I haven't seen a thread containing Chewers' writing, but if there is one feel free to delete.
I've been writing poetry since I was an adolescent; I'm getting ready to submit a culmination to various magazines and online literature journels. I'd like to know what some of you think...
A couple of mine to start things off:
As Maria Sleeps
As Maria sits upon her bed, perched,
outside the snow-covered sparrows chirp
nestled in blankets, the night slowly pass,
as snow falls behind frost-infused glass
A haze of pancakes and eggs seep,
Maria springs from her warm-induced sheets
downstairs, "good morning, dad and mom,"
as the dawn clears of night's bitter throng
Breakfast gobbled and black, silken hair brushed,
"Maria, you're going to be late, we don't mean to rush"
hugs and kisses, the aroma of dad's coffee, sweet,
mom packs a lunch befitting for a queen
By the mailbox, for her bus she search,
As a wind propels her scarp atop a spiraling birch
she flings open the gate, and through the garden with haste,
to the garment-snatching limb, white and ice laced
Above the birch, landscape's tranquil aesthetic,
below, the swimming pool, plastic protected
reaching for the scarf, slightly out of grasp,
A limb gives way, breath-seizing cold upon her back
Simultaneous signals to her brain, a frozen fire,
each breath taken, each breath transpired
an intrinsic system, implored compensation,
each struggle, water further encapsulating
Silence from frigid vocal cords,
fingers through frozen hair, tore
in her lungs, the dying of cells,
letting go, mustering from azure lips, "help"
When she was found, visage of a sapphire moon,
lying motionless within her watery cocoon
A father's plea, "please, baby breathe,"
Her body placed upon cold concrete
A heart still able, breathing she could not preserve,
oxygen deprived brain, damaging of nerves
A cacophony of terms, insignificant numbers,
the sound of machines and unwarranted slumber
As time elapse and her body grow frail,
yarns of a child's gift, told in divine tales
healer of wounds, vitality she can restore,
power of the celestial, she is thought to bore
Traveling great distance, to a small house they meet,
to gently kiss her hand, lay gifts upon her feet
tender weeping, among meek and holy men, alike,
faith amidst plight, a sacramental site
A lighthouse glimmers through sullen night air,
like a white rose through black, silken hair
blackened waves, the secrets of their time,
befell and bestowed before brown, tender eyes
Galaxies expand and violently expire,
decay of neutron stars, endless waves of fire
Maria witnesses from her lush garden, green,
the life and death of all things, cycles of a dream
Strolling the misty garden, tiny bare feet,
faint but familiar aromas; strange but sweet
chilled stream of consciousness, memories hide,
as the roses wither and perspire, her she will reside
Countless headlights from the roadway shine,
anxiously awaiting entrance to the sacred shrine
as the leaves, through winter, wither and flesh deplete,
through the degradation of time, Maria sleeps
The Wake
On a moon-lit evening,
Mist and fog-laden;
upon the damp, beaded clover
stands the weary, widowed maiden.
Her silky cheeks salty
from the crooners somber cadence;
songs of mutual memory and merriment;
relished, together, in sullen radiance
A variety of hands hoist their ale,
while a fatherless vitality in her womb did pale;
preserving poise, she does not dare tell,
enduring strife, like that of a Celt.
Atop the bed of ice, her husband slumber,
the revelry dispersing upon the echo of thunder;
comrades and kin bid their farewells, forever,
wishing fortuity in his incorporeal endeavors.
On a moon-lit night,
rain and fog-laden;
upon the saturated, beaten clover
weeps the worn, withered maiden.
The wind – a cautionary banshee
screams transient through the trees,
while the child within the warmth of the womb dreams;
upon this patch of clover from which it was conceived.
Departing homeward, requiring respite,
Seeking refuge from this ghastly twilight;
through the forest, haunted and mist-laden,
travels the weary, widowed maiden.
I'm currently working on a short, as well.
Old and a bit stupid:
The child in the mother’s womb diseased
Born into negligence from which it was conceived
Found the next morning in a dumpster, bereaved
Having time for only one dream coroner believed
The DNA suggested that the mother be the age of seventeen
And that drug addiction during the inception, intervene
Any Evidence revealing a possible suspect had yet to be seen
Except initials sewn onto a quilt that the newborn was wrapped
The initials of a recently pregnant beauty queen
The next morning detectives made their arrest
Weeping hysterically the mother of the crime did confess
The following day in handcuffs, watching her daughter concealed in a tiny, white casket
As it's lowered into moist soil and properly put to rest
I've been writing poetry since I was an adolescent; I'm getting ready to submit a culmination to various magazines and online literature journels. I'd like to know what some of you think...
