ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
Goldenrod
fireflies erratically sign their names
inside a jar that once held pickled beets.
On a Georgian night,
katydids screech chamber music
Mozart forgot to write
on his five staffed bars.
The music reminds me of the tart
taste of grapefruit seeping slowly into
my mouth, and I swallow it with delight.
But the world becomes a jar
into which I scribble my name,
as if writing it will somehow
make me free.
fireflies erratically sign their names
inside a jar that once held pickled beets.
On a Georgian night,
katydids screech chamber music
Mozart forgot to write
on his five staffed bars.
The music reminds me of the tart
taste of grapefruit seeping slowly into
my mouth, and I swallow it with delight.
But the world becomes a jar
into which I scribble my name,
as if writing it will somehow
make me free.
Literature
Impatient
If you talk to anyone who waits at red lights or cares about fashion or owns a gun, they'll know a thing or two
about all of us; all of humanity. We are all flowers, we are all little universes, we are all the underdog future.
And maybe this is completely true, and maybe some girl pierced her ear in the 8th grade bathroom, and maybe you
have sand in your shoes from that visit to the beach last week. What does it matter, is this an absolute?
We are all pieces of God, we are all forgetting about Heaven, we are all waiting politely for death to break in
through the bathroom window. You can ask the stains on the sidewalk, the birds who refus
Literature
Autumn Autopsy
As lovers,
we were reckless;
Children
chasing fireflies
in a field of mines.
We traded kisses
and carefree caresses
for shrapnel
and blackened skin.
Short moments
stolen pawned
at the cost
of darker afternoons,
the twilight
of the dying season;
We didn't ask,
we never questioned
the interest
of our expenditures.
I shed my skin
in the Autumn of youth,
peeled back
the viscera and
bared the bone --
Rising up,
a scarecrow of worms
and raw meat,
amongst the stalks
of reddened corn.
Tonight
she clings
to dusty artifacts,
shelved trinkets
and
wrinkled sheets
laden with memories
of decaying potency;
The wisps
rising from the cooling wick
will neve
Literature
Autonomous
She asks me to tell her a story,
a quiet ignorance of the self,
separation from
the unaffected scratches
on her freshwater skin and
years she spent
searching for the dreams orbiting
her like forlorn moons;
love happens on the sharp
nights unbalanced with
a little too much of the things
you don’t understand. She never
liked her eyes, full and honest and an
unignorable admittance she was real.
But she never was a cheater,
she claims, no one
put a price on her; the things she gave
away cost too much like
doctored up, re-polished
silence. Sounds familiar.
Imagine a place where
no one has a nightmare. No one
has a voice, their lives are
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
Read by =SilverInkblot here: [link]
Written for =SilverInkblot's Color Poem Contest. For details, go here: [link]
If you have any tips, please critique it
Please critique
Also, I changed the title from Goldenrod to Fireflies.
Written for =SilverInkblot's Color Poem Contest. For details, go here: [link]
If you have any tips, please critique it
Please critique
Also, I changed the title from Goldenrod to Fireflies.
© 2012 - 2024 LionesseRampant
Comments57
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
Overall Vision
Originality Technique ImpactThe visual device of the fireflies 'signing their names' is spot-on brilliant. It helps paint an introductory image in the mind of the reader, and propels them to perhaps thoughts of childhood summers. beautiful and powerful imagery!
The tragedy of Mozart has been told a million times, but you have captured the most beloved of the musician's follies right here, with the katydid image. As if insects pick up the concerto pieces we leave behind with their mad songs. Amazing reference, and amazing concept!
The tart taste of grapefruit eh? Interesting. Some folks find insect sounds to be one of the most horrific things in life. Others hear the music. You, apparently, were going for the breakfast table. HA! Again, wondrous use of symbolism, imagery, and metaphor for real life moments!
The last portion is pure, raw, undiluted humanity as its best. We are all in the jar. Some of us, through artistry, attempt to make ourselves believe we are apart, somehow in our own little jar, but in the end, we are all in the same glass prison. Life itself.
This poem is a wonderful work of thought, passion, and would be a great piece to use as a study in imagery and/or metaphor. The simplistic sorry it evoked in me is not because the poem is simple, but rather because it touched a subject that most of us, on a good day, find uncomfortable. Being trapped in a life we have little control over, like the cicadas and grasshoppers and the denizens of your poem.
Beautiful, haunting verse!
- mids