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About Deviant Artist Pockets Big BearFemale/United States Recent Activity
Deviant for 13 Years
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Literature
study 1
Laced up sneakers
penitentiary brew
genuflecting more than usual lately
been at the bottom of too many hills
and eaten a lot of strangers' pills
I discovered the dark self
emptying cupboards and pantry shelves
and stealing away into the thick Maine woods again
at one a.m.
:iconignia:ignia
:iconignia:ignia 1 0
Literature
WIP - a time traveler poem
A long time ago I froze
like an insect,
a praying mantis mantled
with a curse, and watched
the dirty sun, his worst eye-catcher.
For hours now he’s been still as gold and
glass, dusty as chin-height china:
thinking of his father and the fall
of the antebellum oak.
Memory of it’s sifted as if ground down
summer-soft. He used to curse,
swearing to injure time herself.
To see him now calls them in like a hanging.
All the smallest doubts, knuckle-rough
like ravens with their throaty shouts:
please us
and hold us down.
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:iconignia:ignia 0 0
Literature
Lately I've been having dreams
Lately I've been having dreams:
living things, crashing again and again,
stronger and weaker,
baring teeth and pepper-tongued
rage. You flipped the page
just before I was through.
Were it up to you,
my heart would be shot through with holes
like the needles of the past were all at once
unlatched.
Your sweat taunts me, sticks your shirt
to your spine, makes your
knees wet, harrows me.
Somewhere above, five hawks
cycled through today on a
wheel from the west.
Tell me I haven't laughed in days.
I want to feel incredulous again,
and touched with sin, and
nearly home,
but you know well the darkness
of a Montana night.
Drive to meet me at the mouth.
We can watch the elk
merge their shadows with the trees,
know peace in a truck bed, and sleep
until the dawn birds chide us awake.
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:iconignia:ignia 0 0
Sunrise layer :iconignia:ignia 3 2
Literature
On applying oneself
When faced with a river of
colors without forms and shot
through with liquid rock, salt
and chalk and leaking
what looks like oil, you, a formal
mess, search blindly back
and bat-like through time.
The flashes come and with
rum-filled softness curb you.
Like any other mess you've
made your living from
a parity - as much of living
as of rest, testing breaths
against a symmetry: what
reflected back and what
remains. Only an error
of judgment at the center,
a mountain road no traveling
obtains. Round again
flown back to home,
a smooth stone riddled
rough and singing -
refrain, refrain, refrain.
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:iconignia:ignia 1 4
Literature
Portraits of men in the rain
She stitched so much skin to that hurricane,
drained and pulling at cotton threads,
sucking on leaves and statues' feet.
So she couldn't see for the storm of him.
If she pulled him he'd say don't wait for the raincloud
to jump right in again.
A paradox in a pile of wind with a dream pinched in, he
was a storm with a stick,
an old man leaning on sinking beams,
a cat in a roadside hedge, hitting tires every now and again.
She watched him circle, drinking wine;
she cackled at the static. In the air his arms
were bare, in the dewless morning drying.
If she charged him with murder, he'd laugh
and say don't we both know that the tempest
don't kill if no one gets in the way.
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:iconignia:ignia 2 2
Literature
Montepulciano d'Abruzzo
This wine is an earthbound vessel
that you take in two long drinks:
one gets you to the border
and the other sets you past it.
You may well do this alone,
for transport knits the spirit to the storm clouds
as surely as cellars keep more keys
than secrets in them, and
there are embers dissolved in this glass
like a cottage-light hidden in hills:
each sip in the stairwell
is a step from the lantern hung outside
and floating, or footprints from a door
opened wholly onto evening.
You are made liminal
and blurred out by it,
wine soft as candlelight
spun round in darkness.
It holds a deep fire-lighted will
and has always had the means to move you.
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:iconignia:ignia 0 0
Dartmoor 28.11 :iconignia:ignia 1 3 Lights at Dawlish :iconignia:ignia 1 0
Literature
64. Multitasking
Hanging photos with sunrise precision.
My walls, grid-like, artists displayed
to the same degree as the chipping white paint.
I missed the true Renaissance while I was out smoking.
Drawing in smoke I unfocus all I let go.
A part of the blue from my eyes,
one or two flaring-out moments of contact,
small in relation to pinecones and other chipped
seeds, softer and infinitely more piercing in relation.
Showering, the cool tile, my palms coursing. Hot water
tracing lines with mountainous precision. Lets me smoke
one cigarette at lunch, one at dinner, and one
while I sit in my windowsill while
night’s cup-like hand covers my face.
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:iconignia:ignia 0 0
Literature
Poetry Reading
The editor wears a pear-colored suit.
I feel he should have been a baker
with a white misshapen hat,
or flour on his doughy hands.
Should anyone misspeak, be sure
they will be made to sit in the dreary
silence afterward, while thoughts of
blood-drenched battlefields pound like hooves
through the ribcages of gentle women.
The poet himself is nearly white with love,
like a thin paper pressed by oily hands
until translucent, then worried and smudged,
then torn. Restrained by his navy tie,
he speaks until hoarse. He is here,
staring out at us through watery
blue eyes. We are staring back
like a multitude of wretched squirrels,
fingering our books of poetry.
He reads the only poem that made
me twitch. It is then I know he would
rather we were all naked, or bloody,
or throwing back shots of whiskey.
He would prefer it if we bellowed
back at him all the poems he
was too scared to write, and
much too blind to feel.
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:iconignia:ignia 0 2
pine :iconignia:ignia 0 0
Literature
A song for driving home
This song is a series of mile markers
It is a state highway
This song is a wet road
As hard as the rain on the windows
It is the western sky folding in on itself
A fire sinking into cinders
This song layers colors crooning
Rose, sand, orange, and deep deep blue
And sleeping keeps its stars alight.
This song is not green or yellow like stones and grass
It does not yell from cliffs
Into the black of night.
It is not a light.
This song keeps time in miles
It is a high yearning song for skies
It only sings in sunsets
This song is soft when the wind is still
And lives when the summer dies.
:iconignia:ignia
:iconignia:ignia 0 0
Literature
15. Silence
Somewhere along the interstate there were
two people sitting for a while in the dark.
All long drives must go through mountains,
And pause or drift through uncertain darkness.
Sharp like birdsong, he and I.
I will look back and decide
we never knew our destination.
Towns were black dots,
and their names beside them never
saw us pass them by: Starbuck,
Othello, Clarkston and then,
crossing the Snake, in the setting sun a blue
orange, purple, saffron spill of paint:
Lewiston, seen
from a hazy stitched-up height.
I thought we might be near the heart of it.
But what does it take to define this place?
For a long time we drove in silence
over a flat plain, and darkness stretched
away on either side.
We pulled off the road. Heard our two doors
shutting, then silence.  
We climbed on the hood of the car,
not talking. He leaned
back on the hood next to me.
We breathed, the only two quivering bodies
in this vast dark silence,
staring up at the sky as if for directions
to a center.
I re
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Literature
32. Night
Around the middle of the night, or could
I say the eye? In truth it was invisible,
so lying there, I tried to think - or would
you say decide? -  A dialogue: inaudible,
stacked up and rattling down, of plates
and all the cracks and chips that they contain.
A midnight brims with wine, exacerbates
the fear of choosing doors whose slams refrain
and fail to hold the night, and all my thoughts
just snap - they splinter and fall flat. I am
caught lying, not breathing, now look - the knots
are come undone. Now everything the dam
restrained is - would you say it flows,
or does my heart drink all, while hunger grows?
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:iconignia:ignia 2 0
Literature
The Time Traveler 2
During the rain, he sleeps inside the bus –
His hands have grown around his knees, like rust –
Was it the art of wanderlust, that wore,
A man so crooked, sunk against the door?
That time, maniacal, should speak –
Of veins, or hope, or roads –
Of golden blood,
However shone,
A stark displacement, more than bone –
This is the traveling man –
His memories, in this beast,
As brown-eyed creatures, digging through the streets –
First – stop – then thunder – then comes down in sheets –
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:iconignia:ignia 1 3

