[x]

Through the fire and the flamesby Dolan Grey

Snow falls, this morning;
daybreak.
Even these early rays of light
seem deadly, piercing to us.

Night falls, this evening;
darkness.
Even the laughter of our children
sounds wicked, awful.

Battles, small and large,
through marshes and marches,
send the spirits of the slain
through shadows, to the sea.

Riding on the steppes
watching the dark towers,
we know they go through flames, too.

So now we rise up,
liberated by the elements,
towards whatever trials await,
our journey only just begun.

Behind the sun,
behind the stars,
below the surface of the moon; our souls --

Distanced, time ticks on
for the souls of the dead;
we

I love you.I am not myself these days;
I find myself, more and more,
in the fog of window panes and the
cold, misty morning air.

I am not myself these days;
I lose myself, more and more,
in the way light catches off
certain clouds of sunset: prisms.

What is different?
I love walks in the park,
clichéd as that may be,
and I enjoy the taste of the rain.

What else is different?
I am not willing, try as I might,
to accept or acknowledge that
the sins of my ancestors reflect in me.

Of course, this is all since I met you.

I wish, sometimes,
to feel less like a piano,
and more like a harpsichord that
only you know how t

On MovingThe wind blows;
I am a leaf caught
in a new gust.

Rivers DaughterLady,
In the water,
The rivers Daughter,
Won’t you let me
Come?

Come and sing now,
With you lady,
In the water,
Rivers Daughter,
Let me come?

Now good knight,
All in armor,
Quit your pestering,
And go marry
the farmers daughter.

But my lady,
Dressed in silver,
Just as I am,
Let me sing with you
A while?

Bold Knight,
All in armor,
Marry the farmer,
Live in the sunlight
Always smiling.

Not TodaySkin-and-
bone shadow of
the saviour moon—

"What do we say,"

wolf girl, ghost of
tomorrows never been,
never would,

"to the god of death?"

Beauty is so aimless.

It has no purpose, see?

So I don't see why it should matter

If you're prettier than me.

Mea CulpaI.
I thought you were the rain, but no,
I was the rain. I meant to drown you. I
wanted you to be inescapably drenched-
your trachea clogged, your mouth an 'O'
of desperate gasping, your lips parted
and blue. If I wasn't enough to die for,
I wouldn't ever be enough.

II.
Your disappearances were noted with
darkened clouds- thick and heavy, tight
with waiting. You always returned with a
thunderclap, moving me to a downpour of
deprived longing. I was a flood and you
were a desert begging to be a sea. But
flood-waters river into oceans, and
deserts are meant to be dry.

III.
It was selfish of me to treat you
like a boat- I l

December 2ndI would write your poems
in the back of my mind
quiet and dying and
sipping wine.

(this drip-drip-drip-ed like
water from a showroom faucet)

"Darling, oh
send me a note of a piece of the sun,
of the scattered light the
bluebirds had sung,"

what we need mostby dolan grey

i.
blue skies overhead, and
the seagulls come in
from the bay, looking for some
better nourishment
than can be found
at sea.

ii.
i came in from the field,
seeking shelter and
solace
from the burning sun.

you greeted me in the doorway,
brown eyes and brown hair.

iii.
we're the same,
those gulls and i,
thermals lifting us up,
hot wind,
our concentric lives
bringing us back to

what we need most.

Whispers of another lifeby dolan grey

Your dress is a ball gown,
an upside-down rose petal;
those inverted flowers
make half of my garden:
I'll make you a bouquet
of dark red, and lavender;
a dress for warm evenings,
our hot nights.

Eyes like watered wine,
refined, and intoxicating;
decanted, measured,
inviting and poisonous:
You've corrupted me, dear,
but slowly, carefully;
hazel depths, inviting,
deep amber alcohol.

A thousand grains of sand,
gritty and gravelly, imperfect;
nothing feels farther from
your skin touching mine:
Velvet and silk and corduroy,
these things of delicacy;
every inch of you, satin smooth,
elegant suede and swan feathers.

