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An Animal PlanetA shrewdness of apes
An unkindness of ravens
A kaleidoscope of butterflies
A parliament of owls
A pandemonium of parrots
A congregation of alligators
A conspiracy of lemurs
A cackle of hyenas
A prickle of porcupines
I wonder what a family of me might be
In a monestary
In the mountains
The idea struck him like a pebble
Might bounce off a bedroom window
If that ever actually happened.
It became a smooth stone
That skipped across his ribs,
Rippled his reflection,
Cloudied the calm waters in his head.
The stone grew into a geode,
Cracked open to reveal a crystal
Colored like pomegranate,
More porous than pumice.
Blasphemy, blowing bubbles in the blood of Christ
His breath produced a profane foam
From which he feared
Some pagan sex goddess might be born.
Badly shaken, the young monk
Put it back in the bottle
Stuck a cork in and forgot it.
Except in times of celebration
Or in silent meditation,
From time to time,
He could feel a fizz rise up.
Scratch and DentThis body’s no temple.
It is not my home,
But I still have to live there,
So I will drive it like the rental it is.
I will try not to total it,
But I do not want my deposit back.
No stranger to the scratch and dent section,
Some days my skin starts to feel
Like the plastic on old people’s furniture,
And I start to feel
Like the world’s finest dust collection.
Somebody call Guinness.
I’ve never taken ski lessons,
But I’ve been told
If you never fall down,
Then you’re not trying hard enough.
I don’t know how to play guitar,
But I know this:
If your fingers aren’t bleeding,
‘cause tattoos are so boring.
Good stories so rarely written in ink.
I’m not saying scars are sexy.
Scars are stories,
And like all stories,
Some are better than others.
It is not the scar itself.
It is not the story.
It is the portrait of the artist,
The sound and the fury.
It is so much better than scrapbooking.
Memoirs of mosh pits, food fight
Earthquake CafeIt’s hard to believe
It’s been six years since the Earthquake Café.
Since the Science Center froze our shadows on the wall.
I wonder if they’re still there.
Six years since we made people double-take,
Look crooked at us and issue back-hand compliments,
And I’d say, thanks? I think.
Since we were that pair of people.
Six years and still not comfortable
Calling it a couple, “it’s complicated”
That status on Facebook was made for us then.
Seventy-two moons since the solstice
Where you were the first
And the last
Person to ever make me blush.
You’ll have to forgive the nostalgia.
This is how I get closure,
And writing is so much cheaper than therapy.
A lost generation unto our selves,
Not quite Jay and Daisy
Maybe more F. Scott and Zelda
Maybe more than a little crazy,
And now you have this baby cutting teeth.
You have this something stable,
This foundation not built on fault lines.
This life not given to blackouts and tremors.
This Machine Kills FascistsHave you ever seen the movie
About the signing of the peace treaty?
So thank you, Mr. Reyes
For reminding us why in war
Drums and fifes always came before
Guns and knives
Because hearts and minds mattered in the days
Before drone strikes.
Because even weapons would rather not kill people.
Even guns would rather be guitars.
So gracias, Senor Reyes, for liberating the oppressors.
My friend is a French and Indian war re-enactor.
A few times a summer,
He and his friends dress up in period clothing,
Ride around on horses
And shoot muskets at each other.
Let’s be peace re-enactors,
And let’s make it authentic.
Let’s make music and remember
There will always be at least this one thing
We do better than machines.
Remember why every bomb whistles on its way to the ground.
Let’s remember that a song is a start,
That a call to arms is cool,
But a farewell to them is the real revolution.
Remember that all poems are petitions.
This one will not end the politicians
This Is Just A DrillWhen I called you a trick,
I meant you were magic.
Scarves up your sleeves
Pigeons in your pants,
I saw you in half.
I saw you.
Now I don’t.
We are some escape artists.
Handcuffs our canvas.
We keep applause in a can.
Keep our audience captive,
It’s obvious that
Some movies you see for the writing,
Some for the acting,
Some for the air conditioning.
I am that last class.
That forgettable feel good hit of the summer,
That Ebert and Roeper say the end was the best part.
I am that book that you don’t buy for its binding
The one that isn’t smart furniture.
I am no conversation piece.
