*leyghan

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The Grove

by *leyghan, Jan 3, 2013, 5:22:11 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

Where fat-limbed trees
display their wares
like silent vendors at a fair
there we roamed

we climbed and clambered
cradling bark
with shins and toes
teeth skinned
as we littered
the ground with green
and gold

we kept a sharp lookout-
small brown birds
ready to take flight
should a taller threat appear

but luck prevailed
and we swaggered
pockets bulging
arms laden
mouths sweet
with the taste
of success

Just a bit of poetry

Newest Deviations

Bethlehem Born by *leyghan

11 Comments

Finder's Keepers: You Can't Go Home Again Jack was dreaming. He was thirteen years old again. A tall, awkward looking boy with a disarming smile, a keen interest in girls and a two pack a day habit. He was standing on the lawn of the house he’d once called home, feet rooted with a reluctance he only subconsciously understood.
Dani had called while he was away for the summer with friends. She’d sounded the same---talking a mile a minute and eager to hear all about his trip. He could tell that she missed him and he had to admit he missed her too. But something was wrong. He could feel it. It niggled at him like an itch between the shoulders, maddeningly out of reach.
The house looked as it always did, rustic and homey---the wooden slats painted white, with potted plants and bright hanging flowers adorning a lattice-skirted porch. A light summer breeze ruffled his hair and made the wind chime above the hammock, clink a discordant tune.
Don’t go inside.
Dread heaved JackFinder's Keepers: You Can't Go Home Again by *leyghan

22 Comments

Garden VarietyA hex can be a slick and deadly weapon in the hands of an experienced witch. Like the carefully wielded surgeon’s blade it finds its mark and exacts a terrible vengeance on the cursed individual; such horrors that are mentioned only in frightened whispers or gloating asides – depending on the degree of likeability of the unfortunate soul of course.
Not all curses are hexes but all hexes are curses and are not reversible. They must be either broken or redirected by the witch who cast the spell in the first place. These are the type of curses that elicit words like, 'please God let me die!'
Novices should not attempt hexes. I repeat novices should not attempt hexes. It is powerful magic made dark by the intent of the witch and as such comes with a hefty price. There’s a reason why most witches look the way they do. Dark magic takes a terrible toll on the body and one must be willing to do unspeakable things in order to allay its effects and if not performed properly, thGarden Variety by *leyghan

22 Comments

CeruleanDay 47- Blue light
and half forgotten memories
the quiet present of light and shadows-
breaking through
-aftermath
Tidegifts salt
misty mountains
west of the sun
silent answers to hidden questions
the music is in the water
-wade
-locate the endCerulean by *leyghan

15 Comments

MatchmakersSasha snapped shut her cellphone and turned to her fiance with a look of bemusement on her face. "That was Jen not taking no for an answer. She says she's already made arrangements at Triangles for next Friday night." Plopping down on the couch she added. "She's doing it on purpose you know."
Daniel looked up from the papers he was grading. "What?"
"This latest gesture of hers - the I'm perfectly okay with you two getting engaged, and to prove how much it doesn't bother me let me throw you guys a party."
"Ah, the old kill 'em with kindness routine." He paused to really consider what she was saying. "Is it working?"
"Do I feel guilty you mean?"
"Yes."
"No. I don't feel guilty." A grin slanted over her face. "Besides, feeling guilty never stopped me from doing what I want before. Especially not when it comes to you."
"Of course not darling. Let her torture herself if she must. She's happiest when she's unhappy it seems."
"Maybe we should set her up with Caleb? He should make her sufficieMatchmakers by *leyghan

2 Comments

The heart of a womanThe heart of a woman

i
It had been eight days since the death of King Stouthart. His widow, a prisoner in the palace she once called home, had shed not a single tear. She sat in silence, ate and drank when fed, and slept when it was night. She waited; biding her time. Zorima knew why she had been spared.

She longed for news but the one who guarded her room was not one of her people. All of the old guard, those loyal to King Stouthart had been slain. So too the council and most of the palace servants. A bloody coup that had lasted three days. Three days of screams and tears and confusion. The king's usurper, the man who now wore the crown, hThe heart of a woman by *leyghan

14 Comments

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Great Prose and Poetry

RapeThere is something hideously clever
about watching television outside.
It is possibly the ultimate defiance.

