The Sum of InfinityI don't know if I'll ever tell my children about you.The Sum of Infinity by SeaPlume
(I don't know if I'll even have descendants.)
A family was never on my to-do list,
until you came along.
You made me wonder if I wanted kids, just so I could say to them
"You know, the day your dad and I met…"
because I thought we could last forever,
and I'm still not sure if we have.
Our friendship endures, even as I fall asleep
picturing her arms around you,
and I wonder if you'll ever come back to me
but spend every day noticing the reasons I'm glad you left
and hoping you'll return.
Never intending to fall in love,
we were an item
before you knew my name.
She reclaimed you,
you still belong to me
by virtue of the ampersand connecting our names
in the mind of every person
who watched us walk,
tall & short,
monochrome & kaleidoscope,
yin & yang,
through the winding, leaf-littered pathways
that are our life.
College ImpressionsAutumn arrived early this year,College Impressions by SeaPlume
suddenly—within the matter of three minutes—
a sucker punch
that couldn't afford to last.
Summer's efflorescence still bloomed
on the first day of classes
as the white magnolias filled the quad
and the denizens of the red bricked buildings
returned to their labors.
too many to quantify:
in the bustling pastel swaths of students
and the cool white dimness of the lecture hall,
hours of freedom
after the endless summers
of lethargy and monochrome
that fade with the last remnants of childhood...
curled midst the neon chairs and cushions
carpeting the floor.
3 AM board games,
the plastic rainbow of pieces
blurring through my exhaustion,
shuffling weary home
before dawn breaks pale on the horizon
past the last of the party rabble
slurring profanities that echo up the stairwell
chasing me to bed.
Black and gold banners
snap in the chill air<em>
ImpossibilityWe meet before breakfast every morningImpossibility by SeaPlume
just to get my quota out of the way.
She drinks steaming coffee without scalding her tongue,
while I blink the sleep from my eyes, sipping slowly.
Her scent hangs heavy in the air with the perfume
of sunbeams and birdsong
and the success of a thousand hopeless dreams, and
I don't know the colors
of the dress she wears, but I'm told
by the butterflies.
Our conversations are staid and brilliant
and can only be recalled
Her favorite activity
is herding cats,
but perhaps next week
it will be milking rattlesnakes;
Hers is the realm beyond paradox,
where nothing begins
before its own conclusion, and mirrors
only work in the dark.
We converse in our minds
about the state of the anarchy
as I pour another mug
and she thanks me through indifference.
She whispers pi
as she sits, idly tracing a straight line
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A Clever Companion (Part 1)A WhoLock Fan Fiction
The Doctor pushed his way through the milling crowds in Central London. He never should have come here. That note had to be delivered, but now he had places to go, things to do, galaxies to explore and—
Not him. They were talking to someone else, had to be. There were plenty of men named "John" in London.
"John!" the muffled cry came again. Definitely him. The Doctor sighed. He wondered briefly if he should find another alias. After all, he had been going by 'John Smith' since even before Jamie suggested it—and that had been hundreds of years ago (just how many, the Doctor wasn't sure). If he could just make it one more block, the TARDIS was right around the corner, and—
The Doctor froze. In all his years, he had always gone by 'Smith,' Always. Never deviated except for that one time in Victorian London when he thought it would be fun, just this once, to try a new name.
It never would have mattered if that man (Stamcroft or Swa
WaitingThe storm arrived suddenly during the night as the wind howled in from the ocean, whipping the waves and sending them crashing in fountains of foam against the pair of high rock columns that rose from the churning seas by the shoreline. In the small cottage near the waterfront, the shutters rattled in the wind, and the man in the cottage’s lone bed snapped awake. He lay still and silent for a few moments, identifying the cause of the noise. Then he was up and dashing for the door, fully clothed, pausing only to seize two things: the Sig Sauer which lay within easy reach on the bedside table and a jacket from the peg beside the door.
Outside, the rain beat sideways, driving against the man’s skin with the strength of the breaking waves below. The wind plastered his drenched hair against his face, and he shook his head violently to clear the wet strands from his eyes, flinging a cloud of black droplets that were lost in the surrounding deluge. He sprinted along the shoreline
TeeterWhen I wake,
among the stars,
on the brink
between dreams and reality.
