this is going. It's an all-too familiar conversation, one I've been having since I was old enough to reply.

"Do you mean where was I born?"

"Yeah."

"I was born in China."

"Do you speak Chinese?"

"No."

"Does your family speak Chinese?"

"No."

He looks befuddled. I sigh.

"I'm adopted."

"Oh!" I see the light bulb over his head go off in a shower of sparks. "Do you know who your real parents are? Like, your real parents?" My temper flares. I stifle th

mutethings have been easier
without words &
we pretend neither of us care;

we stutter
splutter
laughing and choking
on puns &

when you bend me over nouns
i scream

louder
growl
more fluent.

the words are there waiting to be spoken

me . you . love

my dear, we've been mute
for so long

speak to me.

if she were any more tomato she'd be blueberryxvii.
i want to write about how this world of
absolute truth, knowledge, and solid food—

that which we hold high between two fingers is always
full of watery applesauce and little white half-truths.

and about how utterly strange
it is that all the simple things that people
write about on pages are, in reality,

very few and far between.

xvi.
and i want to write about how there is
peace and war and
poverty and treasure and
cruelty and sometimes,

sometimes,

small and
important
moments
of grace.

xv.
i want to write a poem about why the hell i'm wasting
my time writing poems when i could maybe
actually be doing something produ

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In the Valley We ChoseThere is a dam
holding back an ocean, raging
on tiptoe against the brim.
Inevitable flood.

And a village built on sorrow
stands at its mercy.

One day we'll drown, and it will be.

The Science of DamageDeep
in the daring sky
the flight of fathers and friends
entangle
with particles of ozone.

Our unequal parts
are mixed and mashed
together into the same chemistry.
The picture is brittle, and often whole
pieces go missing
not lost, but maybe never found.

la de da

The bells are coming,
the ocean swoons and sways
until the dawn breaks.
Oxygen and two parts hydrogen.
One part faith.
Or maybe none.

la de da

Is the heart an open passage
into something more? Or less?

The Same Coin, FaithFill the heart
with seed and lumber
until it is heavy like winter.

Fragile frames weren't meant to lift
burdens and bear them in full
for days or months or years
unending.
Eventual stumbles,
inevitable falls. The snow
will hide the undergrowth
from the prying eyes of introspection.

It all adds up
to give and take,
to break and build
the soul in the chasm of creation.

RecollectionsRetractions

Desperate to stop the guilt
your stolen skin denies the touch
as spun ordinance fiercely quiets
to a rest.

Look with the wind,
bring sugar for surrender
and hope the whisper is far
when winter comes.

---

I'll Forget

Veil me in the dust
shut close and dreary.
A broken fall
stopped with a crushed body.

The illusion might appear
enchanting
but proves false
on examination.

---

So We May Be Whole

So leave.
Far and with no smile.
Be a bitter fragment
crashing on some later August
if ever.

Or linger, aching
through the slow, unwitting droll
of broken conversation.
Pretend that there is magic.

Barnard's StarMorning of waiting
left lovesick lonely
missing the star
after its collapse
in the sleek enemy sky.

I looked for you at the altar;
there were pine cones, and wasps
buzzing
while the harps played a sun
back into the sky.

But it wasn't mine.

Red-Eye2 a.m. and the train rumbles by
ahead of schedule

my, what a breath you're taking

the levers and rails and
things
conspire to bring you early
let you find the fermentation
you weren't supposed to see

suppose this means
something.

by the time the sun rose, we were
silhouettes

headed in opposite directions

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If

by *nawkaman, Nov 8, 2012, 1:47:35 AM
Literature / Poetry / Romantic / General / Free Verse

We can
draw lines and give them names
like elements
as they are discovered

Or etch into our skins
this soloecal desire
until it is impossible to tell
where words stop
and life begins.

I would

Find a common rhythm that includes
you in my arms, my hands
and lungs and thoughts
tracing the outline of you
entangled with me
colliding like two lost particles
locked in a shared gravity
drifting through the vacuum
of space.

I could.

Exhale, and
remember
sentence structure.

Ifby *nawkaman

Literature / Poetry / Romantic / General / Free Verse

Pure, unedited.

Daily Deviation

Given 2012-12-11

If by ~nawkaman is masterfully written, pausing at pivotal moments to wind down to the poet becoming aware of himself. ( Featured by ^NicSwaner )

love 4 4

joy 2 2

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

*halcyonshores Apr 24, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

Purely amazing.

*nawkaman Apr 24, 2013

Thank you

*halcyonshores Apr 25, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

The pleasure is mine.

=CrematedMan Dec 15, 2012 Student Writer

The first stanza is magnificent. The rest is quality, and does not suffer for its authenticity, quite the opposite.

*nawkaman Dec 16, 2012

Thank you for the

and even more for the comment. I often find my inability to effectively edit my own poetry to be a shortcoming. Here, however, this particular thought does not want or need to be painstakingly crafted.

~poetries Dec 12, 2012

*nawkaman Dec 12, 2012

Thank you

You have quite an amazing gallery, yourself.

~poetries Dec 31, 2012

Thank you!

~BLUScoutlol Dec 11, 2012 Student Digital Artist

this is lovely, it gives me goose bumps as i read it c:

*nawkaman Dec 11, 2012

Thank you!

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