I want you to crease my spine
To underline your favorite parts.
Our love would be like tourism in Pittsburgh.
Apparently it exists,
But I’ve never seen it.
Let me be your dress rehearsal,
Your penny dreadful,
That vacation where it rained the whole time
And you stayed inside.
DogstarI’m not one for writing hate-mail,
But I’m going to go postal
If one more person asks me
What I’m doing with my life.
I have aces and eights emblazed on my chest.
I have never worn a vest,
But if I did,
That’s where I would keep my cards.
Go ahead and tell me again
How smart I am,
How I can do anything.
That’s precisely the problem.
The reason I’ve spent two semesters at community college,
And changed my major four fucking times.
Ask me again,
Don’t you like math?
I’ll tell you again,
Yeah, I do, sometimes.
Know what else I like sometimes?
English, science, art, music, silence, business, pleasure, pain, the rain, the sun, the moon, the earth, helping people, hurting people, Buddhism, BDSM, feminism, comic books, poetry, punk rock, rock climbing, roller coasters, rocket science, astronomy, amateur phlebotomy, philosophy, psychology, psychopathy, serenity, cigarettes, chaos theory, coffee, canis vulpis, and carnivorous plants.
To the Poet Who's Always Angry:Please stop yelling.
Seriously, settle down.
I’m not saying you’re anger is unjustified.
I’m just saying that being justified
Does not make it healthy.
I’m worried about you, dude.
This is an intervention.
I know there’s a lot of social injustice.
I’ve heard it said if you’re not pissed off,
You’re not paying attention.
The Dalai Lama begs to differ,
And I’m inclined to agree with that guy.
He seems to know his shit.
I know that outrage is an aesthetic.
I know that red looks good on you.
I know your work sounds better louder,
But just hear me out.
Angry people die so much sooner.
Your blood pressure must be ridiculous.
What does your doctor say about that shit?
Also, I’d like to remind you
Angry people make more messes than they fix.
Angry people hurt people,
And hurt people hurt people.
And I heard something somewhere
About an eye for an eye.
I don’t quite remember how it goes,
But I don’t think it ends well.
Last LongerWe are all naked under our clothes,
And just below that
We are mostly meat and mucous.
A little ocean of iron and oxygen,
We are rusting.
We are bleach of bone and birds nests of raw nerve.
Nothing sexy about that.
So take lots of pictures,
Not too many x-rays.
There’s a story that says
The Buddha was tempted to walk away from the path
By these three pretty girls but
The Buddha remembered that
Soon they would be old
And not too long after that,
They would be fertilizer.
I don’t know if I share his restraint.
Yes, I know this will pass,
I just don’t know if I want it to.
I might want to feel this frustrated forever.
Make me immortal.
Embalm me in silver nitrate.
Fill my arms with ichor so when I bleed,
I bleed in sepia.
Just one thing.
I never liked pictures.
I roll my eyes when I pose for photos,
And I’m really bad at forcing smiles.
I have to force them less these days
With that Midwest way you turn your ohs into ahs.
And that face that you make when you’
Hope Burns Blue"Reach for the stars," they told me,
So I did.
Days and weeks
Passed without event.
I nearly lost hope,
Spica noticed my outstretched arms
And shifted my way.
The Broad RoadThe road is broad, my friend,
and there are many who tread upon it,
deceived by their own lusts,
that their own ways will bring them pleasure,
that their ways are better than God’s.
Many enter in the broad way,
professing that “Jesus is Lord,”
and yet their fruit is rotten to the core,
and the evidence is lacking
that they even know who Jesus is.
Beware that wide gate!
Beware the feel-good gospel
that says God loves you,
but says nothing about your wickedness,
that says nothing of denying yourself,
that says nothing about forsaking your sin
and following Jesus unto death.
The gospel of the devil says nothing about changing your life
and pursuing the righteousness of God,
but it has plenty to say about only living for
this present world,
about how God’s ultimate will for you is to
live a happy life on this planet,
and to be wealthy,
and to be conformed to this world.
