[x]

Only here can I find you
on mute mornings of poetry,
where words unsaid
suspend, up end,
their breathy presence the wind
across the hills, plains, lakes,
sneaking through the shudder of grass;
the ocean in a shell.
You are in each inhalation
of Spring
even though April's love
is lost and drowned,
you soar.
Only here can I find you
blowing the world my way.
It won't be long before
I decode the wind.
The world has never been so loud

I Think I Might Sleep Today

The sea is rough stirred with tea spoons
Dishes swim in kitchen made dreams,
Crossing the land hooked onto a washing line.
The landscape is dirty linen, clothes and sheets
Being washed, ironed and folded out again and again,
A little rain never hurt no-one.

Words are flames in a cooker
Spread out like a jigsaw table cloth,
Staring into tealeaves and seeds
Creased and scattered into the breeze.

My only friends
Kitchen appliances speak to me,
As I escape dodging around empty seats
Curled around the tip of a fork.

Dishes swim in kitchen made dreams
Crossing the land hooked onto a washing line,
Words are flames.
Kitchen applian

the carnival of ash.If in time of flowers there should come a waltzing hour when
a watercolor caravan breaks through a grove of charcoal trees and from the boughs you see some tiny wizened fingers flash the secret skies a sign at morning,
then take care to bend the sunbeams, shush the bed springs, dust me from the dirty corner, sweep my bones, cajole my feet, for the king has called off melancholy.
It's a carnival of ash.

If in time of needles you are dancing with black beetles and you hear a velvet beating from the heart within the ground
get away from torpid thinking pay no mind to time or cost
move your mouth to sound the call
this is the carnival

It's Hard To Break Bad HabitsIf I allow my tongue to
touch the top of my teeth
to the bottom to utter a
"I Love you"
tonight, does it mean I
can't say it again?

I bite my nails
as I recoil, remembering
the bad habit, barely making
progress in this patience
plaguing, somber, far from serene
nightfall dream.

12:31am,
two minutes since we last
said our good-byes,
good-nights, good-wishes of
sleepfully peaceful mind shows.

Feels like an eternity since
we last spoke, while Eternity
waits by the door,
readying to again make my heart
long so long for you.

~she has always been
so successful in her
endeavors~

Degrees Warped By FragmentsDegrees Do Worse Warped By Fragments

I.
I sit among a contingent of fresh-faced athletes doing mostly
Nothing,

Reading a book on the crosses of cosmogony when I feel a hand
Tapping

On my shoulder. I turn around like a toddler's wind-up toy and
Find

No face to match the arm suspended in space by something unseen

II.
Faces of clocks abound on every wall I sit across from, next to or
Near;

It makes no sense to me. Half an hour will pass before I have slept
Enough

Hours, and yet exhaustion always accompanies me, even during the
Brief

Rush of excitement I feel when the clocks cease ticking.

III.
Library books are beginning to pil

Vagrant HeartsAh... the reflection in your eyes
Play across your skin
As your shivering hand reaches out...
Love fades into the sky
Another broken window
Another strip of film
But every night I still see you there
Lying in the tide
Foam rolling silently up legs bare
Are you wishing it pulls you away...?
Now you become the silken sand
Now you are the waves tenderly drowning
Under my stars, forever
Bated breaths into our fire we feed
Singeing flesh, sinking deep
Vagrant hearts
Wandering through ashen night
Sweat glistened memories
Or desires that one day might...
Possessed of us, behind closed doors
I'll be under your thoughts, forever
T

cinco de drunkoMy hair is turning tricks
on me, as the wind dances through it.
It's cinco de drunko, and
I miss you, miss you
miss you.

You're there without me,
and I'm here without you,
and the world still spins,
and the walls will still
be breathing.

Yo soy bailando un cumbia para ti,
y tus problemas.

porque ya soy el sol,
y las estrellas estan en sus ojos.

Aphelion, revisedMaybe it would be best to tell you now
that there are squalls in your eyes.

In the black of your pupil,
I found a clipping of her hair. It wasn't mine
to find; I left it there. Hurried
to what I love most,
your herculean jaw.

I close my eyes to a burst of red,
and though it reminds me of your strength,
I see nothing but her jacket.

It was lying about in your sclera. Your lips, pressed
hard together, thin houdini lips,
an exclamation.

Your mouth parts, to breathe
and allow me passage into the wintry fjord,
nicotine yellow mountain tops.
There’s this wrinkle beneath your eye
from whiskey, or from years of fear

15 Translations of Classical Haiku..

summer's night
from cloud to cloud
dashing moon

(Ranko)

for me, who leaves
for you, who remains
two autumns

Lobotomy for BeginnersIt wasn’t the windowless room,
the edges of the walls mixing with harsh light
while waiting for the doctor’s knock.
Or the sweat-leather straps and buckles braided into her hair.

It wasn’t the operating utensils on the steel tray,
the scalpel that looked more like a butter knife
and the drill plugged in, lying on the floor.
Or even the way the doctor complimented her posture,
as if a stiff chin was more valuable than a working brain.

