mother asleep in the woods

mother glows as well as any

creature of the night can glow.

slivers of her are seen in

pools of shy moonlight and

untouched there is something

there that is so much like

comfort I catch myself reaching

for her.

 

mother’s fingertips are molded

from cigarette ash instead of crazy glue.

she is calling me to the kitchen and

drinking from a carton of milk.

 

mother draws distress signals

in the flour on the counter and

reminds me again how lucky I am.

I pull a pack of cards from

the corner junk drawer and

build a house while she weeps

like a picture star.

 

I am constantly seeing her face

through a coating of pale and

blush the color of winter’s trees,

and in my dreams I find her

asleep in the underbrush with

nothing but the muted hues

of herself, and I cry and

fall asleep too.

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a poet to her son

the holy thrumming of the fan

in our bedroom is chanting your

lullaby in protective undertones.

 

I am cozy, staring into the poised

bassinet that will hold you just less

than cocooned to me in ten short weeks.

I practice knowing the smell of you,

I stay up later than I’m barely able just

to shake hands with the exhaustion

we’ll happily lend a room to.

 

and you – you are practicing self defense

beneath my flesh; to you, the only world there is.

I could make tiny wishes that you’d some day

tell me what my heartbeat sounds like from the inside:

glass-smooth jazz, a jagged pop beat?

 

I like to imagine my writer’s heart

beats like the honey of a romance novel,

appreciating with intensity every soft thump of life.

 

I question that you’ll read my work

(hold it high as Hamlet held Yorick’s skull)

hold it up to the light and memorize every vein,

test it for disease – or else wave it away as novelty.

at least do me this favor, son: read every word.

chance it. swallow it down and throw it up if you must.

this is your story, the most important I’ll ever write.

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the grower

it was spring and

my mind had withered to

hydrangea petals

all blue

twig fingers

scaling corners

of all the things

they could not touch.

 

i tried to say all

of where i’d been but

the earth pulled

at my elbows

and knees like

silk kite strings i

struggled to unravel

from around glass ankles.

 

taking flight was

a greenhouse pipe dream

i’d hidden in the

brightest pot

before i

placed petals where

my eyes used to be

and one behind my ear.

 

let them come, i thought

the grieving

chrysanthemums

might make

them think

of me

struggling to grow myself

somewhere out there.

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WHAT AUTISM MEANS TO ME

Nicole Marie:

Who wants to be just like everyone else?

Originally posted on hastywords:

This piece speaks for itself.  Thank you Logan for being beautifully brave !

BeFunky_photo-1413873368506-ec5bf85d4320.jpg


What Autism Means to Me
Logan Beck

It is awesome to be different. It’s genetics. Our DNA makes us all unique, that is what God wanted. Acceptance is a big word but it’s really easy to do. Why would God place us all on the earth to be the same, I don’t want to be like everyone else. Why do some accept people in books and movies like Harry Potter, people who aren’t real but I’m real and some don’t accept me? I do awesome things.

I’m a great friend. I’m a gamer, love all things science, and creating new theories. I’m proud to be a quirky nerd.

We all have special powers. Others aren’t any better than mine, unless they can fly or shoot lasers from their eyes, that’d be cool. My mom and dad’s special…

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buying time

balancing

on

golden

tightrope

sinews

only looks

intriguing

from a

fireproof

balcony

 

come down

and see

she is

stealing

breath

between all

of the

gunfire

 

she is aging

without

aging

they are

taking some-

thing

you cannot

see

behind her

ocean

eyes

 

she

gave up

her two

front

teeth are

in her

coin purse

buying

time

 

and

anyway

there is

a way

to

master

screaming

with your

mouth

sewn

shut

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READ IT HERE FIRST: Two Seriously Amazing Poetry Collections.

Nicole Marie:

Poetry lover? Then you won’t want to miss the work from these two writers.

Originally posted on TIPSY LIT:

As Compilations Editor for Tipsy Lit, I have had the pleasure of sifting through the work of some extremely talented writers, and after a lot of consideration last month I found myself being pulled back to two authors in particular: Wayne Burke and Jada Yee.

Their poems are the kind that when spoken aloud leave a taste on your tongue that is hard to describe; you can only say that you want more. We are honored to have been given the chance to showcase these two collections via Wattpad, and invite you to head on over and read some brilliant work.

