this feature and these wonderful works of art, thank you!
The amount of artistic talent here on dA has always amazed me, I feel like it should be a privilege to be able to feature such amazing pieces as these. Therefore, without further ado this Sunday's SpecialsLiteraturePoetry
messages on the moon the moon had been full yesterday
and she looked up at it
nestled behind some trees
with clouds draping diaphanous
patterns across it
and she wondered just how many people
had sent love notes on
for their lovers to collect at a later date.
it swelled with the beating of
a million hearts
and glowed with the love
of a million eyes
and as she stood there,
staring up at it,
with the night breeze twisting
around her ankles,
she sent a message to someone she hadn't
and hoped that
he was standing alone in the night
staring up at the sky
Perhaps people laughi.
Perhaps people laugh,
standing under broken things.
(Perhaps gravity is an affliction,
someone once told me that a man could
have wings, but
I only saw an equation.)
Maybe, your faith is misplaced?
perhaps God knows,
perhaps God knows.
Perhaps feeling is a number;
Perhaps the world is made of parallel lines
Perhaps our degrees are just
Tangents of my value over yours
Perhaps our feelings cannot be deduced
Through words but only through numbers;
You're a fraction and I'm the whole,
But to you I'm only a decimal.
Perhaps people laugh, under
Perhaps, through tears,
God laughs along too.
ConfessionLips met in clumsy haiku,
against each other, pressed,
the way the earth touches the sky,
soft and whimsy as the dusk.
Tongues painted passion-
halcyon atmosphere, infused,
-upon every awaiting space offered.
Metaphors dotted the hallows of limbs and tasted like the seasons-
a bursting and vibrant spring,
a hot and passionate summer,
Soak My Feet In WineWhen the sun and the earth were in love, ever young
I was born on a full moon with silver clarity
I'm that woman who sleeps on olive groves
Who makes angels fall in love with men's daughters
And lets herself be tricked by your sweet spells
Who obeys the very impulse of her heart
Do you know who I am, where I came from ?
I live where stars grow bigger on a light breeze
Where butterflies were once flowers
Where God blessed my garden in Eden with peace
There, where I lay on a cloud softer than foam
When the day splits into two halves, you see me
My steps are as light as those of a chamois
My hair running wild; wings of an
the hanged manThis little red book you call the human body:
take it up and shake it. Shake the flaking pages
out of it, shake it from endpaper to endpaper
until the last of the phrases are gone; shake it
until it's aching and empty, the soul of a bird.
I will give you new words.
The SculptorBefore he would have harvested a tree,
hacked off its limbs,
torn it from the earth,
shaved one by one its cells - its outer core,
until it was what he believed it was,
no more a tree.
Wiser, he walks deep in to the wood,
underneath a forest giant he stops,
looks up in to the leafy branches, sighs,
climbs and sheds his tears upon its boughs.
Birdlike the soul findsFrown of frustration from him;
she savaged the self crafted.
A drop of sweat almost hit the ground,
but the feathery arm was quite a surprise.
Perched, it was no struggle to take off,
and I met you while making loops in the air.
transfixed by the refinement of brick, wood.
Then, gliding between buildings,
the power of the draft,
the grandeur of building.
Our day ended atop a telephone pole,
seeing the bright orange and rosy pink fade away.
We don't have a song.
All we have is a natural strength
from an unnatural happening.
You almost left your burden in tears
before you were on that skyscraper,
The Seventh DayAn empty, early Sunday
Does not evoke the loneliness
I've come to expect from it,
Instead it inspires peace.
Traffic lights change from amber
To that bloodshot red
Of amassed LED's.
People have breakfast mid-morning
Outside café's and bakeries
And exhibit strange behaviour.
I find that drinking coffee
Stimulates day sleeping
Without any dreams.
At noon I come back from the clinic.
The nurses cleaned my wounds
With saline solution
And packed them with gauze
That prevents bleeding and infection.
I stop for a coffee
And watch the lights change to green.
Two sisters sat on the edge of a cliff
and one was old, and one was young
and their mother was not yet born.
They watched the sea below their feet.
The waves chewed at the rocks
as they had built the cliff through ages,
and green weeds flowed with the tide
like the sisters' hair on the wind.
