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Literature
Waterfall
Your eyelids and your kneecaps
veils to your inward Spring
went without applause
at the podium
Saved for days deep in mist
under the covers, under care
the rain pouring outside
your waterfall hair
pouring over us
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Literature
Semicolons, After Summer
Sometime after the last fireworks of summer,
I took to semicolons for putting out flames.
A part of me; they’ve no ownership.
I let thoughts exist on the other side of a fence,
where I’d never have to know the greenness
or the number of lawn chairs needed to put them to rest.
I let them float between life and death, leashed to a respirator.
So I would never have to know what it means to be walked out on.
In this netherspace, they do not consume me.
And my lungs beat their wings to draw breath.
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:iconharperq:HarperQ 2 2
Literature
Reaching
Nothing tickles the doormat of life
more than the boxes of elbow macaroni
well-stocked in the kitchen cabinet
on the uppermost tier, nigh on
puppets of olden aristocracy
(Records say you descend from noble blood,
ages removed, do they not?)
I stretch and strain to reach
I’m more partial to bow-tie pasta
but this really has nothing to do with
gastronomy
This is a message
from the seamstress of the stars,
a cosmic face, revealing itself
when I see you reach for the vessel
and bring the cadets back down to earth
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:iconharperq:HarperQ 0 2
Literature
Threads
I am the soft-shell crab you’ve managed to crack and let limelight
spill on doll-size organs. In ways unmentioned at night’s door, I
was cracked long before. The admission blisters for two moons,
but then it glides, buttermilk, massaging an empty esophagus.
You could recite to me the last words of a death row inmate, and
I would be moved, as no other has. Sunday welcomes in the blues
through the open window. Your hand takes refuge in mine, and
we reach for something brighter than the bullseye. Our fingers
yank the threads that weave the blanket, at rest, in our lap. We
come undone.
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Literature
Together
Al fin, no matter-
Elmer Fudd and Elmer's glue
brings us together
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:iconharperq:HarperQ 0 2
Literature
Fade
The broken-winged expression
on your exterior says a mouthful
escapes the sliver between lips
of a half-cracked smile
You’re trying to preserve tact
I can tell
And it layers a film around us
You bear the same scar
shaped like a snowshoe
where ancestors roamed
an avalanche unto your creation
The memory doesn’t percolate
have the rose-gold shimmer
in the way that it should
Cluster of unpopped kernels
at the bottom of a kettle
I guess I picked the dud
I fix my gaze on the daisies
storefront, newly bloomed
hoping the owner turns a profit
of their good intentions
You wear the same face
candlewaxed in my childhood
I cannot produce a tear, dignity
keeps my ribs from cracking
I shift my weight to the side
(tugged by an invisible cord)
Sorry, I must be mistaken
and let you walk by
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:iconharperq:HarperQ 4 8
Literature
Flow
You have a twig in your hair. And it might be of service to say something, but it’s not spinach nesting between your teeth, and we aren’t in a restaurant in New York. So, I mark it ‘Off Limits’ and file it away with the taxes. It blends well with the rest of you, an inelegant but stunning wildness brought forth from the flow of primordial earth.
And as we come down from the mountain, it is almost as if we are leafing through the peaks and valleys of our own constituency. A stop-motion film at a drive-in, projected on to the skyline as we trek. Not to quarrel over the cumbersome, the spoiled tuna fish sandwiches forgotten on the kitchen counter. Or to filibuster a Friday disagreement. This is to remember. Because I would choose you now, as I did then. I choose this. Everyday. There are no end credits yet.
When we get home, you slink off to the shower. I am half-asleep when you emerge, the lyrical murmur of your laughter easing the shadows. You set the twig on the
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Literature
Coax
the words crumble
like soda crackers
before she can inquire
her mouth goes dry
spearmint tic-tacs
forgotten in the
glove compartment
of her beat-up
two-wheel drive
she is somebody’s
daughter
and a good one
for keeping time
her wristwatch
seconds the motion
and she sits
with the others
in a straight line
mauve is tragic
she muses
looking down
at the chair
she wants to voice
this revelation
to the woman
seated beside her
a smile can show
too many teeth
this slab of truth
holds gristle
around the waist
the stranger stands
coaxed by her name
and she waits for
the sound of her own
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:iconharperq:HarperQ 3 2
Literature
The Social Life
Every one of us on our best behavior
sit up straight with ballerina posture
like we were made to sip tea slowly
The world needs to know
you’re someone worth watching
Scoff and sneer all you please
When you don’t RSVP
you are still there
in spirit
Part of the fine-laced tumor
growing
in the wiring of our brains
and our mechanisms
The feelers of a centipede
creeping in, unconscious
An open gallery of wonders
and of filth
for the public forum to toy
with over a keyboard
We are not so far past
the gallows and the guillotine
when we set ourselves up
for every fall
and we feel like we were
made for this
:iconHarperQ:HarperQ
:iconharperq:HarperQ 5 4
Literature
and all the hands i am to hold
under the fading bar lights
i want see life-tempered hands
deliver brewskies to the table
help me clasp the necklace in place
and give it one caress, for measure
i hope a panther paw reaches out
to poke me in the rib, in ambush
welcoming the thunder of laughter
let me feel the press of reassurance,
unfeel the lecherous stroke of misluck
on the window pane, to the symphony
of rain, scoring pictures and emblems
curled into the lexicon of merry vandals
remove shrapnel from my tortoiseshell
and comb my hair as night sleeps again
:iconHarperQ:HarperQ
:iconharperq:HarperQ 2 3
Literature
Home
I don't think it's strange that I remember where you live(d)
no stranger than the groaning of the entryway floor
Street names and numbers snake through the sieve of memory
but I can make a mold of the precise corners and points of turn
Someone else has taken up residence on the second floor
a taller, younger, less stubbly someone who smiles with diffidence
But I understand the floors don't play in quite the right key
when lighter feet brush across them in the unadorned darkness
The days have survived you, and some, are survived by you
despite threads of dark hair hiding in patio doors, behind curtains
With palms open, I pray the land treats you like someone familiar
and the home you searched for sings to you with meaning
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:iconharperq:HarperQ 1 5
Literature
The Days
Monday
Temporary life
Fending off furlough
Legs grow back anew
Movement
Tuesday
Ticker tape
Boats come ashore
Applause fringes the race
Release
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:iconharperq:HarperQ 2 7
Literature
Grace
You returned with quail eggs
I framed you as a madwoman
A pinch or a drop perhaps
But you hold the fainting dove
and will it back to good
:iconHarperQ:HarperQ
:iconharperq:HarperQ 2 0
Literature
Watch
Night announces your arrival
and your many faces
the turpentine can't touch
I'd forgotten you had a voice
until you opened your mouth
and let winged creatures fly
This could end, in one move
but you occupy the closet
watch sleep take me
and the walls slant inward
:iconHarperQ:HarperQ
:iconharperq:HarperQ 2 0
Literature
The Element of Surprise
I find myself
in strange places sometimes
An old grandfather clock
chimes in sync with my heart
When I prop my feet upon
the recliner, creaky as it is,
I see the faded, holey socks
wrapped around
Like newspaper bundling chicken cutlets
purchased at the grocery store
The elastic clinches around my ankle,
too tight, no airflow, too constricting
My finger wedges between flesh and fabric,
a means of reinforcement,
decompression
Just how a fallen trunk raises
to reveal an imprint, an indentation
The story is much the same here
It is the element of surprise
that dizzies my eyes and lights up my mind
Somewhere between these white-washed walls
and rust-colored shag carpeting
lies a heart of gold
inside you, inside me
I'd rather it not leap out,
but instead take the time to grow,
to nourish its own self
and the garden surrounding
The element of surprise leaves me winded,
sometimes disembodied
when I jump out of my own skin
From the outside I see the irises, the lashes,
the hands, and the feet
A
:iconHarperQ:HarperQ
:iconharperq:HarperQ 2 1
Literature
Proofreading
Proofreading all marks
upon your body of text
They are not typos
No, love, they are testaments
heralding of better days
:iconHarperQ:HarperQ
:iconharperq:HarperQ 3 0

