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Mature content
Medicine :iconhamletspants:hamletspants 11 19
Literature
Pay Stub
The inhale and the exhale,
two weeks' respiration
in gasps and wheezes,
debit diseases;
twenty-six Fridays a year circled red,
twenty-six days we can breathe in
without pain;
but then, again:
the bills get scratched in,
need groceries, need gin, the car
still needs gas, credit card's on our ass;
breathing out those long
hours into check-writing prowess -
like air, it runs out; too
soon we've expelled
every penny as breath;
winded, we climb back in the wheel
to run madly again,
tides washing out, oxygen
changed slowly to carbon dioxide
fourteen days left
until we can breathe in.
:iconhamletspants:hamletspants
:iconhamletspants:hamletspants 8 15
Literature
Home
I lived here, once,
shaving moments into jars
sealed tight,
so I could look at them later.
My recollections gathered dust
in all my cobwebby corners,
stacked upon each other and wrinkled.
Sometimes at night a box bursts
open, flowing up before me,
too much light in the darkness,
old cardboard wet in the basement.
I lived here, once,
when the memories were fresh.
:iconhamletspants:hamletspants
:iconhamletspants:hamletspants 7 23
Literature
Mozart and Crayons
A chapel, window-stained perfect,
notes of the orchestra rebounding
against the thick black oak of the pews.
A lady bug is flitting
in and out of the stage lights, drawn
to the heat or the music;
how must this seem
in the senses of an insect?
Vibrations tripping over each other,
pushing the air before them in waves;
what is the thrum of the timpani,
when even polite applause ripples
the very fabric beneath your wings?
Maybe, like birds against the rush
of highway traffic, swooping in to catch the thrill
of displaced air, her hovers
and dives are shaped by the invisible tide
of the violins, the bassoon.
Perched upon the smooth, lacquered seat, the world
is being repainted in colored wax; eyes fixed
the little girl sketches
a purple pony, shaggy and rough.
In the air of the chapel, melody
comes alive, mixes into her
scribbled mosaic.
Beauty needs no definition
in the vibrant instant
while artistry reigns. This
is something the old Masters
have known, lost in the decades
and centuries wit
:iconhamletspants:hamletspants
:iconhamletspants:hamletspants 8 16
Literature
For Nelson Mandela
In this cup, I once held the world;
you were so tiny, skin like starlight
against my worn and tired hands.
In the years and the hate,
I could not always keep you
close. I gave my life
to piercing the darkness
and you, cupped in these hands,
you gave me light. You forged
my knees straight and standing
when I wanted them to buckle. This world
I have tried to build
for you
is suddenly empty -
these cracked fingers, once etching
the course of the river of history,
no longer hold water.
:iconhamletspants:hamletspants
:iconhamletspants:hamletspants 164 87
Crater by hamletspants Crater :iconhamletspants:hamletspants 4 7
Literature
Things We Don't Know
She doesn't know I love her
in the steps between
strawberry dotted acres
and the old gravel trails,
where the dogs run free, playful
barking into wind and the old
squirrel-scents;
she doesn't know that some nights
the melody she sings -
notes dripping like a showerhead -
is the highlight of my day.
In the silence of sleep
she frets and twists, afraid
and dreaming I will find greener leaves
of grass, seas of a brighter blue, or cleaner
flavors on the breeze;
she doesn't know
in the circle of her arms only
I sleep
peaceful
at last.
:iconhamletspants:hamletspants
:iconhamletspants:hamletspants 6 18
Literature
Tethers
Tethers
Small patches of color sprinkle
over her when he's away tending
the gray fields. Browsing an old photo album,
these small hours of quiet she's left with,
she soaks in the spectrums
so many years
ago; crowded markets in Delhi, or floating
in the icy captured roll of the Rockies.
He was strength in skin when they met,
And her feet were so very sore
from walking, the dust
that covered her crusted continents and his
just the healthy grit of black farming soil.
His rough hands helped reshape her,
brought her home to birth,
the long drawing hours he sweated away
from her. For seasons her reasons
stayed with her, before she saw the faded
shade of years wrinkling her, sinking by inches
into the dirt, the old farm house a circling buzzard.
The soil beneath her nails became tar, and she
heavy with it.
Fingers trailing the sail on an old postcard,
she smells the seaside in Vancouver, salty
tearing, and churning water of a rocky shoreline.
She has an hour or so a day
between his lunch and
:iconhamletspants:hamletspants
:iconhamletspants:hamletspants 5 10
Literature
Wanderlust
Wanderlust
In those harrowing moments
