Hope. There are things that I want, Through impulse, urge, lust or greed. There are things that I wish, For me, you, and those in need. There are things that I crave, Out of hunger, habit, or being alone. There are things that I take, A seat, advantage, for granted the things that I
Ten thousand moons ago, beneath the light of stars, In some forgotten kingdom realm of far away, A pauper fled his prison cell of iron bars and met his princess love upon the dawn of day. For in each others’ souls there lived an endless fire Which cruelly did endure a time of years apart,
My dreams of producing a fully-fledged Joe Chicago novella may never come to pass, but I will always return to him; even if just to touch-up the scant few scenes that I have thus far devised. I decided one day last year to polish up the Joe Chicago in the Angels Brothel piece that I wrote for
My love is a late afternoon. It is the nostalgic glow of a waning hour. It is the sense of surety following the middle of the day, that the cold of the early morning is a distant memory. It is the familiar winding down of work and the lowering of a burden. It is the
My words cannot encapsulate in rhyme Th’extent and depth and lasting of our love And ne’er is there expanse enough of time To quantify the joy that I speak of. So, limited in lexicon and phrase, (For words, unlike our love, have limit end) I’ll show our love’s eternity in days Devoted as your lover,
I taught a portly porter proper water regulation When he had chosen hosing all the poppies in the station. I suggest it best, I thought, to water from a can, As candidly, the hose he chose would leave them weak and wan. This stocky station-stocker thought me odd and off my rocker, Retorting with
“Pride. The scent por butch, pour femme, pour non-binaire.”
It stank like bed-sweat, months after requiring a change of sheets, but with a gentle lilt of ripe apples after a summer rain. The tart musk hit like a curse, but the immediate familiarity of it pulled him in deeper. He inhaled desperately to keep chasing that soft bitter-sweetness beneath, as though burying his face into the pillow of a departed lover.
Love. Any colour, taste, or feel of it. We all love. For Valentine’s day 2018 our prompt was to write any short piece about romance or love, with the strict rule of not being cynical about it (for, in our edginess we often resort to treating it scathingly and mishandling love in our creative writing). I wanted to show that love, earnest love, could still be both happy and sad, without being cynical.
Here is a letter, written from Gerald to Bertie.
Volume in drive A is BOOTDISK Volume Serial Number is 0X14-4RN Directory of A:\ CONFIG SYS 0 30-01-2018 2:40p HELP SYS 22 23-09-2016 7:09a LIFE COM 42,000 28-01-2017 12:00p 3 files(s) 42,022 bytes 0 drive(s) 24,644 bytes free A:\>_ A:\>run LIFE +——————————————————————————–+ |
My love of Steven Universe knows no bounds, and so it is with great pride that I present fan poetry in anapestic tetrameter (with a cheeky iamb to start). This spoilerific homage/backstory to the show came from my love of the spectacular extended world that Rebecca Sugar and company have created. Sure, the lore is deep and mysterious, but this playful sci fi setting is a vehicle for messages of love, acceptance, bravery and equality, which makes it one of the most important tv shows of our time. My brother, Peter, liked the poem so much, that he fancied it up in a delightful poster for your enjoyment. I believe in Steven!