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More from ~truepenny

The Romantic You do not know it
But you are with me,
Following my movements
As I bend towards
The beach, searching for
The perfect pebble.
It is smooth and round
And flat, and you would
Find it noble. Or perhaps
Your heart would not waste
Its kindliness
On a skipping stone.

I toss it.
It sinks.

You would know the flick
Of the wrist, the sweep
Of the arm, the way
To tap into the
Rhythm of nature,
So even boulders
Dance on calm waters.

I walk on, perhaps
A bit too fast for you
Who wants to memorize
The music of crickets
In the dunes. The rocky
Shore sends dull pain up
The arches of my feet
To just behind my knees -
I wish I had
...a poem about love Nothing is ever enough.

When you glide your hand
along my neck, my shoulders
my arms, my waist, my hips
I wish my skin would burn you
and meld your fingertips
to my body.
Girls like Agnes Dei The morning after
honey seeped through the cracks of My window,
coating her well-seasoned body,
the sacrificial lamb,
in dawn's familiar glaze.
Her sacrifice made the sun set,
the stars glisten
sculpted the smile of the Man in the Moon,
made My body quiver
like the leaves she suspended in the autumn breeze,
sparks of flame against the lacquered sky.
When the sun rose,
when amber clung to her curves
and dripped from her hair,
she was nothing more than a face
I passed on the sidewalks
and occasionally exchanged a word with
at the supermarket.
She recited her last Hail Marys
and exited My life
until the next evening's Mass
w
Snegurochka Her comrades are the rolling hills of snow,
the glistening trees, the twinkling icicles,
the powder drifting softly, brushing her
as she glides across the wintry landscape.

Born out of blossom buds and frozen frost,
from the loins of life and the breath of death,
she knows naught of her own isolation.
Tired and worn she rests in the fresh snow.

Nearby a young Shepard shelters his sheep
from the harsh winter winds. She watches him.
He herds and calms his flock with a fondness
she wishes her frost-bitten heart could feel.

Springtime hears the child’s whispered desires.
She dances across the unfriendly fields,
leaving footprin
The Invocation Every great epic begins with an invocation to the muse. Our epic opens in a shabby apartment above a Laundromat in a dirty, overpopulated city. Kismet Trumbo kneels on his kitchen floor, his bony knees jittering with small vibrations from the churning washers and dryers below. Casting tear-filled gazes at his late sister’s photograph, clasping together his leathery hands - which one would wrongly assume belonged to a blue-collar man - Kismet begs for inspiration, for a revelation that will fill his desolate mind and relieve his bursting soul.

When Kismet and his sister were younger, they did not wallow in mud, hog swing sets, play hide-
All the lights are bright The downtown was a dying one, but one that refused to let go. Not because it held some strength, some courage that made it fight for the future or because it had a relish for life and a love for its people, but because it felt it had something to prove. It had to cling to the scraps of its existence for a few minutes longer just to take revenge, to spit in the face of the world. It frantically patched up its wounds, bringing in sad attempts at hip hang outs, hoping to appeal to the Generation Y-ers who dreamed of leaving behind their parents’ failed goals to dance and drink and dream in the big cities. Decrepit buildings wore costumes of

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November 8, 2008
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:iconhyta:
~Hyta Mar 31, 2009
That's delightful :)
Reply
:icontruepenny:
~truepenny Mar 31, 2009  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks!

--
"Write drunk; edit sober." - Hemingway
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Epilogue - Clara and The Bear The baby bear grew rapidly that spring and summer under the watchful eye of his mother. She taught him how to find the right berries, avoid those that were poisonous to bears. She paced the base of trees anxiously as he fought for honey through swarms of bees buzzing angrily around a fallen hive. Together they dug up roots to eat and she attempting to show him how to catch fish. He became distracted by the various creatures in the water, swatting after them useless and jumping around in the current joyfully. He eventually settled down and learned, though, somehow aware that these lessons would be intrinsic to his survival later on.

She told Epilogue - Clara and The Bear by ~truepenny
WIP - The Education of the Saints by ~truepenny
Excerpt from Clara and The Bear - Butterfly Attack The snow melted and the butterflies came. Monarchs came in droves to the Butterfly Bush the landlord had planted in the front garden – great, big, vibrantly orange creatures with velvet-like black painted on their wings, and white spots speckling their bodies. Clara would brew green tea and sit on the covered porch to watch them as they drank nectar, their creepy arms and antennas twitching. They watched her back in silence, raising their bright wings slowly. They seemed to be plotting something. She stared into their blank faces, empty masks like endless abysses. They looked soulless, like demons.

She developed a strange but consuming Excerpt from Clara and The Bear - Butterfly Attack by ~truepenny
Nightmares - Una Dissolving by ~truepenny
Nightmares - Nosedrop by ~truepenny
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