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Literature
The Traveler
She blew in on the last day of summer, arriving just as the wind began, clutching an artist’s portfolio and a hatbox. There was wonder and wisdom in her bright blue eyes, softened by time and crow’s-feet, and a perfect maple leaf the color of flame was caught in her unruly red hair… her perfume hinted of woodsmoke and oak tannins and the spice of faraway, foreign ports. I helped her carry her hatbox from the train station, and when she smiled at me, I knew everything was about to change.
We shared a cab to the little seaside town where we were both staying, there on the cusp of the world; it had long been one of my favorite
Literature
Fingerprints
The movie credits rolled and I handed her another tissue. It wasn’t a sad movie. I chose a funny one to cheer her up. It must have been the wrong kind of humour then. I didn’t know her that well. Guess I should’ve asked her. She was like thirty something, so she probably didn’t care for this stupid stuff.
“Do you have anything you wanted to see? For next time? Anything. I’ll get you anything.”
With her mouth behind the tissue, she coughed a sob. I’m never going to do this again. He can’t make me do this again.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“You can have stuff that&
Literature
For --
Bloom, bloom, bloom,
by the window, by the sun,
by the cooling shade of soft green cedar,
bloom, bloom, bloom.
When the chrysanthemums baldly raises
its heavy head to the dim-lit skies,
or cicadas shrill in train-speed rhythm
buzz and rest their wings on your shivering thighs
do not fear the world, the strangeness of Nature,
do not flip your pale small eyelids and waver.
Whenever burly oaks grow, wild-strong branches wide,
and benign barley bend and bow in a smile;
No - this too high; No - this too low,
Bloom, bloom, bloom.
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So this poem has been a journey! For two years now I have been trying to build a poem around the first sentence of this poem. The first two iterations are Bittersweet (I still like that title, although didn't want to name this one that for fear of confusion) and Bittersweet II. I think that almost more than anything else I've posted, this progression of work shows how I have grown as a writer, and I'm really proud of that. For those who have read all three iterations, thank you for sticking with it. I promise this to be the last version; I'm happy with it.
Note: This poem is written in first person but it is not my story or anyone else's that I know.
Note: This poem is written in first person but it is not my story or anyone else's that I know.
Mature
© 2018 - 2024 Ladygentlemanbastard
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