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Him and HerThey walk ahead of me
almost holding hands,
a puffy red heart almost suspended
above them in a conjoined dream cloud,
and I almost stab it with my cigarette,
send it sputtering and whining into the night.

Tomorrow while I'm taking out the trash
I imagine each of them will be dictating
love letters to a friend, each planning their ascent
and subsequent colonization of the other:

she'll teach him to wear deodorant more often,
take off his socks before they go to bed,
while he'll convince her Hemingway is a saint
and Emily Dickinson is Martha Stewart.

While I'm rinsing off a spoon, running the garbage disposal,
they'll be on th
Ocean's SongForgive my weakness, woman,
and my albatross-hands that roam
from island to island, in search of rest.

Forgive me also
for my fish-school eyes, they dart from side to side
in search of something that glitters - prey
or the great white Kraken, or both:
"I have wrecked too many ships, and seen
them scream, I have held them like a lover;
come, my children," it tempts, and lies
softly at the bottom of the sea, singing.

Forgive my oceanic absence,
and the lapping and the lapses of my tongue;
it writhes in my mouth like the Kraken -
a treacherous, twisted creature
is love, and I do, make no mistake.
unlearn the constellationsI may carry my voice
on white-crested wingtips
but I refuse to take the names of birds.
My throat is not a desert
with smoldered star limbs
in place of sand, not a stone
for you to overturn and mark
with gentle cloud prints
or leave in the mud
to be perforated by bright moss.

My song is not made
to be thundered like a body
on the wind, to be bellowed
by the jagged mouths
of some distant, forgotten jungle.
It is made to slide along the edges
of twenty burning suns and rise
like a halo of newfound breath
from the crevice which splits
earth and sea. To break open
like the young, wet-winged dove
born of a glorious mud
which cracks mountains wi
fatefatalism stalks me.
its chalky finger-bones
scrabble at my windows,
greedy to pry panes
and rend gaps—
mouth agape
to vent its algid breath.

conjured,
like a voodoo zombie
of the bayou,
by pious disciples
to the temple of matter.

they strain to evade
the burden of their choices,
worrying at the knots of destiny
and scattering dust
to fill in our footprints.

in a sly reversal of legerdemain,
they entice hands from rudders,
with their relentless mantra:
"free will is illusion!"

but illusion is smoke,
and stars still burn in my chest.
not nebulae, but hard points and brilliant.
I pass through them,
burning the fog
Clovelly BeachThere is not any sand
On this beach; it's just stone
In a thick gray-white strand
With a blue undertone,
And an iron-red cliff
That has been overgrown
With thin grasses made stiff
By the sun.  The seesaw
Of the surf, like a biff,
Can crush stones in its maw
And then toss them out, fresh,
Having rubbed out each flaw,
With the smoothness of flesh,
Every rock is reborn,
Nested tight in a mesh
Of seaweed, and kept warm
By a sprinkling of dust
Made of silt and the fresh
Taste of salt.  Each wave's thrust
Sends a mineral scent
On a sweet exodus
From this beach made of stones
And the smoothness of bones.
SpringtimeIt is winter on my breastbone,
Across my nose,
Down my arms,
Snowbanks of pale skin
At my shoulders, elbows, knees.

But a sudden spring emerges on my hipbone,
A rioting vibrant mass
Of blue-black-purple-green.
Brought on not by the warming of the weather,
Or a gentle rain,
But by a forceful collision with a table.

This bloom will wither soon,
Just like the real daffodils and irises.
The colors will fade,
And my skin will return to the tundra.
Who knewWho knew

The man you visited in a dream,
The one you re-traced a half-remembered
Path for, in the off-chance of
Surprising one another again:

Polychromatic flannel and subtle sighing
Through the teeth, gently
Warm eyes softly exotic
Slavic vodka on a late summer night,

Would

Sweep by, wearing blinders of
Deep conversation, still
Smiling with an accent
His arm around a waist

I want to sit in my room, arms wrapped around
Knees against chest in the solace of the sun,
I want to watch the endless journeys of
Sidewalk strangers from the fire escape

But it's ten to four and
There's no time to cry anymore;
Only time to joi
.SetIt is Akhet, the season of sorrow and silt, and Set
must tense his sandbreath against the slick of wet
once more. It's always the same: though he's unsure
who started the game, or whose face he wears,
he knows he must prepare for the beginning of the end,
the bite of night and all the slippages in the inbetween.

