|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
Valentines Day ChallengeThere are no songs that I could sing
above a whisper's pitch,
no tone or sound to match
the humming bird flutter of your breathing.
The feather of your sleep, dances on your lashes;
the soft smile
warmer than down across my chest. I place
a single kiss, upon your sleeping breast. I watch
your lips part at my affectionate intrusion.
In silence like a dreaming bird, I listen.
SorrowI feel it. Water, salty to the tongue, fills up the cup
cut into the space in the hollow below my sternum.
It fills to the brim, flowing from nowhere, and overflowing
it spills into and over my veins. In waves that ebb and thrust
in the canals of my nerves, the water rises to my brain. It
sinks down into my legs, buckling my knees in the force
of its weight. The tide is rising, and I am made an ocean
in the form of a man. The water trickles down from the corners
of my eyes becoming a channel for the ships of my grief
to sail out into the world that does not recognize the man
I am. An entire ocean bubbles and rolls behind my face.
A slow steady wave becomes a beast that cracks the green
glass surface of my sea. In the wash that sweeps
my sandy skin, in the sheen that shows where water once
rose, the man is lost in the wake. I break.
GnatsMy mind is buzzing like a million gnats
swarming over the fruit of my thoughts.
Though the mouth of one gnat is small,
together they feast on the flesh like the fangs
of a salivating maw. Obscuring the luscious
globe of imaginings, the zipping and zigging
waves of annoyance that no amount of
swatting at nothing, or nervously rocking
eat at me.
PebblesLittle by little the flint-stone of my soul is worn away into whatever time will make of me. Am I destined to be another pebble in a shallow stream, or a blade like those of ancient dark eyed people? Am I destined to weep at the loss of my being, or will I be honed, sharpened, a thing with a purpose? One more stone is skipped across the pond, but in the depth of the pool I find myself sinking.
It's Pretty Humid OutThe sky is layered in consuming grey,
like a balanket on a day too warm for the covers.
The patchwork sky is quilted in the cotton fluff
of the grey that stagnates the air.
I languish on a couch meant for lovers;
alone, all I have is my bare shoulders to hold.
It is not the sweat of passion that dampens the folds
of the mute brown cushions, but the stale air of inactivity
condensing on my skin.
I lay in silent stagnation, no wind to stir in me
the breath to move me into action.
Without warning, the grey quilt tears.
Rain taps on the sidewalk like fingers tap
on a pane of glass.
I am up and running,
down the stairs.
A WispShe is menthol on my tongue, minty
with flashes of green that tickles my eyes
as I fight to keep from blinking.
Her kiss burns like the cherry of a cigarette
held firmly against my quivering lips; ashes
are all that she leaves in her wake.
She rises above me, a wisp,
wrapped around my finger tips.
I have no choice, but to breathe her in.
She fills my chest in the span of every breath,
like a tide made of smoke, rising and falling. I have
no choice, but to inhale and taste her on my tongue.
*Past and Present*One hundred years ago
When summer cast golden glow
Weeping willows, river side
Cast gentle shade, punts could glide.
Mild, quiet summer day
Strawberry smell and smell of hay
Silken dress on a boat
Shaded by parasol, afloat.
Today loud music rocks river
Weeping willows really weep
T/shirt slogans, blue jean rule
Now we’re noisy but very cool.
Hidden TreasureHidden Treasure
Men seek treasure below the sea
They dive far below the waves
They travel far and away
Spending all hours of the day
Searching in mountain caves
I climb mountains just for fun
I sail the seas for pleasure
I spend my time in other ways
I don't need to hunt for my treasure
Because she came to me
GatekeeperDrawn by a single angelic finger
As white as cotton clouds in morn
The flesh a child's in innocence
Where all its grace is well adorned
Veins of blue as bowl above
Where overflown the rain descends
A healing joy hid by that cloth
To ask for time to make amends
Fabric flown in wind through sky
Two halves crack the door
And all is seen in sightless peace
To feel a moment so implored
Expend an energetic wave
The site where there is shown
From inside out exuberate
Touched by one's own
There is a line now held in place
Behind which mirrors shine
Reflect back the present gazes
Who drive to ask before their time
Only be a part of passage
Depression's saving needed
When pouring gifts lie mouldering
And oldest wisdom unheeded
When eyes are rivers in themselves
Come in the loudest spike
And silent yawn the gates awake
To coo the crying souls alike
Imagined paint will always be
The master's tools to colour all
The mind a much creative being
That needs some help after a fall
So come and pierce the
Vulnerable YouthPaper hearts from bright pink tissue meant for presents,
fanciful butterflies from orange dashed cardboard,
five petaled flowers danced around the sentence
of simplicity, ultimately to discard.