between texts you send from Spain; that rooftop
in Prague; you drinking Absinthe and me,
my desk in the heartless
land, how I hate you -
an organ, somewhere lower
than my beating heart, your rhythm
echoing lonely into my diaphragm.
A cadence in your voice zips between
my pulse, cackling
that I have
settled.
Dust such as we should never.
Your eyes look into the world
I try to write in darkness.
You are the photograph
I have never taken.  You are
the part of me
which terror
does not allow.
:iconhamletspants:hamletspants
:iconhamletspants:hamletspants 6 11
Literature
Folsom
Folsom
It was on the dripping Saturday mornings, grass heavy,
wet; the air hanging out the windows in gray streaks;
when the TV was on the fritz, or reruns
painted its numbing
swirl in the colors of boredom.
That was the type of morning Johnny Cash
found his way to the top
of the battered stack; we'd sing of Folsom Prison in our pajamas,
eat pancakes while he danced around the faded room, weaving
between us, spilling parts of himself
he didn't believe in, even
as the sun ushered out
the mists; and the yard – once sodden – birthed
its own green sheen.
We were too young then, to hear the end
of the story: to understand the blues –
Folsom's or any other: that life has its price;
it does not barter
when the collectors come calling.
Sunshine burns
through the never-recorded stanzas, spun silent
behind twelve-bar repetition; spliced
into the seams of blistering riffs and masking
syllables which can only be touched when the world
is a steel gray string, soaking
in its misery; w
:iconhamletspants:hamletspants
:iconhamletspants:hamletspants 5 15
Literature
Taste Tested
Taste Tested
You once loved me as if I were edible
I wanted you
to become an aficionado of me, to sample
and whisper
the delicate hints you detected
with each slow, considered taste.
I need you to unfold me like a napkin,
turn me over in your lap,
take me in with your tested tongue,
hold me
within you so
my seasoning dissolves within.
You slurp me in, canned soup,
cast me aside as though I am
nothing more satisfying
than fast food.
Don't you sense that I am spoiling
from the inside
without your hands
to warm me?
Or is it that my subtleties
cannot penetrate your calloused
taste buds, so tired from too many
salted, steamy treats?
You want for me to believe
you are a connoisseur, well versed
in delicacies, but this banquet
is too refined for your
colloquial taste.
:iconhamletspants:hamletspants
:iconhamletspants:hamletspants 2 9
Literature
Against the Church Bells
Against the Churchbells
They make fun of me, the bankers,
in their plaids and khaki voices,
when the daylight's far away like the smell of money.
A poster hanging for theatre
and words and I
am in it, or on it, before it.
It's the questions, the needles, inking
me with the weight of them; a dozen
questions, feigned drippy interest in the exploration
which might fool someone who listens
less or longs more.
Go home, to your leaking wives
who hate you and please you
in silent, equal turns. Ask them your vapid questions, and hear
them answer you
are not their answer; they lost sight so long ago now,
when the trees bent
into the wind and not before it,
and you turning, day by fading day,
into the fleshy lump that will die beside them.
You are a sweater vest, itching
and too warm, coiling about your own lungs, clinging
to breathe the emptiness just a little
minute longer.
Your questions remind me
why I have never met
something so precious
as an unasked question, looming
just beyond hearing,
:iconhamletspants:hamletspants
:iconhamletspants:hamletspants 2 5
Literature
In Between
In Between
My laughter felt like rape
in the aftermath:
a phone call
an ambulance
a card game.
Already halfway, I pledged myself
to numbness.
It's what we do, shedding
tears in the silence when the room
is dark.
In the daylight, laughing bears
us forward, shored up
with each others' weaving shoulders
until we, once again alone,
face the darkness in bleary-eyed
resolve.
:iconhamletspants:hamletspants
:iconhamletspants:hamletspants 4 10
Literature
Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving
In the clatter of fresh-washed plates,
whipped cream settling into its annual pasty cling,
the phone call
invades jovial banter
over a post supper card game.
You were dying
half the world distant;
rolling Pacific waves stopped
short of shore, left
the sands naked and shivering
in your final breezes.
I think we heard you say goodbye,
your quiet lips lisping in the shuffle
of the cards, while the children
hid and sought.
:iconhamletspants:hamletspants
:iconhamletspants:hamletspants 4 14
The Playboy o th Western World by hamletspants The Playboy o th Western World :iconhamletspants:hamletspants 1 5 Factorious by hamletspants Factorious :iconhamletspants:hamletspants 2 2