And he swore he'd bait their breath,
but they'd rather choose death than fear,
with their tombstone legs, arms pegged
in sockets and their locked ears,
burying themselves beneath blocks
built to the sun. They outrun him, every time.

It's a crime. He remembers what his mother said:
do what you're able to keep them faithful
mechanical clocks don't...Love set me going like a skeleton watch:
your voice wound me up, a look pushed
the hammer struck the gear;
pretty soon we were syncopated
ticking out a rhythm.

I wind my time when I remember.
I keep its gears bared,

measuring me in taut increments:
rationing my allowances,
budgeting my attention,
counting down the wait
'til next time you and I coincide;
then I'll forget to wind, it and my faces will
pause.

Around you I forget my time, detest the reminder
we are lent hours. But I check
nearby displays in a panic--whether I make the bread line
or not, it won't stop rationing out
my piece of your company.

I pretend I can ferre
291010early autumn is spreading her legs for winter and
my breath reaches the stale air

like celtic knots, writhing in shapes of
fetus dreams
there are subtle clouds

shrouding the sky
and hushed rosemary wind

time spent on wondering which words exist,
peach blossom in a sky of tapering velvet

we both look above
in search of a god, or stars which belong on your teeth

she was is could be a sunset and
he is the sunrise

blissful history, sheltered and surreal
a spine which kisses shower

pupils like a eclipsed moon
arrowed by cupid,
bleeding

misanthropic and so sudden,
can you talk without it breaking glass?

soothed and sullen cheek
Pocetna StranicaIn this drought-ridden land,
the Earth holds me captive and sucks me
dry; I can but watch, with withered arms,
as the stars drag at the night sky.

With van Gogh fingers
and an oil-stained tongue
my keeper riddles me sleepy clouds
and wide eyes,
painted caricatures of the perfect poem-
while I thirst and write and waste
countless graphite pencils

to an unheard cause, lost on
dumbed ears. My vocal cords shatter
a thousand stony seas, raze waves
and call the deep,
when all I want is that misty-eyes
Slovenian lake, a death waiting to happen
in outstretched, virgin arms.
This is my graceless fortitude,
a castle prepared for batt
the seed greeted the asphalt -the seed greeted the asphalt with surprise

, said it was set upon by early morning winds,
that they came from under the bridge by the bay,
rose up and turned like a freight train down the street;
ignoring the stop sign completely, causing an early commuter
to lean into it, squinting. discoloured leaves
rushed to fill its absence, falling over each other,

it said the heavy mass of pure air hit with such momentum
as to shake it off deliberately, making it a helpless
and unwilling hitchhiker for some 20 metres.
On Ariadnethe loom of lust:
In the heart of your ears,
and till your outstretched feet
the spinner of mad red has corrupted,
her fingers like dragonflies threading
bark and twined grass into your hair
around your sure wrists, your angled feet
'this is love, my shining bride-to be,' you whisper,
and disappear with her among billowing black sails.

the abandonment of Ariadne:
He wooed you in a labyrinth of spinners,
and wed you in black sails, beneath jealous skies.
'Sleep and tomorrow you shall be Queen of Athens,'
Ariadne, sleep, tomorrow the sun will shine,
and the sea will ebb sympathetic away from
these deserted sands.

the death, or descent:
Spin,
Almost As Perfect As...We tied our promises to
Our fingers
Like ribbons so that we
Wouldn't forget.