It’s so easy
to see through the
between waking life...
and the power of Imagination,
that same other world
in a sea of dreams.
Forests of the Mind"And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything." William Shakespeare
In the forest my thoughts
ring unnaturally loud,
like a voice on
an open stage
when nobody’s around.
Stories unfold in my mind,
new leaves in the spring
unfurling from pale green buds
like butterflies emerging
from their chrysalis,
the pages of a never-ending saga
written in birdsong
and soft, wind-rustled branches.
My mind flows like the brook,
smoothing the rough edges
of my narrative, fluid and free
until time catches me
and my thoughts are drawn irrevocably back
into the endless revisions
of the real world.
Two PoemsPainted over with the years’ blemishes
Old. Battered. Familiar.
Case chased with filigree colored by tarnished silver
Kept in the bottom of my knickknacks drawer.
Even today, I can still feel the warmth of his fingers,
The heat where he held it, nested in the palm of his hand.
Winding the key, as he taught me to do,
Always counterclockwise, turning back the time,
Time measured in seconds, minutes, hours, days, years, and lifetimes
Colored by the memories of those who pass beyond it,
Held in reminiscence by objects left behind.
A fleeting messenger that heralds both
The birth and death of every plot and scheme,
That hopelessly entwines the strands of fate
And cuts the thread of life we all must weave
Can ne’er be understood through measured count,
Though every second ticked its weight has felt,
And when it swift is passing, this is but
A construct of our human minds in vain
Attempt to comprehend the limitless
And vast entwinéd river that is wrapped
Around our very being.
You can also find me on Archive of Our Own, FanFiction.Net, FictionPress, and LiveJournal.
no crow roadit was a benign hope,
this adroit affinity
a haughty idea
that replaced old regimes
and tattered philosophies
the hollow brevity
the shortest distance
between two points
is a straight line, straight
as the crow flies.
there are stars overhead
even on the devil's shore
if you know how to look--
between the catalyst
of indolent calm
and reluctant bliss,
where the aesthetics
will ruin you.
crown him with a tyranny
love him for it until
your heart beats sporadic
drowning you in prurient
there are no roads
sometimes she makes
long, winding things
sinuous and shifting
like wind chimes twisting
on the breeze.
they never end, but
a spiderweb tracery
upon her soul.
every pertinent lesson
like a cr
ghosts in the gardenand she slung
her slender bones
swallowed by fabric
chintz roses echoed
on the rattling
in her shiver-quake,
her molasses tongue
around the unraveling
storm clouds gathering
—good for the flowers—
and the canny mouse
curled cozy in some
dusky cabinet corner
—bad for the biscuits—
down her furrowed
when i was small,
she said into the silence
on a paper-whisper,
on an errant past,
my sister died.
and they laid her
on the kitchen table
in her Sunday best, and
her small fingers curled
and i fancied
she was holding hands
then she shook
her dandelion fluff hair,
gave a flutter laugh,
a butterfly sigh
i've got gardenfuls
she pressed a painted smile
to her fading lips
with the breath of
asked about the weather
coyotei should have
when you told me you shoot coyotes
following the roll of their lupine gait
with the barrel of your .22
in the backwoods where the blood
burns bright as wildflowers against the tall grass.
when the sun hung low and heavy
as the eyes you slung across my damp skin
i followed the fields down into your
that was the summer you taught me how to shoot.
(do you remember that target we made up
like some macabre crime scene outline? a body
in black sharpie on some salvaged cardboard
and i made every head shot
but the heart was yours.
but tell me, didn't yours beat a little faster
for those precious seconds
when i turned the weapon on you?
you were a coyote frozen in my sights
but unlike you
i couldn't pull the trigger.)
through the woods as the last light faded
the sun like a ripe peach falling
through the sieve of trees,
i heard a coyote's call nearby
and after a brief moment when fear laid its
reformationthis is no true night, she thought,
darkness descending like a raven,
sharp and black, long lines of
feather-shadows scraping at the light.
witch-blood, the wispy moon whispered
as she scraped the rust-colored dust
from beneath her nails—the detritus
from decades of grinding
hardened hearts to powder.
she swallowed an old song, knowing that
such things will not stay locked tight
behind her teeth, and turned away
from temptation—the caustic caress
that called her closer to the endless dark.
my way is little wing, solid earth,
long roots and the edge of light,
she lamented quietly.
tonight is not the time to trail shadows
she long ago parted with such paths.
pressing the pale petals of her fingers
to starch-scented pages
she waited for the sun to spill
across the sky—a daily resurrection
for both the world and her own
at times she felt like a sparrow singing
against a wall of wind, but morality
SkinwalkerShe froze like a doe when she heard the voices.
