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Make Unto the Lord a Joyful NoiseWe hid behind the hymnals.
When the organ chords clung
Like condensation on the gospel,
We’d wait for the same wavering keen,
Impossible to place as it
rose from the bowels of the pews.
Somewhere among the chrysanthemum bouquet
came the spiderweb thrum of pitchless joy
that broke through our Protestant stiffness.
We watched lips,
the wrinkled movement of apricot cheeks,
anything that could telegraph the howling undertow
accompanying “The Old Rugged Cross”
up to its crag on Calvary.
When hum was absent one Sunday,
we mourned the empty dullness
left by the absence of each wavering sharp,
hanging from the ceiling like a dun chandelier.
I imagine that Jesus has more patience than we,
and gently put down his pitch pipe
to welcome her.
When the Living Ask ForgivenessI didn't know her.
I tried so hard to give up something
that this woman never took for granted
and somehow had stolen from her.
I tried five times, and it only took her once,
doing something she loved.
If we lock eyes in eternal rest,
I can't blame her if she punches me out.
Form a line, beautiful dead.
My four year-old neighbor, caught in headlights,
my classmate ejected from the windshield,
you, posthumously known friend of a friend,
static in the snow.
I would wear them,
weighted by the knowledge
that your unchosen ends
left no option for notes.
Empty GardensIt was a wine-petaled pansy
that my mother pruned from the garden box;
it reminded me
that I had blossomed late and wilted.
At fourteen I created pansy petals of my own,
waking up with hot-fisted cramps
and the proof I was a woman.
I was not a rose, perennial,
as I went from blooming monthly
to not at all.
I would rather spend a day
curled up like the fetus I may never carry
than flat on my back wondering
why God allowed worse women than me
to bear children.
Poor FitThe puzzle piece almost snapped in,
It was a fragment of Renoir,
"Luncheon of the Boating Party,"
the edge of a flower petal
on a perfectly Impressionistic hat,
It should have matched.
The gossamer strokes,
in fairness, it should have aligned,
but it simply belonged...
Fractions of a painting
became a metaphor,
I could not stop my eyes from brimming
over the accuracy
of identifying with the inanimate.
My locker was blue, like its neighbors,
but it had a crooked hinge.
It never shut right.
Neither did I.
The back-right leg of my desk
was short enough to wobble,
and it never sat right.
Neither did I.
In band I reached for
the largest, loudest instruments
physically possible to play.
I wholly embraced the Tuba
because if I was missing,
you could hear the gap,
where in other places I feared
that even if I disappeared
I couldn't go missing
because there was nothing to miss.
I tore myself from old hallway reveries
back to the piec
CountermelodiesWhen it begins,
it’s like discovering
the decadence of music.
Perhaps your breath hitches
on the cello carrying the countermelody.
It reminds you of their voice,
as they warm spices in the kitchen
and you’d wrap your arms around them from behind,
like the horns come up from under
and saturate the harmony.
Their body feels familiar in all different ways,
a second listen granted to a beautiful movement.
You can’t tell them you repeat
the first song they showed you
because it smells like their skin
If you listen close enough.
And they can’t tell you that
they try to harmonize with your
speaking voice on the phone
because you sound closer that way.
They’ve turned your solos to concertos.
You feel their lips on your cheek and
your hair stands on end like you’ve
heard God on their lips;
their touch is prophetic.
You hold them close and hope they’ll linger
like a violin on a high note,
and you can’t bear to open your eyes
and dismiss the beauty
it's pronounced two ways.
a sleepy murmur drawn.
It reminds me of your patience
when you held me
as I sobbed into your scarf,
your voice leaving me warm,
brown along the edges.
A sterner picture
of soldiers long dead,
This is how you tell me
sharp as a bayonet,
the edge of your mouth
I could hold it
in my mouth either way,
and you are both.
DifficultHis tongue pushes thoughts faster than pencil,
and his eyes are watching the turtles.
I don't understand his math,
and the sound his shoulders make
when they slump
are the same as his lonely footsteps
in the crystalline snow.
He is my mad scientist.
Give this child a lab coat
and free reign over the elements;
you'd judge him,
his movements a wrecking ball,
but we'd be nowhere without
our own explosions.
We are trapped in our glass misunderstandings
of measuring his dimensions for him:
"Here is your square,
you must stay inside
or we will burn you."
All he grasps for is the ability
to knock aside our microscope
and show us his pointillist self-portrait,
i's we've dotted for him that
scatter his self-image.
We, the connoisseurs,
are so quick to judge the art
that we disregard
How long have I closed my eyes
to such a gallery?
God grant me the patience
to observe it.
BleachMelancholy clings to my hems like a ghost,
frayed stitches on a white dress.
Removes the tone from my lips,
paints me clear.
Shatters me into stars on the bed,
erases my constellations.