And we lay in the grass
Counting pigeons
Calling the black ones Nevermore
And the white ones Odette.
Because if we could pretend we
Were in the same park
                                Town
                                           C
EulogyThe dream-catchers are handmade
but each bear the same mark of boredom.
On the reservation,
the dirt is red and separated from the turquoise on sale.
The tops of the mountains have been scraped off
like whipped cream from pudding cups
of beautiful alien rock.

"Plateau," my mother says.
I am not sure if it is a name
or a command.

The lightning storms are brighter in the desert.
I sit perched on the horizon,
the edge of one loss to another—
given up my love, all my bottled water.
The mountains carry their own babies in the muddy puddles,
against the wind they huddle,
but their semi-circle somehow is just one great smile.

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Sta.sh is a new system for submitting art to dA. You can find the link in your 'submit' menu. Why use it?Main advantages are that you can submit deviations faster, from more places (currently with apps for android, iPhoto, mac, iOS, etc., as well as from email and FTP) and you can keep them private if you want. You can then share it only with those people you want - for example to ask their opinion before submitting it to your gallery. How to submit?Submitting basically happens in two parts. Upload the file  Image- and other filesSubmit files from your computer by clicking
Together AloneExperience,
shared in silence.

Everything unsaid.
I wish I could believeI wish I could believe
that there's a God above
When I'm in pain or grief
I wish I could believe
that He'll be there for me
when I'm in need of love
I wish I could believe
that there's a God above
All he ever wroteAll he ever wrote:

his requiem.

Featured in Groups:

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December 3, 2009
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[x]

Truth

:iconnamenotrequired:

Long ago I wrote my wisest words of that young age
I had written many lines, but most I would reject
Suddenly my pencil then entrusted to the page
that the Truth is always more important than its side effects.

And I never knew
If I had written truth


I've been thinking ever since to find the greatest truth
to make sense of the paradox confusing all our lives
A philosopher I soon became
the subject has since stayed the same
Should we think, or should we feel; will the wits or heart survive

And I never knew
How to find the truth


Now, did i finally find the right way
to live, and help you from sorrow?
I'd tell you to know about yesterday,
feel about today, and think about tomorrow.

Yet, when thinking of you
I feel for you too;
just a side effect of the truth?
:iconnamenotrequired:
Years ago, when i had really only started songwriting, I wrote a song I called Truth. It included the line "the truth is always more important than its side effects", I still really like that line, it must be by far my favourite line from all the songs i wrote in those days :)

I'll leave the interpretation of that line up to you... let me just say that now, a couple of years later, I still don't know if i agree with that line. :P

I put this song in spiritual poetry, but i could have easily put it in (auto)biographies as well. Though seen from a spiritual point of view, it's the story of my life... well, of a big part of it, anyway.

Inspired by `3wyl, one of our many inspirational conversations reminded me of the mentioned line, and of the question.... is the line true? :P

Critiques encouraged :D

This won 1st place in ~xana-1's Soul of a Poet contest :w00t: It's a true honour :dummy: Never received the prizes though :B

:points: :points:I do Points commissions to help a friend in financial need! More info here. :la: I can do new poems or songs, or send you a personalised copy of this song. :points: :points:

Thanks to #Come-One-Come-All, #SOULSSHINE-ONLINE & #DD-Catalogue for submitting it to their gallery, and to `Gwendolyn12, $Moonbeam13 and everyone else who may have suggested it for the DD. :tighthug:



Namenotrequired
Submitted under Creative Commons licence

:star: Dedications :star:




=Maladikta, ~ShadowDragon973 and `Gwendolyn12 quoted this song in their signatures! :thanks: It's a huge honour.:aww:

~SoulDragonit quoted it on her Hyves page! :thanks:

~20Tourniquet02 recorded a video of herself reciting this :love: (I'm not allowed to link to it though:paranoid:)
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Daily Deviation