Tender thoughts from censored, guarded minds,
boldly do the simple stubby fingers strive to hide
the gift from Mommy, so that she can't find
the secret depth of the darkest snide.
The gentle pressure of acknowledging gestures
even the meaningless thank you cards
meant to send you on an emotional adventures,
only to be shredded on cynical hearts' shards.
But it is the thought that counts,
those sweet little eyes haven't yet been renounced.
NeedlesThe meat is cold from bloodless lust
My organs are damaged
Path be taken down range-
-And end with chilling wall
Forest of needle spires climb
My height cannot ask
Deem the stars they point-
-For reverence physical
Destroyed as winter comes
Invested into my stock
I am bought and brought home
With no escape from the lock
Needle sew a coat of iron
Black with the char left by
Remembrance make me a scion
And kindle a soul inside
Lids have shut and no key breaks
I cannot see between blades
Cut the night to ribbons-
-Now banners to losing way
Imposing in my blindness wait
My feet are icy cold
The forward march is death incarnate-
-Though I am numb to catch
A fabric stolen mask and clothe
The boundary pointed shed
Once streamers bleeding dry wove
The semblance of disjointed ends
No try can match the mind at work
For ochre has my pallor drained
This raiment bears a doubting murk
Through glacier impassive face
My asking wanes with setting freeze
The armour frozen bites
A pleading body already w
The Day She Falls Off Her ThroneToday she stands tall
On a mountain of deceit
But one day she'll fall
She'll be tossed off of her feet
And when this day comes
The day her reign is put to an end
She will have nothing left but crumbs
Nobody to attend
And whose fault will it be?
Her Mother's, Father's, or her own?
Perhaps all three
On the joyous day that she falls off her thrown
Death's LoveHe obtained a frightening manifestation
And held the power of creation
Without creating a new individual but becoming something with a strong relation
That kept a sturdy foundation,
As his cells connected, broke apart, and were destroyed during his formation.
Before me he stood, light lurking within his eyes, speaking of temptation.
Then, the déjà vu was overpowering, a suffocating and heartbreaking sensation.
Death played with an individual that people see as a cremation
And how I see as a pure, devilish damnation,
Where I can only vision the house it lived in, being eaten in a conflagration.
The appearance, however, delivered me into salvation,
That, alone, was enough to wash away any frustration.
The longer I stared, the more I studied, there was an alteration
In the depths of my concentration,
Where I began to piece together an understanding of admiration
That Death had somewhere in preservation.
His corpse-like figure had the power of reincarnation
And how he changed for
The Guardians of Childhood (Poem)
The spirits of an innocent childhood, from long ago
Arise and always protecting, the innocent
Children who’s dreams are filled with hope, with belief
With happiness as golden sand, takes the shape
Of their deepest dreams, their deepest goals,
Their deepest desires, as the sand takes on these,
A small, silent golden man, sandman, who holds the magic
Sand, that fills the kids with dreams.
He is the childhood guardian, that protects children’s dreams,
Their innocence as they sleep, like soundly angels,
Smiling in the dark. This was the guardian I use to always be told
About, in my mother’s stories. His golden sand illuminating
The pitch black night.
Another childhood guardian, she is the one who
Protects a child’s memories, and will always hold them
Dear, whose little fairies collect their teeth without
A sound, she is Toothania, the guardian, that is as kind
And as silent as her fairies. Always letting them know
Where they can find the children’s baby teeth.
Last to leaveThe park is dark tonight while I'm drinking,
the shadows of friends have long retreated.
Bright orange city lights tinge my thinking
Lying in the grass alone, defeated.
My bottle now empty, discarded glass,
no longer a den for spirits and mirth
sequesters the moon on the dying grass;
an icy blue light for unworthy earth.
The vodka I drank still teases my tongue
while cold night air penetrates my clothing.
Salty bitter fire between each lung
Keeps me warm from the cold of self loathing.
The park is spinning as I try to leave,
but I fall back down to my knees and heave.
Keep in Touch!
scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More