To satisfy the desires of your flesh,
and perhaps go to church on Christmas and Easter
to fool yo
False ConceptTime is an illusion
And we make a delusion
As if we know the conclusion
Better than the real resolution
How small we are in this c n u i n
o f s o
Of what lengths of time envision
Much greater than our own observation
Our knowledge is a masked intrusion
Obscure in our own consumption
Time has its sessions
And we are just a provision
In an never ending mission
Art Can Be-Skipping and jumping and hopping
And swimming and dancing and
Art can be
You with friends
And a box of sparklers on a
Warm summer night.
Art can be
The snow that melts
In your hair and the warmth
Of the fire inside during winter.
Art can be
You racing outside with no one
But yourself and whatever you love
Whether you can touch it or not.
Art can be
Words on a page or a scrap of paper
Or a napkin at that one diner that got
Art can be
Little scribbles on the back of a
Test, where you're in school and the
Person next to you is exactly at that
Art can be
You with ten other people
Just dancing around like idiots
Or by yourself practicing that one part
In a complicated routine.
Art can be
Random streaks of color,
Whether it's made by light and clouds
And rain, or by paints or pencils or digital
Art can be
A choir of young children
Or a few friends, no matter the age,
Just hanging out singing old songs in the
Art can be
DesperateYou said, to keep my eyes on You,
that the shifting- the raging seas are not to be feared.
You said that with the faith the size of a mustard seed-
that I can say to the mountains, ‘Be moved,’ and they will be uprooted.
I just need the strength, the courage, the faith to believe.
I gasp, I struggle, I am desperate.
Desperate for the pain to cease.
Desperate for the screaming to end.
Desperate for one touch of healing.
One touch to feel that You are with me.
I fight against chaos and deception,
against an uprooted faith, lingering.
With fists clasped, with a spirit roaring, raving.
I scream into the emptiness, the darkness,
void of belief- laced within this despair.
There is a certain hopelessness that comes
when you lay helplessly in a state of desperation.
It leads you to a revelation that paints new light
to an otherwise deadly situation.
I wish I could say I didn’t reach that point,
that family surrounding me was enough
to encourage a fight ins
SpacetimeFor all the philosophy and questions;
No love, always lost. Loved at last.
One day I will die.
But before that I will live and love.
So therefore, do I enjoy my life as it is now?
Or do I focus on what could lie beyond death?
Or do I do both, or neither?
Remembering the one fact of life: its inevitable end?
Is like a butterfly:
And difficult to capture,
For the short moment
When you cup it in your hands.
Les querelles et les religionsLa religion des querelles.
Querelles de religions ou quand Dieu se mord la queue.
Une religion reproduit dans les fosses
De l’iniquité et de l’intolérable
Un christianisme de l’inquisition.
Ceux-là aussi se disaient des saint-hommes,
Œuvrant pour et au nom de Dieu,
Qui torturaient et brûlaient l’innocent.
Quand une religion se bâtit sur
Une perversion des valeurs morales,
Il n’y a plus dans sa foi de lueur
D’une quelconque spiritualité.
Il est heureux que les prophètes morts
Ne voient pas cette abomination
Que leurs révélations ont suscitée.
Dieu se querelle avec lui-même…
Via ses propres révélations!
Ternie, l’image de Dieu n’est plus
Que cette caricature de lui-même
En bête sans queue ni tête
Déferlant en barbarie sur le monde.
Tout chacun interprète la Parole
Et le débile qui crie le plus fort
De sa Kalachnikov a toujours ra
Pray to the RainWe're exchanging goodbyes,
But we're still standing together.
And there's so much to say,
We still talk about the weather.
But the sky is really fascinating,
This silence incapacitating.
The windows down,
Wind drowns out our wishes.
I'd pray to a star,
But tonight they're non-existent
I'd pray to the moon,
But it's so damn inconsistent.
So I'll pray to the rain,
I trust things that fall.
I pray to the rain,
To break this brick wall.
I try to take away your pain,
But I'm no narcotic.
And I might be insane,
But I'm no damn psychotic.
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Endorell-Taelos is very well known within the community for her selfless giving and gracious community spirit. Since joining DeviantART over seven years ago, Alicia has continued to make a positive impact on many deviants. Her helpful and thoughtful approach was one of her finest attributes when serving as a Community Volunteer, and this has continued throughout the many contests which Alicia provides on a regular basis. As we approach our Birthday celebrations, we can't... Read More