La

to sophiaa cento by dolan grey

when by thy scorn, O murd'ress, I am dead,
till blues & sorrow song,
no fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,
an anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young--

of birth and death, the two sad knaves of thieves,
runoff, pitch-black, from the rivers of Psalms,
a gleaming glassy ocean,
as silent as pictures on the wall.

but when the crowing syrens blare,
it's as if the rain
and the sky came down,
its guardian grasp on blood and brain.

the ghastly clouds of yonder skies
compare thus to your love;
torrents of your miseries,
rained on me from above.

a quiet akin to ruins--
the ghosts swarm.
the

Tanganyika1.
Your naïve welcome
and medical maroon;
temperature tolerance.

2.
Speckled religion,
rituals of life and death;
viscous blood taboo.

3.
A band of crimson,
ancient June in the desert;
the opulent ivory.

4.
Patient and scarlet,
sacredly perpetual,
masks a ladybug.

5.
Flitting acceptance,
powerful saffron and myrrh,
a tribal countenance.

Rest, Nowby Dolan Grey

I.
The mist of the mountains
Like the breath of a giant
Soft, as if sleeping
Cool this time of year
Settles in around me
Damp and grey
The air is murky
I begin to feel alone.

II.
Darkness comes quickly
The sun is saying goodnight
Over the tops of the peaks
And leaving in a hurry
He is my friend, the sun
Stretching his arms out to warm me
But betraying me at last
Leaving me to the murky gloom.

III.
It is midnight when I hear it
Quiet, at first
Almost like a secret
Then louder, forgetting stillness
Beautiful, like a hundred harps
And wretched, like a dying thing
The sweet melody shatters my soul
And I know it is for me.

IV.
W

on wet roadsv. She wasn't meant to be helped. We are all wrung from the same breaded soil, bound by our virginal ties to bareback earth. And so maybe it's okay to be a beggar, then, cradling this age-old fatigue.

xcvi. "Here, try this."

Nothing had ever sensitized me more than the smell of green, carried heavily on gusts of crisp oceanic air. The world slowly began to fade around me, and I let my head drop to my knees while the gentle rush of sea teemed humble volumes of vibrant aural stimulation.

"I don't really care who it is, you know. All I want is someone real."
An hour passed in silence. "Lift up your head." It's too heavy for me to carry, plea

windstorms and labworkafflatus, inflatus, my morning globe,
as lithe as your impermanence.
and home! dread homes! are rabbit dugs,
spoonholed piles of mexican brick
where nothing ever touches down,
nothing here alive receives
the plains’ poor offering of gypsy light,
the ugly wind that meets the mudline.

[metaphors]
1. a mottled fence
2. and how these storms hold faceless teeth
that slat their eyes through butter-wood
then purge their guts on wintered florets
4. some freshly headless nativities,
their polyethylene skirts upturned
from violent sacks
5. and knowing i’m a souless
speck

i lick at what is manifest
beneath your

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Coyote Paper

by ~DangerMcDeathface, Jan 22, 2013, 4:20:25 AM
Literature / Poetry / Nature / Free Verse

I found a dead coyote,
It's skin all turned to paper,

So I took his skull and it fell
Apart in the sun

Coyote Paperby ~DangerMcDeathface

Literature / Poetry / Nature / Free Verse

©2013 ~DangerMcDeathface

just a poem

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~Michel-le-fou Jan 22, 2013

Criticism for #poeticalcondition:
The irony and satire of this poem is interesting but the general length is too short. Overall, it needs some descriptive development.

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~junete Jan 22, 2013

I like this, very much.

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Mood: Wow!

=TheInkheart Jan 22, 2013 Hobbyist Traditional Artist

I like it!

Nice job!

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~BlueyedRED Jan 22, 2013 Student Writer

That makes no sense what so ever. I'm sorry but that was bad.

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~Popskiis Jan 22, 2013 Hobbyist

Who said poetry had to make sense?

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~DangerMcDeathface Jan 22, 2013

A cat razor fish

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