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As I always knew I would

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:iconsfreidin:
sfreidin Featured By Owner Mar 23, 2016  Hobbyist Photographer
Thanks
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Mheely Featured By Owner Jul 27, 2015  Hobbyist General Artist
Thanks for the fav!

If you like my art, please help me support my facebook page!

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Means a lot to me!

-Mheely
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sfreidin Featured By Owner Apr 13, 2015  Hobbyist Photographer
Thanks
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Swep-Lovitt Featured By Owner Jul 24, 2014
thanks for the favorite, swep
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:iconsfreidin:
sfreidin Featured By Owner Apr 24, 2014  Hobbyist Photographer
Thanks for the watch !
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StephGabler Featured By Owner Feb 8, 2014  Professional Photographer
Thank you for the llama :)
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WTek79 Featured By Owner Aug 18, 2013  Hobbyist Photographer
Hello dear, just a little feature to thank you for support ! :hug:

Watcher's Feature !!!
Have a great day ! :wave: :sun:
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:iconignia:
ignia Featured By Owner Sep 26, 2013
Thaaaank you!
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:iconwtek79:
WTek79 Featured By Owner Apr 4, 2013  Hobbyist Photographer
Thank you so much for watching :worship:
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Tyrose Featured By Owner Apr 3, 2013
Thank you for the :+fav: on tiger
:iconbummy1::iconbummy2::iconbummy3:
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