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About Literature / Hobbyist daybreaksmilesFemale/United States Recent Activity
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Literature
.
Too often it was
impossible to see the
horizon; the way
forever curled, sleeping, in
the lines of our palms.
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles 14 2
Literature
.
We split it all up
silverware, furniture, life
right down the middle.
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles 9 1
Literature
.
six sets of silken
skirts settling, slip'ry, on
silver-satin sand
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles 7 1
Literature
.
Your absence stirs grey
pine needles; in the city
it begins to rain.
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles 24 2
Literature
.
adventures past nudge
memories gently; when did
we run out of firsts?
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles 7 7
Literature
.
open open oh-
pen up your thoughts, your reasons
do not want freedom
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles 6 2
Literature
.
Your mouth: a lily.
Pure, sweet and floating
lithe, just out of reach.
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles 22 3
Literature
fly me to the [moon] garden box
I must say I've tired of the mundane
celestial metaphors and stardust coated images
you use the same wrote lines like you don't know
any other way to tell the story.
Get your milky way whispers away from me,
spare me your constellation smiles,
I don't need the grime of a billion years past
pressing on my shoulders. But
I wouldn't hate a little fresh growth.
I wouldn't mind roots instead of gravity.
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles 29 10
Literature
.
He nestles acorns
in the crook
behind my ear,
crawls into my collarbone
to mound pine needles
between my
head and heart.
I hope he'll
spend his nights here,
secrets kept safe in me.
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles 27 2
Literature
.
Teach my mind to weave
through your name, my fingers your 
frame, 'till dusk settles.
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles 25 6
Literature
seahorse heart
I love too long, too strong.
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles 12 4
Literature
night years
At night the small city seemed quiet and soft
Old like my parents and trapped in a time passed decades ago.
Under the dark sky it was easy to toss the town
Back to simplicity and youth -
Built of bright eyed girls with full smiles and fuller futures;
Young men with softer laugh lines,
Lighter shoulders.
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles 22 6
Literature
The Legacy of Flower Buds
There is a gardenia bush
blooming by my front door and
the scent floods rain-heavy in
through the kitchen window.
Your voice is not here.
A bird chirps your off-key warble and
the cicadas hum for you,
I hear them distant as a memory.
They blend into a buzzing
beeping whir and
again I have to pull the curtains
to shield myself from
all that's left of you.
The gardenia bushes are blooming
and the unforgiving concrete
beneath my feet
reeks of them.
I am six years old again,
clutching chubby fistfuls
of sweet dark earth to my chest.
Trying to see my limbs like petals
thrusting milk-white out
greeting the sun.
My umbrella shudders
against the downpour
while the gardenias bob their heads
like eager children,
and I am in full bloom.
To teach and be taught
how flowers grow.
That is what we're here to do.
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles 22 10
Literature
.
you've got his fingers
fastened on your shoulder
like a grudge you can't shake.
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles 21 4
Literature
After Amy
He spent the first fifteen years of his adult life
in a paper mill sweeping floors.
Stiff straw bristles to worn-slick concrete,
back and forth and back and forth.
She met him on the banks of the Haw river;
strewn across a picnic blanket she watched him
watch her from his perch on the pier, fishing rod dangling
from one hand into the golden water.
In the sweet spot of August he learned
she was a school teacher, and that she trotted
the quarter mile down the clay dusted road to town
in her smart white shoes, every morning and every evening.
Teachers were nothing new to him, a decade and a train whistle ago
he'd planned to marry one. Her name had been Amy
and she was the wildest thing he'd ever seen in a Sunday dress;
nothing like the soft woman with her pink toes in the river-mud.
Amy had never gotten a degree, or even gone to school
past the tenth grade, but she knew things about the breath of morning
and the reign of night. She let her thoughts sift like sand
through her fingers into
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles 45 14
Literature
to practice what you preach
"It's funny" my dad says
with a drawn face that doesn't
make me want to laugh
one bit,
"He had that preacher look.
Whatever that is, he had it."
He wasn't wrong.
The man in the sliver casket
looked different now
but a week ago, a month, a year
he could have been a
fixture in anyone's home.
Gaze sharp and belly full he was
a man who looked like love
and spoke like kindness and
held on tight like honesty.
He was the uncle dozing in the living room
after Sunday supper, the father
who harbors patience for every small
and excitable thing.
Something in that gentle smile as he
pat you on the head at the end of the day,
saying it was one well spent,
felt like coming home.
He had that preacher look.
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles 27 8

