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Pst... Any writing can be boiled down to the BS if you analyze it hard enough. I really just enjoy reading something and letting the feelings and thoughts that it leaves me with tell the story, which you did just great and hella. Not all things can do that, a lot of acclaimed things too, mostly because it's taste, but seriously, thank you for sharing!

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No problem. Now that I know it's appreciated, perhaps we'll throw a few more in as they pop up.

Despite what was told you, I do not like committing crimes. 

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A binding to a position enjoyed,

By my skeletally bone wielding hand,

Commissioned to have redone, or folded,

From aged oaken end to aged oaken end,

Their library, in my view much too small,

For such a term that I would have reserved,

At least for collections spanning a hall,

At minimum, longer than a headboard.

Abroad in a land with sand for soil,

I remain to work behind in their house,

Here for the whole year to fold and toil,

Literature as an obedient mouse.


Spring is when my insomnia set in,

A week into the task my ill would resume,

Obliged to stay awake and fold lines thin,

Sitting in the wicker chair of that room,

The windowless observatory, grand,

Full with a brass telescope so ornate,

But useless here on its feeble stand,

Worthless as a tool like lost shipwrecked freight,

It kept my company among the frost,

And calls of the bright returning songbirds,

Coming back to this secluded forest,

Where roosted this home, divided in thirds,

Into its reading and antique chambers,

Au centre: the master, kitchen and table,

And the greenhouse, where my other labors,

Were done among plants, each with their label,

Planting, watering, raising and sowing,

Each pepper, spice and apple of the earth,

Were my sleepless additions to working,

Finding in mundane tasks a sense of worth.

Within these rustic fifteen meters squared,

Lost myself in pages rebound and furled,

Slowly healing my restfulness impaired,

Myself, motivated in the real world.


By Summer I had calmed myself and eased,

Into a new rhythm in accordance,

With blossoming nature and its fresh leaves,

And a new host of trouble, once dormant.

The old wooden walls fell to disrepair,

Leaks turned into puddles in summer rain,

Moss needed to be cleaned from the front stair,

Morphed my constant effort to quiet pain.

Often the efforts felt like failure or,

Worse, a wasted time with scant rest or drink,

A few times awarding notable gore,

From where attention slipped slight as a blink.

A scar running along the cephalic,

From a misstep with an old chipped door bolt,

Looking from my path for a moment quick,

Cutting fast and straight like one might a smolt.

A blistered burn on the wrist opposite,

From the hot dish of my meager dinner,

A stainless skillet thought as moderate,

Only to bring peppers to a simmer.

After the slow and humid month of June,

The book binding and folding was finished,

Spending new free time in the sunlit room,

Where legumes were grown and brought to flourish,

There among the evening storms of July,

I would sit on the edge of a planter,

Reading again the text of Musashi,

Listening to light splashes and thunder,

And gentle drip of the glass roof leaking,

Miniscule drops for plants to lightly share,

Only one of which was thorned and dying,

Refusing to live or accept my care.


Autumn was the time of greatest interest,

When the weather turned to crisp, clear and cold,

And the storming quickly ceased to persist,

The horizon turning red, yellow, gold,

I opened the windows and screened the doors,

To fill the home with a pleasant, fresh air,

Letting nature in, creating more chores,

But with a traded comfort more than fair,

Leaving me to make varied excuses,

To sit and lay around more to think,

And enjoy the views of orange evening skies,

And to fix myself various hot drinks.

Interest being brought to the time special,

In the week following the equinox,

One quiet moonless night became quite eventful,

On whose morning I awoke to a fox,

Who must have entered through open windows,

To settle in the greenhouse by the dead plant,

Nestling under its thorny, spindly growths,

Fast asleep like an ancient hierophant,

With long streaking fur of bright russet hues,

Though I thought it would look best with silver,

Curled around its own tail and bloodied wounds,

Making me want to make it familiar.

Sense, however, did tell me otherwise,

I should let it return to the wild,

So I opened the door to the outside,

Letting in more of the weather mild.

As I waited for it to rise and scare,

I leaned against the planters, watching it,

To gently pick and eat a pepper rare,

Then doing what I imagined of it.

With its parting I began closing up,

All of the windows and doors to prevent,

Disturbance and qualms of another pup,

Or my stay from marks of another event.


In Winter, with vulpine thoughts still adance,

And the house was closed, drafty and freezing,

My tasks no longer needing their advance,

And the water for more hot drinks boiling,

I sat in wicker chair, moved from its room,

Now in the kitchen, set by the window,

All dusted from my rest, needing the broom,

Dust highlighted in shade with a neat row.

A beautiful glimpse of frost and felled snow,

Making me want this home to be my own,

Making me not want to think or to know,

When they return and I would be alone,

Without a home with such a quiet soul,

Or a place to relax and breathe softly,

With simple tasks to make myself feel whole,

To return to the grind and live quickly,

But I do not want to think about this,

And instead savor the moments fleeting,

With a warm elixir ready to please,

The five rings finished least frice in reading,

Wise and equal to other culture’s reads,

Read by the peak of each season's passings,

Drives slowly, as ever time crawls, slowly,

Until spring, here at the end of all things.


Perhaps one quite near or far away day,

I will be able to look at myself and,

See no obedient mouse any way,

Without a purpose or reason to send,

Instead everyone well motivated,

Eventful, pensive as I find myself,

And then find an end where the waters red,

Are conserved without violent spill farewell,

And a kind of peace that this year I beheld,

Can be each mouse’s harmonious choice,

Free from tests, trials or need to excel,

Only needing use of creative voice.

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  • 1 month later...

Well... I was just offered the "highly coveted", heh, position of FA's Poet of the Month for the upcoming month of June... which is convenient because I am fresh out of creative ideas to write poetry on... So... point is that I'm asking for suggestions from y'inz as to what I should write, or write about, next.

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Of course, I'd love to, simply, I fear I don't know you well enough too, so... perhaps a bit of information to go off of, and then hella gi!

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Such a dancing grace,

An elder of perceived kin,

Immutable to the tasse,

Formed slender and thin,

With a broad plume of red,

A fiery wake and tract of hair,

Flowing gently off her head,

Blowing back into the air,


But form does not tell of heart or mind,

Nor of steadiness of palm or hand,

But in these abstractions she finds,

Relief and calmness through a voice,

That can only be heard through waves,

Twitches not of the air, but of the eyes,

And in a memory shared she saves,

And weaves in leaves her masterpieces.

She spreads them on the tiniest threads,

And gives inspiration freely as her name,

A magnificent stream of greens blues and reds,

Above in the sky in nights without rain,

And reaches out to create relations,

Beyond the tangibility of sight,

And befriend by art across the nations,

To add to her world a new ounce of light.

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