And it wasn’t the taste of copper that filled her mouth
before she closed her eyes, not wanting to see
him squint at the black dot sketched
in the center of her forehead
before p

ContemplationsMoonlight
Quite alone in the dark night
With the faint sound of whishing
That emanates softly, so softly
And curls with a swishing
Of tails from the
Vast rows of trees

But I—
Quite alone in the dark night—
Stand and stare at the white light
Of the flickering lamps
(Glowing softly, so softly)
Leaving bright blossom stamps
‘Gainst the wallpaper dark

And I—
Quite alone in the dark night—
Wander close to a dim bridge
With its webwork of beams
Every filament glistens
(Shining softly, so softly)
Crane to them, he who listens
Hears the night echoes ring

So I—
Quite alone in the dark night—
T

Boing

across the meadow
every step erupts
with grasshoppers

three point turn

It's not always about things like slipper slaps
on wilting skin, knees turn supple and give way
as you heave up ribs. you lost a red rubber dingy
in a sea that reminds you of sinks, white skies turn and run
in the opposite direction.

You will not always be this way. A judder from the core
right to the jaw lets out subtle things like sighs
and almost tears. Stumble, bash your head against an SOS sign,
I am on the other side of the helpline with fishbowls
and plasters on three fingers and every inch of my arm.

Five was enough to hand you glasses of water
and a heavy-but-warm telephone connection that runs through my toes
right to a

Small talkTapping the baton of her teaspoon
twice on the saucer, a bright start:
'You've dropped out,' says his mother.
Her vision of a career in White Hall
crushed by his arts trifling, not one
to acknowledge the legislative clout
of poets. She's a resurrectionist,
keen to deliver him to Society's
scalpel, 'What's wrong?' through
chat and china's light percussion,
a uniform hum he hears as Om.

Meguriau

復ち返る出会いと別れ花の下

ochikaeru deai to wakare hana no shita.

Again and again we meet and part under the sakura blossoms.

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all the pretty birdswalk but not quickly thru the crooked town
& look at this universal splendor:
there are tilted alleys with houses of trash,
lodging magpies & hollow bags of brass
belongings worth less than fury & sound.

this: a town dually in black & in white.

kings of unclaimed crowns crow at the ravens
that rapaciously pace on broken walks
while in the tall towers peddle the hawks,
preying devoutly & clearing their throats,
swallowing themselves from cups & glasses.

& on corners the loons & the cuckoos
parrot phrases they have heard on the street:
my family tree is losing its leaves.

you’re just an albatross, we tell the loons,
who grou

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napoleon at seven

by ~trumancoyote, Apr 8, 2006, 2:56:16 AM
Literature / Poetry / Experimental / Surrealism

an old guitarist sitting
on a watercolor hill,

plucking on six strings absent.
two halves of breasts running near

under van gogh's starry night,
under black-white guernica.

everything in all jigsaws,
everything in trepid cubes.

a girl before a mirror
with violin and guitar,

sitting with three musicians
and a woman with her book,

stippling all realities
of intangible maternity.

hours yielding from dalí's clock,
minutes sub-the alchemist

like rain, like raining, like rained—
portraits wilt with abstract smiles.

clear sfumato, oh still life,
napoleon at seven.

napoleon at sevenby ~trumancoyote

Literature / Poetry / Experimental / Surrealism

a whiff of grapeshot.

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Given 2008-04-17

napoleon at seven by ~trumancoyote is rich with surreal images, and if you're into art, you will enjoy them especially. This poem will be in my pocket today. It shall make it a surreal, beautiful day. Read on! ( Featured by !lovetodeviate )

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~revolvingdoors01 Sep 26, 2008

thanks for writing this, it's officially one of the best poems i've read so far here on deviantart

~Selenaru-Negrea Aug 14, 2008

This is so good it reminds me of stuff like Apollinaire or Lorca... And that's a big bonus!

*sydnerella May 11, 2008 Writer

amazing poem! the surrealism in it is just like a dream works, on the surface meaning nothing, but far too complex to be without reason. just spectacular - one of my favorite poems on this site!

definitely going to watch you and fave this!

!3rdtimelucky Apr 25, 2008

I keep coming back to read this poem - I don't know how you did it but I'm in love with this piece

!Ringo45 Apr 17, 2008

Awesome. I love the art references, especially the one mentioning telling time from Dali's surreal clocks. Also the line "like rain, like raining, like rained" is great repetition to emphasize the permanence of the people in the paintings. Great work.

~beautified-scene Apr 17, 2008

i'm sorry i don't have any advanced critique, only this to say:
i absolutely loved the art references

~trumancoyote Apr 17, 2008 Professional Writer

it's all good. thanks for reading and commenting regardless.

~trumancoyote Apr 17, 2008 Professional Writer

Thanks, everyone, for the kind words.

~crystalclearink Apr 17, 2008

beautiful work, literature goes underappreciated, you deserved this!

~theNextExpatriate Apr 17, 2008

art, writing & history... love it!

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