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she is may, may she be as she is
we are five thousand miles apart
but every time i think of you my world gets a little more blurred and
my vision is hazy and my heart is a nervous wreck and my stomach grasps my lungs and
my head gets a little light and
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A Ghostwritten Letter to My Lost Twin Brother
                Body
    Metronomes falter,
skipped beats like jump rope rhymes
        and AM talk radio,
blacktops are all dripping wax & 
    remembrance poppies;
time the rhythm of the heart -
        row on row on -
    another's for our own;
    cracked plaster slums
lining sidewalks with razors,
        a line crossing a line.
            I sift,
wearing a veil of student debt &
secondhand army salvation:
    and it's all cycles.
        The tears in my jeans 
reflecting the bullying jabs of fences,
    and Sunday morning communions:
    the body: a frayed denim
flag hanging limply by its neck,
        sterile at the top of its po
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If I Stretched Fire
The patina of metal frames
might outshine the faces they hold
on walls,
leaving the details
to fall to ash
as the tired wavelength
that cradles the color
slips into the skin of heaven
all the motes
of things left untouched.
It might appear as if curtains
have soldered themselves to sun-rays,
the home half cloud
with no threat of falling;
your presence locked
in the worn piece of wallpaper,
peeling  --
your pace preserved
in the light
that sinks in
from the day;
in the way all flowers
become points of light
in passing,
the only thing between being
and not being,
the memory of their appearance.
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Literature
Gray Mood
I'm really not in the mood.
I'm carrying around gray crayons
to color up the world in muted tones.
It's my form of adult-onset-pouting.
I can color up the sky
to make it cloudy
and dull down the smile
of the underpaid barista.
There's a perverse kind of pleasure
in scribbling over any obscenely happy
poppy red or daffodil yellow.
Is that pink? Blasphemy!
This must be dealt with.
When everything's a charcoal hue,
I can finally sit down
in a contented grump
and sip the coffee I stirred
with Crayola slate-gray
            and smirk.
It's that kind of not-in-the-mood.
:iconzippip:zippip
:iconzippip:zippip 104 22
Literature
Daydreams
Daydreams turn into poems
But not into reality
:iconGhostOfTheEmptyGrave:GhostOfTheEmptyGrave
:iconghostoftheemptygrave:GhostOfTheEmptyGrave 17 11
Literature
Morning After
small
rustle in the mid-hour
she moves
in steady comfort
bare shoulder to
restless sun
:iconPelicanDeath:PelicanDeath
:iconpelicandeath:PelicanDeath 15 5

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HarperQ
I write mainly poetry and short stories. After stepping away from it for a couple of years, I am trying to work on writing more consistently these days. Mostly as an outlet for myself but also to improve my overall ability.

Comments


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:iconcarmalain7:
Carmalain7 Featured By Owner May 13, 2017
Good afternoon,

just wanted to take a moment to say that with all the talented writers here on dA and all the brilliant works, truly appreciate you taking a moment, good miss, to read mine in A Ghostwritten Letter to My Lost Twin Brother.

means much and more, Harper, thank you. :thanks:
Reply
:iconzippip:
zippip Featured By Owner May 11, 2017
Thank you for the fave!
Reply
:iconoviedomedina:
oviedomedina Featured By Owner Apr 24, 2017
Thank you for the favorite!
Reply
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