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Poetic stuff

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Nestled with their bodies curled in huddling warmth, surrounded with their red and bushy plumed tails, pawed and clawed with a body of russet and the sensual texture of satin like the felt of a collared coat, sleep a nest of kits who await the return of their full bodied mother, her form light and gray like the ashes of a newly charred and felled tree, her eyes of d'or and piercing in their narrow slits, out looking at the panoramic beauty of her surrounding countryside, holding firm the waters that reflect her appearance to the other shore by force of immobile stone in the shape of mountains, rolling brown, gray, blue and silver into the horizon to meet with the cloud filled sky that heralds the calling of storms through its impending grayness, bearing host to a lattice of showers that will freshen the browning of the grass and make smooth again the stones that she, the she-fox, stands upon, looking out over the field that stretches between her and her pearlescent lake for a trace of prey to snatch in snarling maw or thrash with outstretched paw to return home to her litter of eight younglings, naught more than a four-season old, so that when they awake by the calling of storm their cries for nourishment will be appeased by gold-eyes, who continues to wait and wait as the wind rolls over the hills and across the smooth, tranquil waters to ruffle the brush and disturb her matted fur, long overdue for a cleaning, and excite the birds from the trees, swooping overhead to go wherever it was that the birds would go, save a lone hawk who alternated between perching himself on a branch that cropped a good meter out of the ground where it had fallen and over the same plain that gold-eyes watched with her ears twitching, whiskers trembling in the breeze and her soft breath sending up puffs of mist that snaked upwards before dispersing and loosing its color of fresh bone, which she still hunted for on behalf of her kits, likely exhaling a similar mist in this season as they rolled and yipped and played with each other while their mother stood watch at the entrance to their den, looking out in search of threats and then back at her beloveds to enjoy their happiness and fulfillment, looking forward to the next instance to behold such mignonne playfulness, which she, gold-eyes used to have enjoyed in the presence of her father as she and her siblings traveled across the wild plains and mountains following the path of the hares and the swooping tails of the songbirds that they would catch and let redden, just as her first kill as a pup, impatient as the newborn that she was, young gold-eyes crept stealthily around the burrow of the hare that she had tracked, far out from the gaze of old amber-eyes and his mate and kin, waiting for it to come out and look for its own meal, but it would not oblige her, so she pawed at the opening, digging at it until it was scared out of another hold, ensuing a chase between the younglings that ended with the now mature gold-eyes pawing at the lifeless mass of bloodied meat that laid upon a rock not unlike the one that she hawked from now, continuing her vigil as the hawk continued its own, tempting and taunting her with its delicious and feathery body, swooping over and across, seeming to leave a black and shadowy trail of where it had just been like the quick flick of a flame, only seen to gold-eyes as a far bright thing on the horizon of the previous season's quiet evenings, simultaneously calling her curiosity towards it while repelling her with its unnatural qualities, which made her wonder what her pups would think of flame when they witnessed it for the first time on the horizon of that warm season and if they, like gold-eyes had been inclined to do, would creep towards it out of curiosity and have to be stopped with a firm paw or swipe of the tail, or perhaps they would retreat to the den, like gold-eyes had done herself when she had been sufficiently reprimanded by amber-eyes and his mate, who probably watched from a vantage very similar to the one she now held above the low grassy field that stretched brown, yellow and green between her wizened gray form and the newly disturbed lake that gave freely their water and that of their prey, which she hunted now from afar, watching for their trails and movements in the clear expanse that was before her, allowing the gales from the approaching storm to arrive at her mane with full force and bristle her further, telling her with its unrelenting power to return to the kits and comfort them throughout the ever-approaching night, but gold-eyes was fast and strong in the face of danger and was unrelenting herself in her determination and would not cease her watching until there was flesh between her teeth and blood slowly working its way across her muzzle with the fresh kill that would sate, at least for another day, the eight younglings that awaited gold-eyes back in her rocky den, some distance behind her up the gentle slope of the foothills between the baseness of the rippling lake and the ice capped peak of the mountain in which she had made her home.

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I wrote y'inz three because reasons.


Emerald set in chrome,

Cut thin but deep to reflect,

Fractured rays of light.

Like burning brilliance,

The essence flows between them,

Brought forth to all’s sight.

Material form,

Of something intangible,

Fiery in the night.


From working all day,

Comes coal dust under his nails,

So hard to wash out.

But she does not mind,

When it streaks across her face,

When he holds her tight.

Or how it stains glass,

And ceramic as he eats,

For the two are bound.


Not all is perfect,

About either of these hawks,

Things they dispute.

The nest, the next prey,

Grooming, weather and whether,

Young or old gray plumes.

But they will resolve,

For their attachment is not,

Thin, but shared as one.

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Again, I have to compliment the flow of your writing. It feels so natural- like each one is a vivid memory being recounted to a close friend.

Thanks so much for these! I especially like the first one which I assume is about either a wedding or engagement ring.

Never heard a piece of jewelry described like that before.

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41.NM "The Pain of Being One of my Kin"


This is a game for playing late in the moon:


Run out and away towards a freedom star,

Under sky or canopy, over river or dune,

Just run someplace that seems so very far,


Sit down on your hands and here’s what you’ll do:


With the fourth finger draw a seven point sun,

Then trace some circles about it, maybe three or two,

Close your eyes and count to at least ninety-one,


Think hard and this is what you must see:


Faces around a table at which you are the head,

When the table is set, a meal before each seat,

You may then open them, so long as there is no red,

From the star ascendant, or the absence of a guest,

You may then take your turn or choose to go next,

But what is this turn, what does it do?

Nothing of course.

Who would play such a game with someone like you?


-I wrote this tonight on a bit of a whim and it has some meaning to me, but I feel like it's a super strange way of conveying that meaning. What do you think, is it like super accusative sounding or just plain weird or a stroke of brilliance or what have you? I'm just so tired help and can't think straight why else would I be posting help me please.

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Except fore the ending two lines, the entire thing is extremely familiar to me. Like a forgotten memory of ancient poetry. Yet not this exact variant, but rather the idea. The last two lines you are on your own for. They do not fit.

Host comments in italics. Tulpa's log. Tulpa's guide.

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I think you're right. I may or may not actually make a change to it and do something about it, but thanks for helping me find what's off with it. It definitely doesn't flow well there and takes a turn that's a bit too drastic for the style that was set in earlier lines, so yep.

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Valentine's day haiku:


Today is the day,

Where the red i spill is not,

Of sanguine nature.

But instead is paint,

On the canvass that I will,

From heart send to you.

Exploring love and,

Apologizing for my,

Faults and my failures.

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Just a thing I wrote awhile ago.


my grandfather

wears his wife on his jeans.

her cockeyed stitches, loose and

thick gold against the patchwork mess

he wears on his legs, keep him warm

while the morning draft claws at

his ankles in the early spring.

i wear long-johns i

bought from Target and they

sag and catch on the

weeds i can't keep out.


my grandfather's grass

is green and splays

out up into the low sky

like fresh wake on the beach,

less like blades, more like

the springy green sea a

near-blind child has always known.


my grandfather

always asks me to hold the rope

by which he drops his seeds,

sure to grow up stronger than

any i plant at home. i

think he goes back once i leave

so he can fix my

unhandy work because

damn those rows are straight.


my grandfather

gives his basket of

tomatoes and cucumbers and

carrots brown with the thick soil

of a good yard to his wife who

puts them in a stew that only he and she

will eat, but i can't cook the

broken, sickly, yellow, wilted tulips

back behind my house.

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