Sound carried far in the woods, and of course their careless stumbling and the gunshot before that had alerted her to their presence, but it was the faint, disjointed human words bouncing off the sturdy oaks that pricked her spine.
She glanced back down at the coyote by her knee. His ears were still, alert. He sniffed once, then went back to licking his wound.
She could not risk moving him without first halting the blood flow. Frowning, she tugged off her t-shirt, yanking the white camisole underneath back into place. She tore the shirt into careful strips, bronze hands quick and deliberate, and fashioned a tourniquet. The coyote watched her with a guarded interest in his golden eyes as she wrapped a poultice of crushed woundwort against his leg.
The others were almost upon them now.
No chance for escapenot balancing an injured coyote and her medicine bag anyway, and she was unwilling to abandon either.
She laid a hand o
Remember, don't ever kill our darlingsIf I were to write to you
in a series of mistakes
and past contemplations,
my letter would go as far
as your spirits would lead you.
And if the truth
on whether or not
Love conquers all borders
and builds the foundations
for our bony, crannied bridges
changes the way we see ourselves
consider yourself lucky.
Fortunate of the long growing madness
that was never yours to bare
Neither torn or crumpled
by the inner peace
void in the barren yet thirsty deserts
we call our hearts.
life hangs on the edge
of your own mouth
but the decision to fall
Trust me, I know-
it's how fear works.
do more than peer through a cave,
look where you would think
the way none of us ever could
in the darkness.
Leave me behind, darling.
I am too weary and you are far too young.
The world is too fast and you are too wonderful.
To GrandfatherI lost him
in the ruins of his lungs.
I go out of myself
looking for him
in the mirror
& autumn eyes
filled with dirt water
is the only resemblance
to paint his face
I go out looking
for you everyday in the cemetery
hoping your soul
could knock at my eyelids.
I lost everything
in the ruins of your lungs
but your hands
are the only things
I yearn for.
the city of AtlantisIt's 3:45 in the morning
and I find the world
underneath the ocean.
Black WidowThe first time we met,
I kept our distance
hoping the inches
would form a small bridge
and that one day
we could sew each others'
limbs when our
bones have learned
to give up.
But I mistook you
were flesh wounds
and your embrace
a coffin too tight
around my ribs-
your hands were never
meant for holding.
The sheets of skin
and whitewash were
a cocoon at night
as your teeth
sink into me;
my body of craters
and fissure-deep dents
forbidden phoenix feathersI could swear that Destiny's a secretary.
I can imagine her now; black magic and a typewriter underneath her weary fingertips. She could be eight years old, or a billion years young. What difference does it make? She sorts the world out like some drunk god who can't tell the difference between a hard life and an easy death-and she has no boundaries with astrology:
Capricorn Moon: Saturn's rings. Lunar New Year. Ten moons. Ten years before the apocalypse;
That child will be born ten minutes before Hanukkah. He'll be in a Jewish family, but he'll be dismal with a coin and fall in-love with a Catholic instead.
They'll marry when the world ends.
Lucky numbers: 7, 13, 66, 21, 2012
Lucky Color: Blue.
Or maybe she's the crazy cat lady who whispers broken poetry in her sleep. A young opera singer whose heart was trapped in some kerosene addict's palm forty-five years ago, causing her lungs to search for the fire that burned her limbs before she realized that the sparks in her eyes turned as se
Icarusbottled up at the bottom of
is the wing-beaten
looking for a place to sleep,
far from the desolate
quiet of sky
and summer sun.
but he grew restless, this boy
lungs filled with saltwater
& quaking bones carved with feathers
detached of the pressure
between his fingers
and the slow but thunderous anger
waves roaring against the sky's belly,
his body rising to the storm
roiling and tumbling
until at last
the current tosses him upright,
palms against the heaven
and his back against