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Going Rogue: Gone Rogue Original Pages
Purchase the original, hand edited, found poems from the pages of Sarah Palin's Going Rogue 

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Too often it was
impossible to see the
horizon; the way
forever curled, sleeping, in
the lines of our palms.
.
where can we go from here?
Loading...

We split it all up
silverware, furniture, life
right down the middle.
.
too sharp to be a break
Loading...

six sets of silken
skirts settling, slip'ry, on
silver-satin sand

Your absence stirs grey
pine needles; in the city
it begins to rain.
.
it's been so long
Loading...
adventures past nudge
memories gently; when did
we run out of firsts?
.
give them back, please
Loading...
Though I'm not completely satisfied with the last poem I put up for workshop, and it will doubtlessly be tweaked and reworked thousands of times before I am, time and necessity have urged me to move on and look at other pieces to renovate. This second poem that I'd like to workshop falls under the category of malediction - that is, I'm trying to curse someone and along the way make my readers feel something that really rings true to human experience. With your permission I would like to use you as my guinea pig and litmus test for judging how well this piece does what I want it to do. I don't usually focus on craft like this, I tend to let my poems lead me where they want to go and place them in a genre later, but a good friend of mine suggested writing with an end in sight so here I am. Without further ado:

Workshop 2

Pansies

You cracked the planter by my mailbox when you left.
The impact of tires sent topsoil sailing,
only to land in an undignified heap on the blacktop
as you pulled away, I doubt you even noticed. Or thought


of my reaction when I woke hours later
to find my driveway a graveyard for pansies
and the battered carcass of their housing
strewn across the lawn where it was felled. I'm not angry.

It was just a plastic bucket after all, the kind you buy
a dime a dozen at the hardware store.
This afternoon I'll drive to town and spend an inevitable
three hours hunting for a suitable replacement

to a planter whose shape and style was retired five years ago.
Then I'll trundle back home in rush hour traffic and begin my task
of packing dirt and flower bulbs - maybe tulips this time -
into the too-big too-square too-new flower box.

If I scare a few of the neighborhood kids it's only because
they've never seen such passionate gardening before.
And tomorrow when I pick up the mail,
there will be nothing left to remind me of you.



*my biggest issue is with the ending - the last two lines really. I'm not sure it's strong enough or at a good place or really hitting the poem home.

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daybreaksmiles

Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States
Currently working on: found poems - will upload soon!
Currently raising points for: premium membership

tumblr: blackcoffeelies.tumblr.com/

If you're interested in my fanfiction, you can find it here: blackcoffeelies.livejournal.co…

Also, some awesome references for poets:
personal.strath.ac.uk/t.furnis…
www.expansivepoetryonline.com/…
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:iconevilscarrlett:
EvilScarrlett Featured By Owner Sep 5, 2016  Hobbyist General Artist
happy birthday! :D
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emsoileau Featured By Owner Sep 5, 2016  Hobbyist Photographer
Dunno if you come about much but happy birthday!
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gxfan537 Featured By Owner Sep 5, 2016
Happy Birthday! *hugs you* gxfan537.deviantart.com/galler…
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ei9 Featured By Owner Sep 4, 2016
Early Birthday wishes to you my dear and may it be just as fabulous and sweet as you!
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VioletVeronika Featured By Owner May 27, 2016  Hobbyist Photographer
Hi there! :wave:
Welcome in  :iconmacropoetry:  a group which gathers both, photographers capturing the 'macro-world' and poetry writers of various kinds.
We are much happy to have You on board! :nod:
Here are some things for You to get started in the Group:
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We hope You'll enjoy being here, maybe even find inspiration in the works of Our members :)

It's a perfect place for Your works to have more exposure and receive feedback from other artists!
We can't wait to see Your works! :la:

Best Regards from the MacroPoetry staff! :hug:
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