In Dreams We Hunt the Lion by Wayne Burke

Photo Cred: https://www.flickr.com/photos/78214643@N07/6976145304/in/photolist-bCsyXj-dUowq8-nv2BRK-7mCYFc-wXbZG-or1hDT-9F4fXa-4YqVjV-8zk6sU-bwJeqA-o2DSrv-8bCh6X-b5unYt-boZbuX-bvQvjr-3jzosc-7JjAc8-9CgmfU-7iafhY-efDvNo-fXLoMs-pY615y-hapqXS-bA3Ksy-a5etAY-dofs7i-diti3a-mbudFE-jySRoi-5qhDBC-eKAfiV-7oGzzc-5reS4B-b5tDWa-4LAYpV-phTUKN-7v1TbU-2g7qnC-nYQTL5-pwnB8P-6HAA3T-87KZ2Y-oeEwKb-8vQAMP-82PjFw-ocEyfs-aovzeQ-6mWJxx-8WE3TE-ecpNRD Photo Cred: https://www.flickr.com/photos/78214643@N07/

READ IT HERE: http://www.wattpad.com/story/33811120-in-dreams-we-hunt-the-lion

In a collection that Burke describes as “minimalist” and “accessible”, In Dreams We Hunt the Lion guides readers through the nooks and crannies of everyday life in a way that is smooth and…

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At Midnight

ciggarete_2

Daddy built a fort in the living

room out of cigarette ash and

empty beer bottles while I

kept busy sweeping up the soot.

 

I tasted it once, licked an

index finger and dragged it

across my salmon tongue

in the shape of a crucifix –

it was thick and earthy,

it hid between my teeth and

told me stories while I slept.

 

Mommy poured another glass

of iced tea on our front step and

exchanged gossip like rubies

with our next door neighbor.

 

I hopscotched over purple

crooked numbers on our

pavement, stared up at the

clouds that watched me overhead –

at six the streetlights would kick

on and I’d hide between their yellow

while I waited to be whistled inside.

 

At midnight I was in bed carving

holes in my mattress by moonlight:

one for the ash,

one for a bottle,

one for the rubies.

 

I smoothed down

the pink sheets and dreamed.

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#1000Speak: Party Girls Don’t Get Hurt

Nicole Marie:

Amazing. My friend Samara has done it again – she is constantly spilling her heart onto the page for us. Please, give this a read.

Originally posted on A Buick in the Land of Lexus:

Beer_Drinking_Woman-500x335 4

I’m the party girl, the smarty girl, that arty girl

That rock and roll child, toured with Nirvana

Born to be wild, dressed up in style

Party with rock stars, cool kids, out laws, in the raw

I’m the cool girl, the hot girl, the “it” girl, human tilt-a-whirl

The popular girl, wild child, live on the edge, crouched on a ledge

The sexy girl, men want to screw

Super talented chick, don’t you wish it were you?

One two three drink

one two three drink

one two three drink

throw ‘em back till I lose count

Envy me, copy me, fall for me; worship me

Beg for me, plead for me

If they want me they bleed for me

I’m the girl who takes all the chances, who dies everyday,

is reborn every moment, I’ll lead you astray

Pour me a drink and I’ll tell you my…

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What summer was like

The backseat of my

grandfather’s Lincoln

smelled of warm leather

always saltwater

even folded into his

sloping

Mayfair driveway.

 

Two weeks of

washing with generic

soap bars

and his skin still

made me think of

hard work, cedar,

sandpaper.

 

The name inked

on his shoulder

his own

drooped and faded

quietly like the

sea memories

of a sailor.

 

They packed away

the soap and

I rolled up the

windows in the

Lincoln so I wouldn’t

forget

what summer was like.

 

I curve my hands

now

around the steering

wheel,

around his shoulders,

I press my forehead

to his happiness.

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Decoding

 

I remember my grandmother’s house

as a pile of amber ashes I’ve been sifting

through since birth. I’d cup some in my hands

like cool water, lace up my insides then knife all

the seams in one breath, watch them drift to

the rug like black snow and begin to cool.

 

I’d wade under the rusted aluminum overhang

with my father, peek through faded pink

lace curtains on the windows. She’d offer me a Sprite,

I’d sit on a foot stool in the basement and stare at

old photos while she enlisted him to help her

navigate the present, run an errand or two.

 

He always looked ready to run, my father,

seated on the corner of a chair with his hands

folded in his lap. Every visit I’d sweep some ashes

into my pocket, take them home and

press them in my diary until I had enough

to decode the tension in my shoulders, the stones in my chest.

 

I studied the message for days, ran

my fingers over its veins. I took

our sharpest kitchen knife to the pages

and threw a party with the white-lined

confetti, then I cupped some in my hands

like cool water, swallowed every piece and cried.

 

 

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