Over there, rebels have flipped off officials,
they have fornicated with machines
and they have worn shirts like flags.

But here, revolutionaries have
ripped the binding dress off of mother earth
they have stuck their thirsty tongues
in the magnetic air of steel and wind
and they have swallowed the sovereign
waters of Calypso.

Gaia could not weep,
because her throat was plugged
by the sharp middle finger
of electric sockets and wires.Rape by ~TheStoyTeller

17 Comments

written on sugar cane paperI left when the cows came home
escaped on a dusty bus headed for
the sun with passengers
comfortable in slumber by the
large windows scratched by
time and wild children
stuck in an ever-moving inside
I had this dream folded in my suitcase
light for traveling
and this man
with all the roads of the world carved into his face
laughed at the little all that I carried, he laughed
deepening the paths he footed
with a suitcase dragging
in his once young, white-knuckled hands
now sat in his lap trembling from heavy incredulity
my naivety, to him, amusing but lighting
his once dull, resigned eyeswritten on sugar cane paper by *0hgravity

18 Comments

SummerEllie,

Summer is coming, you feel it in six year old bones sheltered beneath skin paled by flourescent lights and dusty shelves. She will call to you and attempt to lure you in with the promise of dry, dusty heat cooled by southern breezes; but you, so unlike your boisterous siblings, will dig in your heels and bury yourself deeper within tales with boundaries set in ink.

You will watch the seasons play out on your mothers face, placed there by the iron fists of your step father. Pink will turn to red, red to purple, purple to black, black to yellow and blue will hide beneath the surface; a kaleidoscope of colour that will turn your stomachSummer by ~Lacewinged-Beauty

25 Comments

Lucky by *glossolalias

27 Comments

Grape Hyacinths by *beeinthebottle

67 Comments

The Book of Longing and ForgivenessI.

I welcome
the grief of elephants
and the shards of slowness
in time.

The last breathing tombs
in this earth are eternal
constructs

they
manifest the degree
of my sorrow and forgetfulness.

I embrace the natural laws
of regret.

but of love,

I'm sorry.

I avoid the sound of leaving.

II.

The oceans heave.

The sky, breath heavy
for a single drop--

two bodies of water
colliding.

The earth thirsts.

You don't know,
the half-life of all
my longing leads to you.

I wait for the sound
of forgiveness everyday

a knock on the door, a phone call,
your voice shifting the air
under this vast sky

my heart wanders to this
perfect shade of blueThe Book of Longing and Forgiveness by ~MariaTala

27 Comments

Featuring the works of the talented members of the dA lit community.

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Poetry corner

QUESTION

Body my house
my horse my hound
what will I do
when you are fallen

Where will I sleep
How will I ride
What will I hunt

Where can I go
without my mount
all eager and quick
How will I know
in thicket ahead
is danger or treasure
When Body my good
bright dog is dead

How will it be
to lie in the sky
without roof or door
and wind for an eye

with cloud for a shift
how will I hide?

—May Swenson

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Wed Apr 24, 2013, 1:29 PM

Ring the bells that still can ring. Forget your perfect offering. There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in - Leonard Cohen.

~*~

001 -- IntroductionThere are times I wish I could start at the end. Endings are what people cling to; what we remember when the book has been shut. It's the ending we talk about with our friends and stay up until the early hours of morning pondering about. Perhaps that's why endings are so beautiful—it is only then that we know the truth of all which came prior.

If only our beginnings could be as simple. What are we when we start but a blank sheet, ready for anything to be written. Some of us will be etched with beautiful design, calligraphic texts of love letters sent and responded to; others hastily scribbled upon and then crinkled up and tossed into t

The Beginning Never StopsDawn
and ancestors.
This is just the beginning.

I am a child,
but it's only a matter of time
before awareness pays.

See life in the rocks,
roses in the sunshine,
and the boy who lit the stars.

the music she hearsout past town
the girl
dancing in the dark
is hanging by a moment,
a mirror of the past and future.

a trick of the light
and a little closer,
within her grasp
is shining
our good morning.

you need to have a plan...so here's to
conventional wisdom.
1. relocate
to some forgotten shore.
2. fall desperately in love with
i. the ocean
ii. the sky
iii. the honey sunrise and
iv. the steelgray winter dawn.
3. sink
soul-deep into the water and
breathe.
4a. search out the requisite words
i. from behind white and blue curtains
ii. and underneath clam shells
iii. and in the wakes of fishing boats, and
4b. pluck them from the ceaseless
scrawls of sunlight
against the slopes of waves.
5. make time for
i. poetry
ii. and other
selfish
pursuits.