The sisters sat for many hours,
their fingers twined with strands of yellow grass,
their eyes like chips of ocean glass,
fixed on the far horizon.
Without a word, they sang to each other
and rivalled and warred in silence
as siblings do
without a real reason to fight.
And the grass became a violin
beneath the elder's hands.
there is a story
about a girl
who throws herself down the stairs, because her
baby's father is her father and she can't have her sibling
also her kid.
with her becoming a harlot
that the world can fondle
when ever it pleases.
there is a story of a girl
who sits in the clinic, waiting
to be probed by the doctor
and carved out like a turkey
by the assistants.
she is thinking that
the world has always disliked killing babies
they have made it simpler.
it ends with her
we call them flames because we burned
we were oxygen
we were fuel
and when the fuel was gone
we were ashes floating
rain took us down to earth
mushed remains together
and when the sun returned
the dry remains
piled into something that had never been
alone as something new
flotsamwe crash seafoam Prose
when my bones are driftwood,
i dive for pearls in your hair,
lose my breath and realize that
i don't need it;
your sighs suffice to fill my canvas lungs.
our bodies carve castles in the sand.
("you've practiced," you whisper.
"tongues in tidepools have taught you to love.")
the moon swells the waves.
your kneecaps remind me of
your fingertips are hermit crabs
that scuttle on my skin.
(we howl like seaside wolves, and then)
when morning comes i can't help but see the way you
sprawl like yawning waves in the early morning tide.
you are a shipwreck.
between sailor's-knotted sheets
two heartsore insomniacs, oneI.
I'll meet you again in ten years. My hair will be longer and darker (the way you always liked it) and yours will be falling across your eyes the way it was when I kissed you goodbye. You'll have a days worth of stubble on your cheeks, and we'll collide in a bakery in New York City with our college degrees in our back pockets, rushing toward offices in opposite directions. You'll be drinking coffee and I'll be drinking tea, and I'll have a scarf slipping loose around my neck to catch the snowflakes drifting down. Of course, the skies will be overcast because gray has been favorite color since I found it in your eyes sixteen years ago. May
The DoctorWhen I was seven, I was diagnosed with emotions.
"Poor girl." I heard them say. "She'll never survive this one."
I laid with my face towards the ceiling on the cold examination table, listening to them discuss my fate. I felt something breaking in my chest and something burning inside my throat. A small tear slipped down my cheek.
"Doctor! Look at this!" Shrieked my mother, "Something is coming out of her eye."
The doctor rushed over to me and wiped the tear from my cheek. He touched the top of my head as he whispered, "I am so sorry." And then he turned to my mother. "It's a tear. It means that she is sad."
"Sad?" My mother asked inquis
blow your stardust dreams away. i.
the sky is a contagion; its bleary expanse spreading infectiously. the stars are opaque and empty. maybe if you reached for them, your fingers would slip right through and you would fall.
maybe he would catch you.
you don't see it, but beyond the fog, there is a blurred Orion, an array of lights positioned in the form of your hero. the clouds are just Protectors, securing the enigmas of the constellations so that we'll never be able to see past the foggy haze. but then again, who really wants to?
you've been told time and time again that it is spherical, but tonight you pretend that the waning moon's shadows melt into the c
YouLet us pause for a moment, and think of 'you'. It is an important word, is it not? As a pronoun it indicates social interaction, a conversation. To be 'I' or 'he' or 'she' or 'they' is to be isolated, lonely, separate from the group. To be 'we' is to be only part of a whole. But you are addressed by another, and as 'you', you become someone, a verified person and a separate being. As 'you', your existence is recognised by another. You are part of someone else's world.
i wish i could say it rained the day we gave you back to the earth, that even the heavens were crying for you. it didn't though. it was 28 degrees and our black coats of grief were heavy in so many ways. it felt unfair, and i wasn't ready to let you go just yet, if i could have put myself in the wretched box i would have in a heartbeat. the cliches were in full force that day, and i didn't care for a minute. all i knew is the earth, or god, or whoever took you from me better be grateful to have you back.
there was something in my stomach that day, a knot, a twist, something that felt wrong and out of place from the second i opened my eyes
Dear StrangerDear Stranger,
I hope you are reading this letter before you have gone outside. I imagine you will have a few questions on your mind when you see how things are out there. Luckily, you happen to have this conveniently placed "doggy-door" through which I have slipped the letter you now hold in your hands.