A couple of mine to start things off:
As Maria Sleeps
As Maria sits upon her bed, perched,
outside the snow-covered sparrows chirp
nestled in blankets, the night slowly pass,
as snow falls behind frost-infused glass
A haze of pancakes and eggs seep,
Maria springs from her warm-induced sheets
downstairs, "good morning, dad and mom,"
as the dawn clears of night's bitter throng
Breakfast gobbled and black, silken hair brushed,
"Maria, you're going to be late, we don't mean to rush"
hugs and kisses, the aroma of dad's coffee, sweet,
mom packs a lunch befitting for a queen
By the mailbox, for her bus she search,
As a wind propels her scarp atop a spiraling birch
she flings open the gate, and through the garden with haste,
to the garment-snatching limb, white and ice laced
Above the birch, landscape's tranquil aesthetic,
below, the swimming pool, plastic protected
reaching for the scarf, slightly out of grasp,
A limb gives way, breath-seizing cold upon her back
Simultaneous signals to her brain, a frozen fire,
each breath taken, each breath transpired
an intrinsic system, implored compensation,
each struggle, water further encapsulating
Silence from frigid vocal cords,
fingers through frozen hair, tore
in her lungs, the dying of cells,
letting go, mustering from azure lips, "help"
When she was found, visage of a sapphire moon,
lying motionless within her watery cocoon
A father's plea, "please, baby breathe,"
Her body placed upon cold concrete
A heart still able, breathing she could not preserve,
oxygen deprived brain, damaging of nerves
A cacophony of terms, insignificant numbers,
the sound of machines and unwarranted slumber
As time elapse and her body grow frail,
yarns of a child's gift, told in divine tales
healer of wounds, vitality she can restore,
power of the celestial, she is thought to bore
Traveling great distance, to a small house they meet,
to gently kiss her hand, lay gifts upon her feet
tender weeping, among meek and holy men, alike,
faith amidst plight, a sacramental site
A lighthouse glimmers through sullen night air,
like a white rose through black, silken hair
blackened waves, the secrets of their time,
befell and bestowed before brown, tender eyes
Galaxies expand and violently expire,
decay of neutron stars, endless waves of fire
Maria witnesses from her lush garden, green,
the life and death of all things, cycles of a dream
Strolling the misty garden, tiny bare feet,
faint but familiar aromas; strange but sweet
chilled stream of consciousness, memories hide,
as the roses wither and perspire, her she will reside
Countless headlights from the roadway shine,
anxiously awaiting entrance to the sacred shrine
as the leaves, through winter, wither and flesh deplete,
through the degradation of time, Maria sleeps
The Wake
On a moon-lit evening,
Mist and fog-laden;
upon the damp, beaded clover
stands the weary, widowed maiden.
Her silky cheeks salty
from the crooners somber cadence;
songs of mutual memory and merriment;
relished, together, in sullen radiance
A variety of hands hoist their ale,
while a fatherless vitality in her womb did pale;
preserving poise, she does not dare tell,
enduring strife, like that of a Celt.
Atop the bed of ice, her husband slumber,
the revelry dispersing upon the echo of thunder;
comrades and kin bid their farewells, forever,
wishing fortuity in his incorporeal endeavors.
On a moon-lit night,
rain and fog-laden;
upon the saturated, beaten clover
weeps the worn, withered maiden.
The wind – a cautionary banshee
screams transient through the trees,
while the child within the warmth of the womb dreams;
upon this patch of clover from which it was conceived.
Departing homeward, requiring respite,
Seeking refuge from this ghastly twilight;
through the forest, haunted and mist-laden,
travels the weary, widowed maiden.
I'm currently working on a short, as well.
Old and a bit stupid:
The child in the mother’s womb diseased
Born into negligence from which it was conceived
Found the next morning in a dumpster, bereaved
Having time for only one dream coroner believed
The DNA suggested that the mother be the age of seventeen
And that drug addiction during the inception, intervene
Any Evidence revealing a possible suspect had yet to be seen
Except initials sewn onto a quilt that the newborn was wrapped
The initials of a recently pregnant beauty queen
The next morning detectives made their arrest
Weeping hysterically the mother of the crime did confess
The following day in handcuffs, watching her daughter concealed in a tiny, white casket
As it's lowered into moist soil and properly put to rest