To Him, With Loveintimacy is airing out
those facts you have held
against yourself,

allowing someone else
to draw his own conclusions about
your vain pursuits of existence.

Sixteen Sketches of Local Personhood one.

By Method of Loci, Nick remembers the different faces
of every man he's ever slept with, placing them like mannequins
through his childhood home. In the cluttered foyer is the boy who asked him
for his virginity, but in the attic, his husband of one year by law but many more
by virtue of dedication and love reclines against the diamond-shaped window,
backlit by dusty light while smiling with his arms wide open, his legs stuck straight like
The Cross that hangs beside him, a wooden thing abuela brought back from Mexico.

two.

Tamarah cleans the gutters with her hands because the hose
won't work like it used to and the sun beats down

Poem for a MotherWhen I was four
I'd follow you into the bathroom
on sticky feet,

press my little bird hands
into the back pockets of your jeans
while you were washing dishes
at the sink,

babbling on: Mommy, Mommy,
I love you.

Then there was the youth
who played Simon Says
to your aerobic routine.

I took jumps to your steps,
laughing as I tripped,
I wanted to go
where you went

I practiced to be
who you were.

The world split sideways
and I stumbled out
a teen traumatized
by the gory birth.

I'd've sworn you did it to me:
the red plague of my face,
the heartache,
the inexplicable serrating rage,

I beat at you as an extension
of self.

Green FingersUnexpectedly,
Glorious chrysanthemums.
I'd planted carrots...

fun with gender roles: the deadly knighti was four and a soft little empath
without a sex or even form;
not quite what was called for.
someone would come and fix me.

i must have gone well with dark stained
70’s mahogany, ubiquitous lime carpet
and temperamental backgammon sets
that were never to be handled,
much less, spilled with candle wax.

if not love, then give me tools to live.

though our deadly knight was always gone,
some perfunctory war on technology
calling him to live in his office,
in another life,
in another woman,
in another home,
i still believe he taught me something.

it was a noble savagery, i found
playing football at eleven.
i could pound another human

humiliation1

the nerve you must boil in,
kempt and coddled
and fed into your place.
you’re told it is your holy right
to be lead about from thigh to neck
and planned into some laughsome bride.

2

No one approaches my opposite pole.
I follow you to home,
to sleep,
into your twin dimension,

Peace*

Miss Wallace could have compressed the entire file into one four-second video: Elliot and Jack standing in the clearing, watching Peace's empty body fill with rain.

Instead, she created a new memory bank and named it "Mortality."

Her knowledge of the subject was limited to the definitions they'd fed her at Parent Programming: a condition of impermanence, potential for termination, the impossibility of repair. Descriptions of life, not the end of it. They told her she wasn't manufactured to understand death. What, then, was a twelve-year-old boy who had been emptied of his internal organs?

It was nothing

StayStay with me;
wait with me a while

until the world
is a saner place,

hold my hand,
tell me you love me

The night is all too near

We are all
moving into darkness

I need you
to stay beside me,
hold me close

until the worst of it
passes

If it passes

Stay with me

~*~

21 Comments

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I think over again my small adventures, my fears, of all the vital things I had to give and reach and yet, there is only one great thing, the only thing, to live. To see the great day at dawn and the light that fills the world.

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*0hgravity 2 days ago Hobbyist General Artist

thank you for the fav ^^

~Flummoxative 2 days ago Hobbyist Writer

Thanks very much for the

on Stay Dreaming.

=DrippingWords 3 days ago Student Writer

Thanks so much for the fave!

~intricately-ordinary 5 days ago Hobbyist Writer

Thank you for the fave!

`LadyLincoln 5 days ago Hobbyist Writer

Thank you for

ing my latest work, I always appreciate the support.

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*Concora 6 days ago Writer

Thank you for the favourite of Van Gogh. Have a lovely day.

=Sammur-amat 6 days ago General Artist

thank you so much for the fave(s), dear friend!

your support means so much!

*leyghan 6 days ago Hobbyist Writer

You're very welcome.

`thetaoofchaos May 16, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

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The Grove

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