Tboi: NaNoWriMo Best of the Daily (25)

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Tboi.  She liked the sound of his name when she said it.  He’d said her name too.  His words leading up to it had been angry, but not when he said her name.  She closed her eyes, could still hear it, “That’s why we don’t touch the ground, Terra.”  She shortened it.  “That’s why, Terra.”  His voice had softened at her name, had been gentle.  He’d asked her what she was thinking.  She wondered, in the silence that divided them after angry words subsided, what was he thinking.


 

Tune in for quick reads of the best (or least despicable) selections from the previous day’s word count, by virtue of my daily writing regimen for the National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo).  WARNING:  editing has not taken place.

 

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NaNoWriMo Best of the Daily (5)

Haven’t written anything since Monday.  Must, keep, going.  Snagged this from first three days of NaNo.

     Participant-2014-Square-ButtonNow Terra fully knelt on the ground surface and began stretching her arms toward the bottles.  The lycra-carbide overalls counteracted the patches of ground that were more laden with magnetic substances and allowed her to scoot from side to side as she gathered them without her iron-rich blood pooling in her knees.  She rose with Maiden Hassium, but kept her head bent, now fixing her gaze on that broken shoelace at the boy’s feet. 


Tune in for quick reads of the best (or least despicable) selections from the previous day’s word count, by virtue of my daily writing regimen for the National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo).

Lavie

Love Liebe 1You – who take me into the wilds of life and show me sunlight on a tree-hidden lake.  You – who reads me tiny of your conflicted soul and shares me tears from your tender love.  You – with your pillow swept hair and hard-earned freckles.  I love you.

I drifted in near wakefulness while still nestled in your lingering warmth.  And you came to me, curled up to me, and asked me.  Such tingles traveled from my ear to my neck, where you kissed me and planted your wet eyes.  It traveled to my muscles and rolled round my heart, electrified my back and legs and I had to stretch that morning stretch.

You – who bandage my fiscals and cover my scars, you water my passions and snip my anger, and you cook me sustenance and talk to me of spiritual things – the question was answered before it was asked.

Yes, Lavie.  I will marry you.

 


Photo by böhringer friedrich (Own work) [CC-BY-SA-2.5 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.5)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons

She

she looks into me
        and speaks herself

she dreams me full

she blushes me timid

she smiles me happy

she resets me patient

she scares me furious
            … but sweet

inside somewhere i'm white
                as a sheet

but …

she holds me static
            sultry
                    magnetic

her skin tingles me
her heart pounds me
her push pulls me
my want reaches
                    for she.

Drop (March 1999)

look away the maniac
thought once to be the brainiac
at living love and romance (drool),
thought without it life was cruel,
isn’t it ironic?
simply chronic.
what a migraine train
to Hades, ladies,
in first class seats
with nice clean sheets
to mess up with my love making.

shit on a shingle!
where’s Kris Kringle
when i’ve been good
hoping he would
bring me a present
nice and pleasant
somewhat matched
with no heartbreaks attached
(maybe even a picket fence
in some years hence)?
was that too much to ask for fat man?

pardon my rudeness
and excuse the crudeness
when i bash the past
although good to the last

drop.

and a drop is all i feel is left
after all i shared I’m bereft
of anything compared
to what i shared

call it lost or misplaced
unable to be traced
swindled or hijacked
without proper tact
stolen or thieved
i’m still left bereaved
of a piece
or a peace
(whichever you please)
of me that won’t regenerate
i feel like a degenerate
with more left to give
but no strength to give it.

but to live
and not give
would truly be
the epitome
of a dozen-a-dimeful
hazy and crimeful
living
breathing
bitterness seething
work of shame.

As a Splinter Goes

“Why not be content with love?” she asked,
And lingered as the silent pain returned.
Old poets might have found small grace and basked;
Not so in this, regret and training learned.

“If for my love she greets me thus with woes,
And if my reaching heart is all in vain –
I will remove it as a splinter goes,
And future stretch of hope I will disdain.”

Stehekin, Washington, and the north end of Lak...