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Literature
Empty
The empty house greets her with silence.
No creaking doors,
or loose boards that protest when stepped on.
Just silence.
She comes here for the memories -
collecting them one by one,
placing them in the pockets of her mind.
A happy one here,
a sad one there.
She wants to store them all up
before they are lost.
And so she comes back -
touching this or that treasure,
lingering over old photographs,
resting in the tattered old chair.
These things that don't add up to a life,
but are the leavings of it.
The remembering fills empty places,
but leaves her wanting more.
So she stays just a little longer,
not wanting to leave the pieces of what was -
not quite ready to leave,
to walk out the door to what is.
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Literature
L. L. t. a Musician pt. 2
Outside the air is crisp with the first shy kiss of winter, but, save for the bittersweet longing which you have stirred in my heart, I am both warm and content.
Alone tonight, I am reading your letter by candlelight. Creased, wrinkled, and smudged, stains of tears like tiny constellations on its surface, it is only a careworn piece of paper. Yet I think there is but one thing more precious to me in all the world - and that the impassioned heart which wrote the words upon it.
I hear your voice as I read them, as if you were with me even now. I can hear it as clearly as I can hear the notes of the Cavatina - just as you played it for me so long ago.
Yes, I remember.
All of the sadness and all of the hope in that profound and enduring melody was yours that night, as if it had been conceived in the very moment, drawn from some deep and beautiful place within you and given life through your violin. You say that you lament that you did not speak your feelings then, but in truth there was no
:iconisobellefox:isobellefox
:iconisobellefox:isobellefox 5 8
Literature
speechless
my voice...
frightens me
the words slide
onto the paper,
neatly in a row
like children
lined up in
the cafeteria
quiet as
obedient
kindergartners
put down for
their 1:00 nap
but when I
open my mouth
to speak, my
words defy me,
dare me to
utter them
into life
to reveal
myself to
any who
would
hear my
voice
and I find
myself mute
before them
:iconBlueskye27:Blueskye27
:iconblueskye27:Blueskye27 16 83
Literature
Thief
The man with the umbrella smile
and bright crooked eyes
strips down the daylight
like a hunter skinning first kill
He lurches under a darkling moon
tucking kite string under his coat
where the wind gathers tears and leaves
and scatters you in bits and pieces.
He has cold hands without gloves
and loves to touch you secretly
when he thinks the moon is not watching
and your lips are stitched shut
by a mother's weary hands.
His sighs are solitary shades
growing in a damp knot
under the stretch of your dress
where he baits your breath
and forces you to hold it
until you turn blue.
He offers you pieces of stars
and pretty things to wear
places promises on your tongue
that hang like cloaks in dark closets
and presses you to keep secrets
arched between your thighs
tucked up inside your belly.
He unpins night from the sky
and rolls it up under your bed
tucking it in safe and secure
in the corners he hides from your family
disguising the abomination
that calls itself sanctuary.
:iconScarlettletters:Scarlettletters
:iconscarlettletters:Scarlettletters 299 253
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Literature
comfort
stress wraps pain
around his neck like
a narrow collar,
bleeding into his shoulders
as he slumps beneath
gray discouragement
he hardly notices
the fingers sliding along
his skin until he winces
beneath the heel of
her hand, a rough
remedy for the knots
that plague him;
he grits his teeth,
closes his eyes against
her determination to
rid him of this
particular torment,
but soon, tendons
relax, muscles loosen;
she drapes her arms
around him and holds
him in the gathering
night, whispering
quiet words that
lift his flagging spirits,
tempting a smile
from tired lips as
he’s reminded that
he’s not alone
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Literature
Venus Descending
Like Botticelli’s Venus,
    I contemplate
       thoughts of you,
big as the sea
   lapping at my feet.
        In my shell,
  I’m invulnerable,
    inviolate, but
        you lie
      beneath me,
  a wet invitation
         I cannot
      resist,
so I will slide from
     my abalone
       bark in answer
  to your call,
   sink into
    your beckoning
       depths
even as I know
  I will never
       come up
    for air
       again.
:iconBlueskye27:Blueskye27
:iconblueskye27:Blueskye27 22 91
Literature
find me
I’ll wait for you in
the sere brown
emptiness of
November
look for me as
the fading grasses
of autumn search
for the sun
discover me
among fresh green
sheets like the
open fields of June
overspread me
like wildflowers unchecked,
planting your roots in
my warm soil
and we will roll
away like verdant hills
fading into the
coming spring
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a leaf touches snow
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Critiques

