Free Stories, Poetry and Essays
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Two broken hearts,
One hidden, one revealed.
Only one had the man who broke it,
Also be the man who it healed.
What movie am I?
Hi guys! Another erasure poem here! This one is from Disciplines by Dawn Lundy Martin
If there is prayer, there is a mother kneeling, hands folded to a private sign. We recognize it. If there is a mother kneeling, hands a tent, she is praying or she is crying or crying and praying at the same time. Although it is recognized, the signals of it, it is private and no one knows, perhaps not even she, the content of the prayer, and perhaps its object. If there is a mother praying, she is on her knees over some object, as one does not often pray in the middle of the room. One prays at the window or over the bed, the head bent slightly up or down, the eyes open or closed. This is a prayer for prayers, you know, a wanting something equal to a prayer, even though I am not a mother.
Hi guys! Haven’t posted in a while, have I? Sorry about that!
Here’s an erasure poem created using the following four texts: Short Walk on Sleep Stones by Anne Carson, Harbour by Michael Ondaatje, the Orphan Lamb by Amy Hempel and the Deck by Yusef Komunyakaa.
Three of the chosen texts were pretty sad, so I wanted to subvert them and get something life-affirming out of them! Anyway, here’s the result:
I am living at night. It is real life. It is sincere. I sing and I love. Dancing at they wait. Anonymity and seduction. His body over mine. Like old lovers guessing each other’s move. With as much euphoria as we can expect from the living.
I’m getting too old.
For imaginary friends.
No! Not when I write.
Blindness. And silence. But for your own beating heart.
The only sound you’ll ever hear, tearing your sanity apart.
It’s time to cut the cake.
And so the children scream.
In lieu of the silent cake.
Scream, scream. Off with his head!
A/N: We have some weird traditions here in Denmark…
I tried a chapter,
And I quickly gave up.
So I went for a page
… still couldn’t back it up.
Perhaps a paragraph
Is the way to go?
I quickly discover
That the answer is no.
But a single sentence.
Success! (if but small).
And a little is far more
Than nothing at all.
No friends
As a princess
Only he.
Circus cub
Fierce tiger
Protector of she.
A clock irate,
A teacup chipped,
The candelabra, he connives.
The beast, he fought,
But so did they,
The stuff that came alive.
Little red crab,
With a musical voice.
Fretful but never unkind.
Sent by order,
Stayed for love,
In the world that ate his kind.
mariasjostrand 