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On Snow It is a dark and stormy eveningor at least according to the BBC, it is supposed to be. Somewhere, it probably is; but tonight in Winters it merely snows, dusting the grass in soft crystals and bathing the whole wood in an unearthly shade of silence.
It is a warmer night than most, which means that the snow is sticky and wet. It clings to everything, including you, the adolescent boy by the gate that starts when the silence is broken by the damp, heavy thump of a tumbling mass of snow.
But you stand at your post and wait, shivering just a little but you were born here and raised here and you are used to the cold.
You are waiting for Someone, have been waiting all day and were wait
I am the bud of the white lily
That never will bloom.
But then, how is it certain
That my lily is white?
I am the bud of the orange lily
In a field of the whitest silk.
Or, afloat in a sea of orchids
My vermillion wings, a beacon
I am the bud of a black lily
In a field of all the hues.
I am the blossom of the white lily
In a field of the same.
My skirts will unfold just the same
My soft green slip unravel just the same
My cool yellow legs warm in the sun
To attract the honeybees to my sweet nectar.
I am the frog, emerging damp and cool
From the bud of a lily
Glad for my legs and my jaw and my pond,
Happy to thrive in the shade.
And So Up Swam I Main StreetAnd so up swam I Main Street.
Turning left at Fifth
Up and up, away, away
Up, past the moon
Up past the supermarket.
About yea high--not high at all
For you see, the moon is here.
Dogs stopped, children stared
No up-growns asked me why.
It takes one certain vim
A certain will-to-do
To create vast kingdoms from a crayon
And rule it fairly, too.
And if pose the question me did one,
'Mean what by you
So able to
Soar up in blue,
I argue you!
I'll have the coppers to you glue
The fine Earth you scorn'
I'll me keep gliding
About yea high
And laugh and laugh and sing him
'But then my friend
Sure we amend
For if me at the Earth is glued
My soles will surely rend
For about yea high
Is to me, the Sky
I do cry, please but don't apply
This fetter of the sole
At soles mine.
I am at the moon my friend
And if a moment you attend
With me might mix you most in madness
Merry muse, my merry man.'
And at me
Spy this stranger would
And at me, had he wits he should
'Main Street down it you d
TravelersA good idea spreads like
a family name.
One day, it will pack up and
through Carbon or India
Embark from the cerebral port of its origin and venture away
Out into the world to make its fortune all its worldly possessions
what it can carry in its bindle.
whereupon it will be
Judged and ripped and sewn together again and
prodded and examined and
Thrown back and forth in courtrooms as ballistae
or invited to empty dinner tables as a limb of l'olivier
Or warmly gi
Pink Lace Maria is my Best Friend. I told her so back when we danced ballet, back when I had time in the afternoons on Wednesday for play and dance and gymnastics. The last, I quit because I did it year after year and couldn't even bridge down by myself. But I always liked the trampoline; and Maria had one so when we play I always vote for her house, the house with the blue siding and the spiders on the porch and no flooring around the cluttered dining room table and more animals than I have fingers.
And dresses. Maria has a glorious pink mess of lace and satin that is much too big for both of us, but safety pins fix that. And a miracle at a thrift store means that Maria's dress is now mine too, and we are twin messes of pink lace and satin. When we are in her room we don our livery and the makeup she got from her mother for Christmas. We wear it like the model she tells me she'll be and we become princesses. Princesses flying through space in our
Parenting for Sex AddictsThe half-day.
We are not those folks that need an occasion to try. And that’s what they call it, too. Trying. As if the very idea of it is taxing. It’s not taxing and we are not those people.
No. We do not go by some magical calendar. Schedules aren’t really our thing in general. That’d be too organized. Too stuffy. Too… I don’t know… too planned. And we’re not the type of people whom plan.
If we could—plan—our lives would be much different. I think. It’s hard to say because this is how we’ve always been.
Our very togetherness is a result of impulse. I’m almost certain that the amount of time it took us to decide to move in together was significantly shorter than the amount of time it took us to remember each other’s names. We might have had our first conversation moments after that first… what I mean to say is we didn’t plan. Because planning would have been much t
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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