First, I would like to apologize for the state of your mailbox. By this point I imagine you have ventured outside and seen a few things worth the raising of an eyebrow or two and I assure you, all will be explained. The mailbox. I am deeply sorry for the condition it is in. You may notice that the box itself is hanging askew, the flag seems to have disappeared(I searched high and low, I promise.), and the post seems to be broken in several places though I have done my best to repair it with duct tape. It might also be worth mentioning that it has been moved several feet to the left.
You see I was driving home late last night from work (They have me working another man's shift while
Letter to a fatherDear Father,
As I sit in a room two continents away, surrounded by clothes and books and pretty things, all bought with money provided by you, five years into a degree funded by you, I type away this letter.
Dear Father, two days ago you laughed when I excitedly showed you a photo of a thirty-five-bedroom castle and said that one day I will buy it, and you told me that at my age you had stopped having those grandiose dreams. Let me tell you a different story. Nineteen years ago, you pulled a drawer out of your wardrobe, to reveal a drawer behind it, and within this drawer was a single item: an old, ornate, large iron key. You told me it was
One ChanceElliot is four. He watches his grandfather breathe out cigarette smoke in his creaking armchair. The living room is small enough to be heated by the portable radiator near his grandfather's slippers. When the old man realises his grandson waits for him, he begins.
"This is a ruined world, son. Diseased with hatred and war before you were born." He takes a drag on his cigarette and Elliot breathes in the coming smoke. "This world is dead, but I know there's another. We could go to it if we only knew the way." Elliot's grandfather smiles at his thoughts. "There's another place put aside for us. I'll find the door one day."
The radiator splutt
The Waste WorldShe said create the world, so I did. I made it dark and dusty, coughed up from my own black lungs. I gave the trees an ashen hue and the ground a color to match the starless sky. The creatures were murmuring oozes, globs of drying acrylic that inked across the orb of my bubbling imagination.
Repulsing, it was in fact the product of an industrial mind. I was born from man's smog goddess and, if memory serves me, her breath was laced in exhaust which I inhaled nightly with her songs. She was soothing and complacent, her voice smokey like a hazy bar. No one could deny her features were hideous beyond belief. Her skin dripped pollution like morp
i find myself talking to you when youre not aroundand that's what's wrong with you. clarity is gone for me and you are the most unrealistic thing i know. somehow i think to myself that i'm nothing to you and the bones in me crease a little, cringing, waiting to break.
my torture is more private: i lie in bed with a dark piece of glass tilting in my fingers. like a broken beer bottle shard, only it's a prettier green and looks positively oceanic. the whole room glimmers with warm splotches of blue-green light from this glass on my palm and i feel that i am the churning center of some incredibly small moving world.
you bite the inside of my thighs. crescendoes of laughter reach my
my neighbor lights cigarettes, stands on her porch and smokes them as the dawn spreads, pearly grey and simple, over us. the embers are a small sun, burning in the stratosphere of her interwoven fingers, and i wonder if she likes the bitter taste, the sensation of smoke staining her lungs black.
you carry the scent of it down the road to me, wrapped around your fingers like ribbons. it reminds me of my great-grandfather, a man who smoked cloves every sunday after church. the last memory i have of him is the chirstmas service, his head haloed by the weak winter sun, smoke trailing from his lips.
his skin was beautiful and de
i fold paper for a livingpeople think it's weird - that i fold paper for a living.
i sit by a park bench, chant numbers under my breath and bend each fiber of light, fragile paper just the way i want.
because it makes you feel powerful? you ask. and i sit there and smile at the words that twitch the sides of your lips.
i sit here and watch that simple square turn into a crane right before my eyes - with my hands - because i can make it happen. i imagine my next move, anticipate an outlook and create beauty out of the simplicity of what the bark of the tree next to the bench twisted into from the paper in front of me. because you've been ugly your whole life? you as