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@dictionandmetaphor
Hello, again!!
It’s been almost three years since the last time I posted on this blog.
Much has happened.
But it is time that I believe I want to revisit the concept for this literary space.
I will still be open for submissions. I will also continue Shuffle Prompt Tuesday.
Stop by. Read, listen, submit your work.
Have an awesome day, and until next time!
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Me: I'm just going to read for ten minutes before bed.
*four hours later*
Me: It doesn't matter, time's an illusion anyway.
I’ve been waiting for this for the longest freaking time BLESS YOU
I really really want to read this and I keep forgetting to get it at the library or bookstore
you’ve heard of a big dick, now get ready for
Shuffle Prompt Tuesday: December 15, 2015 [A Request]
pick the song for next week!
Taking requests for songs! What should next week’s poem be to? Or do you have a prompt in mind? Leave thoughts in the comments! -KS
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me, jumping from one emotional extreme to another: parkour
Space Capsule Tea Infuser on thinkgeek
Wordy Wednesday:"I POUR YOU THIS POEM"
I POUR YOU THIS POEM By Lana Bella
But I can only pour you this poem:
with poor cloth-made and form not yet shaped,
metaphors rain upon flesh and bone
floating riddles dress in pale champagne froth
tiers of honeysuckle foam pin to a clover’s song
light seeps inside the ink droplets black--
an ever-musing vestal rhyme
charts my fingers to your mortal gasps.
With warmth of day the eyes grow dark,
I breathe your name of caress reigns
where wings of holy light stretch my ocean vast,
in soft similes of wind-drops caught
and hollow crowning thorns.
Weak nods full of sleep in the shadows deep,
old notes draw your breaths once more--
depart soon as last sighs coax from my lips,
courting you home.
_______________________________ Diction and Metaphor | Submit
Shuffle Prompt Tuesday: December 8, 2015
The Earth revolves,
Generations condensed into the being that is you,
Society receives the same effect – the precedents, atrocities, and biases of the past
Still affect the present - all the major arguments for social concern during the 20th century are still being argued in the 21st.
The balancing act of taking on the history of our parents while being our own entity – forming a new mold out of the inherited parts that are assembled in a unique manner, smoothed by experience, environment, and personality.
Learn from the histories of those who came before us and even our peers as it’s a way to see into another’s point of view, but it’s those biases of perspective that it is important to stay objective of while still respecting their opinion.
It’s a matter of letting things be and being your own person
Because every person has a beginning
There was a beginning to everything – that is merely the first step, and what is important is what you do next.
The argument of whose theory on the history of everything is right is one of the main reasons for as much war we have in this world right now.
The world is at odds –
Lost in nostalgia, but nose deep in the future; wanting our cake, and eating it too, taking our jazz with a side of dubstep and metal to fit the meter We’re reading all the stories from years past as we write out new ways to explore them, it’s a gloriously heavy cycle of machinery and meaning and responsibilities, each individually installed and tuned accordingly, to be continued uniquely new but still an inspired continuation
-KS Prompt: Are the parents crimes, their children’s consequences? Song: “We didn’t start the fire” by Billy Joel
Diction and Metaphor | Tumblr |Submit
Shuffle Prompt Tuesday: December 1, 2015
Somewhere in America in a vacant, sunbleached stripmall during the pitch dark of midnight, a man in loose, sweatdrenched clothes finished setting up the twenty-fourth easel and canvas along the sidewalk under the portico outside the deserted storefronts - the sea of shadowy parking lot divided the man's activity from the For Sale sign with it's fresh Sold sticker. The man walked down the row of easels he had set up, each ready for its time to grow. An hour to capture that hour then on to the next. He opened his paint box on a pushcart and wheeled it up to the first one. He checked his watch, ten minutes to go, he gulped down a couple mouthfuls from the flask he then tucked back into his jacket pocket. He wanted to capture the sun as it crosses its semicircle in the patch of uninterrupted sky at the end of the expanse of asphalt. Five minutes till 1am, he starts mixing his paints - dark blues and purples, black and shade of tangerine streaming from the streetlights. 2am to 4am didn't change his palette much, but by 5am he was seeing details he hadn't at 3am. From 5am to 8am passed in a flurry of predawn, sunrise, and then ascending shadows and glares of light waking up the world and the man's palette into greens, browns, creams, blues, yellows, and so on. 8:30am to 12:30pm a car club met in the outfields of the parking lot so subjects passed in each panel like clouds on a windy day that you watch pass from a bay window. 1pm to 3:30pm the shadows stretched and the scenery was most spare - except for the painting of 2pm where the little dog ran by trailing the long leash it had gnawed from its anchor around a tree. 4pm to 5:30's sunset conceived a perfect Golden Hour with brushstroke clouds that dragged the sunset's colors across the sky. Shades of blue back into darkness from 6pm to 8pm. 8pm to 11pm the man got the scene painted in 30 minutes and then hoped for anything to pass by as his feet tapped along with a silent drummer - he was only rewarded in the 11pm hour when a couple stumbled across the lot to go to the bar next to the abandoned stripmall. The midnight painting had the blackest sky with the most calming quality to the solitary location. When it was 1am, the man laid down at the end of his line of impressions of the day; he thought it was the best way to spend his day off. A patrol car cruised by the easels and stopped midway to check out the scene. The lone cop looked at each progression of afternoon into night. He stopped at the end of the line where the man was curled in his sleeping bag, dark curls the only the only discernible human characteristic other than the snoring billowing into the night. The off duty cop on his way home returned to his vehicle, figuring the new developers had commissioned the paintings before the new construction began and completely changed the surroundings and limited the sky's dominance of the scene in front of the stripmall with whatever new stores are shoved into the structure. The man mumbled something in his dream and rolled over, oblivious to reality and only half aware of the abstractions fluttering by his closed eyelids.
-KS Prompt: Impressions Song: "Waiting for the Beat to Kick In" by Dan Le Sac Vs Scroobius Pip Diction and Metaphor | Tumblr | Submit
Shuffle Prompt Tuesday: November 24, 2015
Each day you challenge yourself to a battle to get as much done as possible yet that surge of energy the creative spirit that needs to be portrayed --- maybe grab the camera (your eye is the opening to another world), splashes of paint (where is the pigment in the creases of your hands?), words blurted in a fury to later be edited into whatever meaning you're reading into you words tonight (well that one is working triple time). Making time to express the feelings and emotions you have in the creative medium of your choosing. A release, a smile, a way to stop yourself from stopping everything that is you. A way when the weight of the world you build & juggle in your own head doesn't win and instead proactively goes towards clearing the expression that is lodged in your head and work to understand the moods that seem impossible to comprehend. You are a gallery, filled with complicated sculptures, music and paintings from every era with sporadic poetry & short fiction recited in flash mobs -- and more than half the place is still being reinnovated. Each day another piece of the exhibit is unveiled.
-KS Prompt: Art Saving Lives Song: "Poem" by Taproot
Diction and Metaphor | Tumblr | Submit
The night behind us
We walk and our fingers find the canals of each other’s backs and gather there like rain.
