Authors I Stalk

Sep 8, 201310 min read

Deviation Actions

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Published: Sep 8, 2013

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Well, my life is ridiculously busy. What's poetry? I don't have time for poetry!

So I decided to focus on the positive, since I do occasionally still have time to read others' poetry. I do keep up with the work of the major movers and shakers of the lit community, but here are some of random authors who, well, let me put it this way: I don't just delete their stuff from my inbox in my hurry. I actually read the new stuff they post.

In no particular order, the artist and one work I particularly like:

Extended MetaphorThere comes a point, where on of shedding tears,
The eyes run dry and sting with straining fears,
When all that you can do is bend and blink,
And drool a bit, and think to try to think.
And yet before you still and small she sits
And waits for you to try again – and it's
A terror to behold – her pallid face
A stranger to the human eye, the waste
Of opportunity – now standing strong
A pale faced lady – yet no sigh or yawn,
Will break upon her lips – though she had been
A cast away, and crumpled in a bin
Of trash before I found her, took her hand,
And smoothed her wrinkles out till she was grand
And awesome in her emptiness. I guess
That I supposed she would, at my behest,
Work such a wonder – bring forth such a thing –
For I had saved her – I would make her sing.
And thus it was – three weeks did I implore,
And curse and tear the planks out of the floor,
And finally weep – abandoned as I was,
Refused of food and water – and because

OrpheusDarkness encompassed me; high-vaulting fire
Leapt and burnt the vision from my gaze
But though I could not see, I strummed my lyre
Until the music swept away the haze
And I could stumble onwards through the mire.
Now I strum no more. What use are lays?
Save to remind me of my lost desire
That I betrayed--let silence fill my days!
For I, whose song once moved the gods to weep
No longer can make melodies from woe--
No dissonance expresses pain so deep
And no music can be as beautiful
As that which I have lost. Let others come
And fill the void with noise--I will not strum.

NightNascent and nested
Bound to be bested
by light,
risen, revested,
beckoned, behested,
despite.
Darkly detested
by luminescent
respite.
Cravenly crested,
Hail the quiescence
of night.

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One late fall nightOne late, fall night, as winter neared,
on my way home, a wind appeared,
its touch was like the grave, and bold,
so in all haste, I homeward veered.
My steps were dogged with leaves of gold,
as naked trees proclaimed the cold
with banshee wails of great despair,
until I cringed within my hold.
Their cries were more than I could bear,
and so I hid beneath my stairs,
among the cobwebs and the dust.
I prayed that they'd not find me there.
But I could hear my fate discussed:
they sought my soul to sate their lust.
And so, in fear, I fled the halls,
in hopes to lose them 'neath the crust.
But in the dark I took a fall,
and thumped against my cellar wall,
and with the sound a silence fell,
and suddenly I felt so small.
The noise had been my deathly knell.
I watched the walls around me swell,
and as the roots burst through the brick,
I wished I could have said farewell.

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Sonnet XLIXOp. 24, no. 7
The Pain of Pride
When love converted from the thing it was
From greatest of all things that yet remain
to base emotions from a fleshly cause
And feel-good affirmations for your gain,
No rest was left inside your troubled heart
Divested clean of faith and hope as well.
The holiness of which you were a part
Was stripped away the moment that you fell.
You said your own compassion was much greater,
The quest of knowledge nobler than what's wise.
But at what cost? You gave up your creator,
Who brings the deepest healing in our lives.
Once-smiling face, now visage of a ghost,
No love is that which loves not God the most.

At Home on a Winter EveningHome is where you belong on the inside.
I. Love
Love was written with soup
On blustery, January afternoons.
My polished toboggan resting in the garage
As I enjoyed rich, savory broth
While birds flew between the shadowy pines.
Some butter spread over
A slice of fresh-baked bread.
Contented I was
Long before I knew what it was called.
The fireplace waiting, cold and dark
For a crackling fire to dance inside.
We would remedy this...
With stove-lengths of silver maple
And auburn hearts of shagbark hickory
The snap of a match
A whiff of sulfur
Lighting the tinder
To ignite the bigger logs
Soon I was mesmerized
By hungry, young flames
Licking the cordwood
Quietly hissing and popping
II. Magic
In those boyhood evenings
Everything had magic.
I'd listen to the raspy hush of the fire
Calling from the hinterlands
Betwixt wakefulness and sleep
While winds moaned in the eaves.
My eyelids grew heavy
Listening to the whispering flames
Telling me the dark legends
Of long ago
When mighty trees

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GhostsGhosts
26-12-12
They scratch within my memories,
These ghosts that no one else can see,
They find emotions locked away,
They bring them out to see the day.
I write them down in poems for you,
The only thing that I can do,
When feelings have to have their say,
They bring them out to see the day.
I want them gone, back in their box,
A box locked with a thousand locks,
I want them gone, I sit and pray;
They bring them out to see the day.
When it’s dark and the moon is bright,
The dreaded stillness of the night
Brings out the ghosts, they come to play,
They bring them out to see the day.

NIRVANA GOTHIQUENirvana Gothique.
Je ne désire plus, et mon vouloir s'enfuit
Dans un rictus maussade aux couleurs de la Nuit ;
Je ne veux ni soleil, ni vent frais ni nature,
Dans le gris de la ville et le froid qui torture
J'ai trouvé mon Eden, un linceul d'acier bleu
Cerclé de fer trop dur et de béton hideux.
Des atroces relents et des vapeurs d'essence
Forment de blancs fantômes, idéal de l'essence
Déchue. Le monde n'est plus, claire allusion
Qu'un tas de vide infâme, une autre illusion.
Sur le pavé pourri que parcourt la vermine
J'aime à déambuler lorsque Chronos me mine,
Qu'il creuse des sillons dans le noir du cerveau
Et que la nuit m'appelle au fin fond d'un caveau.
D'un froid souffle pierreux elle fige l'envie,
Le son, le mouvement et l'odeur de la vie
Pour offrir au passant que la douleur marqua
Les charmes de l'abysse et de la Rousalka.
Je ne fais que t'attendre, ô pâle délivrance,
Dans ton oeil immobile ig

For a Purpose Unknown

Evening, morning, the first day
The rest of life shimmers before
A promise of the future hangs, distant
But what of now
What had gone before?
Before this evil, this creature
Controlling the very hands
That clasp in devotion
Instigating such degradation
Destruction of self
And for what purpose?
The pleasure of solace,
For a fleeting moment
And then the pain, plunging
To new depths not yet seen
But You have granted access to paradise
You drench me in your refreshing tide
Worn to a more perfect stone
In the river of your luxuriant spring
Full of You I sink
Into the depth, the everlasting pool
The ultimate serenity

Learn To LaughShoulders bowed, you believe
you are Atlas:
worlds spin themselves
over you, endless &
ever weighty.
You don't realise, even Atlas
sometimes shone--
his heart pulsed joy
through his immensity
even as his muscles quaked.
You are not so special
Atlas himself pales--
it is only your belief that binds you.
Unclasp your hands from
those chains &
let the worlds spin on,
weightless.

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© 2013 - 2024 LaBruyere

Comments18

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Thank you so much for the gorgeous feature, lovely!