Given 2011-07-16
Truth is by `namenotrequired ( Suggested by `Gwendolyn12 and Featured by $Moonbeam13 )
:iconstilltheman:
Critique by ~Stilltheman Mar 7, 2012, 6:21:24 AM
I have tried to find the words to write a critique, but after battling with my own inward questions I decided there wasn't an acceptable way of writting a fair critiqué. But even that being said, Im still compelled to say something beyond I truly love your poem. So I've written this critique in a way that will hopefully explain how wonderful your poem is and how inspiring it is:

TRUTH

Long ago I wrote my wisest words. Young of age I was
After writing many words, most of them I rejected
Because my pencil had become entrusted to the page
The TRUTH became clearer and more important than its potential side effects

But would I have ever known it
How would I have ever known, it was truth I was writing?

So I've been thinking…
I've been seeking the greatest truth
I've ben trying to make sense of a paradox that confuses us all
I searched everywhere, until a philosopher I became
But despite all I did, the subject threatened to remain the same
Should we think, or should we feel?
Should we have wit, or should we have heart to survive?

Will I never ever know how to find the truth?
Faith requires me to keep going.

How did I finally find my way?
How did I learn to live and to grow from sorrow?
Am I to keep it a secret?
I'd tell you what I know about yesterday, how I feel about today, and what I think about tomorrow,
But. . .

When I think of you… I wonder:
Should I feel for you the same way I feel for me, or
Should I feel for you the same way you feel for me…

Or do I risk turning my truth into a side effect of your reality by being eternally lost in a quest to unravel the truth about you?

Or is the truth that I love you? . . .

#Sincerely Inspired! Hope you like… I don't know if I should apologise for the love interest at the end, but I was really tempted and hope you like. #Holding thumbs. Just to remove the awkwardness of it all, - (incase anybody is wondering "why") - but The beauty of art is in that: ART is it's own language, it has it's own soul and lives it's own life, in it's own interpretation and achievement. That being said, it's existence has little to say about it's author except that he created it and if you recognise and respect his talent, he will recognise and respect you too. Well, he might, because beyond that, your opinion doesn't really matter
What do you think?
Fair Unfair
The Artist thought this was FAIR
7 out of 7 deviants thought this was fair.
1 Reply

The Artist has requested Critique on this Artwork

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:icondimensionhopper123:
~DimensionHopper123 Apr 1, 2013  Hobbyist Filmographer
Well well well if it isn't you from devart? Interesting that deviantheart doesn't work...
Reply
:iconnamenotrequired:
$namenotrequired Apr 1, 2013  Student Interface Designer
Hello! :wave: How does it not work?
Reply
:icondimensionhopper123:
~DimensionHopper123 Apr 2, 2013  Hobbyist Filmographer
If I say I'm 65+ (which im not) And I'm looking for a female it pairs me with a 24 year old male. I'm glad it worked for you though.
Reply
:iconnamenotrequired:
$namenotrequired Apr 2, 2013  Student Interface Designer
That makes sense - it's entirely random :)
Reply
:icondimensionhopper123:
~DimensionHopper123 Apr 2, 2013  Hobbyist Filmographer
Yeah. But it did work for some people I knew. :)
Reply
:iconnamenotrequired:
$namenotrequired Apr 3, 2013  Student Interface Designer
Really? How did it work for them? Did they get in contact with someone they liked? :D
Reply
:icondimensionhopper123:
~DimensionHopper123 Apr 3, 2013  Hobbyist Filmographer
Yes. I really think their a perfect match. They both love photography and literature and have very bright personalities.
Reply
:iconnamenotrequired:
$namenotrequired Apr 5, 2013  Student Interface Designer
That's great :love:
Reply
(1 Reply)
:iconvincentcrow:
~VincentCrow Feb 13, 2013
Your words make much more sense after reading "The Present" at truthcontest.com. Your words as well as many others are no longer a mystery as to their meaning after having read it. :)
Reply
:iconnamenotrequired:
$namenotrequired Feb 14, 2013  Student Interface Designer
Oh, why do you think so? :) Do they make sense on their own?
Reply
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