Forests that speak

1.

In front of me, in the forest an array of sky shimmer.
I do not turn around to sniff the leaves,
there is a smooth trespasser on my skin.
So, I let it be.
I let the wind sit on my painted toenails.
As I walk further, rivers quarrel about a spider’s life behind.
I look at it. A life made independently.
It inspires, floral flowers blooming upon my eyelids.
A pure sound of crickets.
Sound that tickles my lips, and blurs my loss.
A stoppage to a mundane life.

2.

In my room, I would lay horizontally
glistening the birds of silk skin, disappearing like smoke.
There was my body, a stone of carcass.

3.

And As i walk into the woods,
The rain kisses my neck nonchalantly.
A silent kiss of a stranger on my lips.


NaPoWriMo #6

My poem published on Mojave Heart Review!

Link to my published poem here

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SD Short Story Contest Finalist: Lies – C.G. Thompson

This is wow!!

Sudden Denouement Literary Collective

Lies 2

At the bottom of the claw-foot tub, facedown, under an inch or two of water, lies the photograph.  I say lies meaning “rests,” but the word is full of unrest, too, for in telling the truth the picture has captured falsehood.

Contradictions, irony – they’ve become part of my life.

It is cold in the room, the chill of the tile floor coming through the throw rug between tub and toilet, the rug that slips into corners or curls at one end, a canvas of sorts, to trace our footsteps.  The tub is slippery, too, with a stain the color of fall leaves that runs in a ragged path to the drain.  I kneel beside it, not caring that the edge is wet and my sleeves are damp.  I kneel and see the reflection from the safelight break into pieces as I run my hand through the water, making waves…

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Halt

A cold mouth of air,
streaming down the rivers up till my painted toes.
I see a circled pair romancing behind the surface of the sky.
A cold distilled breaths.
Pure. Fixating, like a rubber band.

Far away from this orange sunset.
I hear umbrellas holding a hand of a detached one.
They support and smile. Simple.
Slowly, steadily like a geranium blooming after ages of scuffed earth.

Hums heard in the quietness of the diaphragm.
Subtle potions of looped lips,
speaking a language of gods.
Serene and mysterious.
poets standing on the ebb of satisfaction. Halt.
There, you, halt.

NaPoWriMo-4

Recover

“If I’m honest I have to tell you I still read fairy-tales and I like them best of all.” –Audrey Hepburn, who would have turned 85 yesterday. #Refinery29

It’s like a sad part of my levitating body.
My fingers have a soft tendency to nurture, to sense pain.
and I sit on the lonely roads to pick up a saddened heart, to heal it.

sometimes, I have a feeling I am solid.
Solid like a vintage door, unbreakable.
Imperishable, who can swallow darkness inside darkness?
So, I produce light out of darkness.

I act like a mother to him, as well.
With clearwing moth like a skin of his,
sewing the gasps and sighs.
His body is made of a fallen moon, I believe so.
And at times, I am confused with the methods of love.

He is a rotating axis on my forehead.
he has leaked, the times I was leaking too.
And I kept quiet and sewed him again and again.
Like a silent prayer of pure holistic clouds.

I watch,
my clavicle stuttering with the omen of noises.
Nothing is a flattened lie, but a departure.
My eyes are anxious now, to capture your lilting lips.
I watch you as you get healed now,
as I protect you now.
You are now an absent face of simmering smiles of the sky.

#Napowrimo 3

 

A day like this

Oh! Audrey
Another day has gone.
I sit and pray like a maniac,
with a white smile, you can count on.
I prepare breakfast and prepare a story to tell.
I prepare so many wild things often.
Bricks on bricks, and soft wool of tales.
You left like a reptile in a hibernation.
with floors slipping beneath my china body.
i pray and pray. That’s what i know the best.

I once prayed during my abortion,
beating the sweats and my blood.
my blood was thick as a waxed cloud.
Oh, how i wish you stayed!

What is that flows and flows behind my ears?
A life. A full stop. An endless conversation with life.
Over the years I have developed a harpoon of olive skins.
Skins that are cleaved too.
They haunt me in moments of despair.
They haunt me in these bright shiny days.

And here I am sitting, sunbathed, moth running on this fungus swiveled hands.
Eating and flapping my heavy bosom.
It speaks beautiful anatomy to me.
Oh yes, it does create a map on my toes,
a map on my mind.
Here I traverse, sideways like a waterfall. A soft and a quiet one.
I am not in a sad mood today!
Autumn is my favorite season.
It speaks only the truth, the brown fallen truth.
And I swallow it like a sincere patient, popping a pill to be alright.

 

#NAPOWRIMO-2

Orange peel – Devika Mathur

Read my published poem on Free verse Revolution.

FREE VERSE REVOLUTION

And there is nothingness.

My dear, your arms break like sad morphic eye.

Pathetically, when you think of your mother’s pale finger

Her maybe cold stained lipstick,

You shall think of swallowing your own body.

Like dust & ashes.

A coiled conversation sticking to a blank forehead.

Where a vacant bed hugs another bed.

Too much of emptiness.

Too much of loneliness.

You shall think of watching chores of quiet days in front of you.

Like hammer striking this vacant sky.

I tell you, dear.

The body shall watch another pyre, only to think

The best wardrobe for her own,

These days, the body never ticks.

It doesn’t speak of lunacy,

It floats, flowers vaporizing softly into the sky.

You shall sniff your own decaying bones.

Hardened,

Orange peels of knuckles.

That sweetheart, is death for you.

Mentally.


Devika Mathur, is a poet from India. Her work has been published…

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Call for Submissions: There Is Strength In Our Stories

Submit your words !

Blood Into Ink

Call for Submissions

In honor of Sexual Abuse Awareness and Prevention Month, Blood Into Ink and We Will Not Be Silenced are putting out a call for submissions for your lived experience of sexual harassment and assault. We believe that there is strength in our collective voices. We believe our work is not done.  Writing and art accepted for There Is Strength In Our Stories will be published on Blood Into Ink’s website and through the BII social media accounts, as well as on the We Will Not Be Silenced Facebook page during the month of April 2019.

Writers and artists can submit up to three pieces of creative work (poetry, prose, essay, and/or original artwork.)  Pieces of writing should be limited in length (under 1,500 words.)   Using a pen name or publishing anonymously is acceptable.  You will be asked to provide a brief biography (75 words or less.)

Please do not consider…

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