It's a faded dream I would slip towards,
a certain abandonment.
I know this door locks when it closes,
no matter how I'd rattle the handle.
I'll follow my pattern--
at the threshold,
to dreams of color.
To A Lover, AgedSomewhere beneath that chambered tangle of
Pulsing rhythm and arterial maze
Hides a stagnated soul yearning for love,
Shut away from flesh in an azure haze.
Trapped in a labyrinth of porous bone,
No escape from vulnerable shadow,
The fragile slip of soul shivers alone
As the chorus of heartbeat starts to slow.
Slicing through veins of varicose sorrow,
Parched skin echoes agonies of despair.
Shattered hearts shrink with each lonely morrow
Loveless marrow shreds until whittled bare.
Lost sweethearts swirl in cataract dreams
Waiting for death until love is redeemed.
Starving sleep and apologies.My sleep is starving.
It is shivering sweat like snow
across my shoulders as I sob scream
after scream against your skin;
"sorry, I'm so sorry,
go back to sleep."
I am sad
and struggling to stay
together but you slump
against my sickness
and hold me
Beautiful Stranger.She's such a beautiful stranger and nothing like the rest.
Her eyes have their own voice, putting my sanity to the test.
Her walk is like poetry, her hair like a lions mane.
More attracted than ever, she makes my mind go blank.
I've never been at a lost for words until i saw her.
So I was sure we'd be together when that first glance occurred.
I see her in my dreams,
But I'm haunted by many things.
When angels cry for my sorrow,
I will then believe in a better tomorrow.
There's loose ends in this love triangle,
high winds from the wings of this symmetrical angel.
Fire from the eyes of my adversaries, tryna bother me.
and liquor in the bellies of the members of this comradery.
Such a beautiful stranger,
Her eyes screaming danger.
I become the burn to cleanse the earth
the why am i here ?
inconsistent the reflection
to state the obvious
in a silent stagnant form
i remembered how to feel again
to break the surface clean
a collection of your stains
as i caught the question why.
Last Goodbyeseyes downcast
last words sealed with
closed mouth kiss
this is the thanks I get
and cold regret
this gift's been given
for the last
these open arms they
a farewell just in case
your heart becomes misplaced
a fire burns
for such a short
I'll light a candle
I'll tie the knot
with a final kiss
a feeling like coming home
this sense of longing fits
like a glove
hold your breath
it fades away
these aching words
from bitter tongues
mean more to me
than you will
these last goodbyes
oh, so casual
each star in my sky
burns out when you
TransfigurationHere is the breaking of the glass-
A stained and shattered past
Crucified and resurrected
Here is my life in patchwork seams
The threads frayed, still untied
When I discover what life means
Will I still need to cry?
Cut and unravel the tangle
Leave my heart unmangled
Leave me to shine transparently
So that my soul may see.
Be gentle, love.Be gentle,
my body is too heavy
hollowed out and
filled back up
Be gentle, love.
Be gentle and
let me lay here,
still and silent,
until my emptiness
Leaning on a wall,
People, machines and animals,
Like strokes on a canvas,
Painting an abstraction,
A moving optical illusion,
That we have been told is called life,
That we learned to believe in,
To conform to,
Distracted- by consumerist shop windows,
Painting their history,
Fulfilling their destiny,
Either standing sentinel watching it all,
Or engrossed in action,
Adding to the complexity of the artwork,
An occasional rat,
In corners adding details in obscure areas,
Or crossing over to reach another corner,
Drawing ropes that tie the painting together,
binding it all as one entity,
making it life.
Circus: The FunambulanceWalking the tripwire
between not glorifying suicide
and not patronising people
with the lie; I would never
- I suck in my nausea and fight
not to close my eyes as I
vulnerable and afraid
in front of my tenderhucked audience.
Their eyes pluck out
and give an attentive
standing ovation as I exhale
and stagger forward
- a shout,
a fall -
and for a moment
I wonder if there is
a safety net there for me at all,
and if my devoted audience
would prefer to see my
neck//shatter on stage.
Little Words on a Sunday MorningI'm the epitome of anxiety.
I've seen it described
as a whispering cloud,
cumulonimbus hanging on my shoulders,
telling me I should smile softly
and close the door
before you rain on me
and leave me motionless,
waterlogged and despondent.
With a sigh,
you brush the storm off my neck,
kiss my cheek,
and offer consolation
that drowns out the deluge,
dries my shivering bones.
Though it leaves you shaking,
you open your arms and
retake the role of keystone
when a lesser love would
watch the stones tumble down.
I read through countless syllables,
each a candle in this chapel
you have built for me.
Each a bead in my rosary.
The sun is stumbling from his bed,
and I think of you still silent in yours.
When you wake I'll still have
two o'clock eyes,
but my heart is alive
with all your little words.
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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