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 SpecialsLiterature
The Darkest Evening of the YearThey had met at the café before, but this was the first time by happenstance. He spotted her first as he opened the door, just as the barista was passing her what he already knew to be hot chocolate. Autumn got the exact same thing every time they met here on the darker side of the year; hot chocolate, made with milk, don't hold back on the whipped cream. He didn't have to wait long to be noticed; he barely had time to call out before she had already seen him.
"Lawrence!" Her face lit up with recognition. "Out for a bit? Leaving your poor cat alone again?"
He knew he was being teased, but he smiled anyway. "You know that furball can't stand the thought of snow. He's perfectly happy inside, no doubt in the middle of my bed."
"Aw, don't be so mean to poor Bast. He has a hard life."
"Yes, those nine hour naps do look quite taxing."
She laughed. "Come on, I'll buy you a cup of tea," waving him towards the counter.
One hand went up in protest. "No need for that," he turned his attentio
Letters to ButterfliesMy dear, winged and crowned,
Draped in your threads of dew,
Eyelashes of golden pollen dust,
Wings, folder for prayer.
Fly to my forbidden name,
The soft harmony in every letter,
The gentle curls written in cursive,
The hidden message within.
I remember those summer days,
Alighting on falling rose petals,
Drifting in the gentle breeze,
The unrelenting current.
There were times we whispered,
Long stories told in myth,
The white roses left to thrive.
My dear, departing my palm,
Cupped, memories of flight,
Written onto my life line,
Floating away on newly opened wings.
corners and paintswatches.i loved you in a way that was engulfing for my young heart. for someone
still small enough to fit all limbs and troubles into the bath tub with ease.
i remember that was how i thought of it the other night when i tried for the
first time in years to soak and wash this feeling away with warm water and
bubbles. but i didn't cackle with a bubble beard, and it left my fingers wrinkled
and feeling my age something severe.
you've been hiding around corners all week. i was flicking through my dvd
collection, procrastinating, or lost in what was the last thing to be moved back
into my room after i finally gave up with the blue and how i admitted i couldn't
stand another night surrounded by walls that we'd painted together.
i choked on the crow. and remembered you thought that if you took my last name,
you'd inherit his skills and you'd be able to stop anything from hurting me ever again.
but you're still in the parts of me that i thought i could live without.
i gave you my elbows, my shoulders
The Watercolor DreamerOn the bedroom walls,
a brighter afternoon. In the
she bled a cicada's song,
a sultry spring day,
into the heavens.
Her brush disembodied
the equinox, dreaming
the inconsistencies of space
through the walls,
of technicolor worlds.
When she finished,
the room sang
with trebles of cremated
burned with colors from
kerosene. There are
archaic poems sprawled
on the bedposts, planets
hiding in the closet.
curled deep into
of brighter days.
Girl as PoemShe was once a verse by Baudelaire
something about flowers
that were loyal to none
and I kissed her
when no one was watching.
She was a stanza by Byron
who stood on
the white cliffs of somewhere
and praised her eyebrows.
She is nothing like summer
or a lost continent;
is too bold for that.
Her shoulders are not
or a battle to be won.
I thought she was a poem -
or maybe an ode
or sonnet -
words teased and woven
that beat and bled
upon my humble pen,
not the flesh and blood
of thighs and hips
ripening beneath my gaze,
waiting to be written.
Lovesong of a Writerthe way you fit into my arms
is like holding a pencil--
a comforting weight,
a position so familiar,
it becomes natural--
and as I hold you, I think
of all the stories we'll write
StardustNever did you notice the starlight in her eyes or the sunbeams in her hairTraditional Art Photography
woven delicately to match her pretty little sundress and moonlight skin
She was made of stardust, you know, saying;
"It's all oddly familiar, haven't you noticed?
The supersolar stars that seem to be flying to outerspace,
Soon enough will you explode under my touch baby,
and crash like metiorites into the sun, but
it won't matter, baby,
we're all made of stardust"