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deviantID

hamletspants's Profile Picture
hamletspants
Shades of Meaning
United States
Current Residence: about a block west of Sesame Street
deviantWEAR sizing preference: M-or L
Favourite genre of music: Anything that makes me want to move and/or sing
Favourite photographer: lots
Shell of choice: Turtle
Wallpaper of choice: Kermit the Frog
Skin of choice: Yours...Rrrraow.
Favourite cartoon character: Marvin the Martian - Stewie - Foamy
Personal Quote: "Listen to your life - all moments are key moments" - Frederick Buechner
Interests
We are now within one week to the opening of Dreamwell's "Henry V" - this cast kicks total Elizabethan ass!  I hope to stay on my toes and keep up with the quality they are setting!

Locals (and travelers) can reserve tix at  www.dreamwell.com  - this won't be your momma's Shakespeare! Shows are June 3, 4, 10 & 11 @ 7:30P, and June 5 & 12 @ 2PM.

And if you can't make the show next weekend, my friend :iconmarzguy: will have the Montserrat Poetry Festival in full swing!

Ooooooooh, I sense road-trip possibilities! Missourri for the festival, then to Iowa for Henry the second weekend!

______________________________________________________________________
My Zazzle: www.dreamwell.com
Dreamwell Theatre Co.: www.zazzle.com/hamletspants
My Goodreads: www.goodreads.com/user/show/27…

To buy a copy of my Chapbook, Something in the Water, note me today.
  • Listening to: Tinitis Inside Us
  • Reading: Henry V. Stuff Happens. Good to Great.
  • Watching: sigh. Fox. Stoopid.
  • Playing: Killzone
  • Eating: Popsicles
  • Drinking: milk

Friends

Comments


Add a Comment:
 
:iconalisonblue:
AlisonBlue Featured By Owner Aug 31, 2011  Student Writer
enjoying your work -- amazing gallery.
Reply
:iconhamletspants:
hamletspants Featured By Owner Sep 3, 2011
Thank you!
Reply
:iconliazrdqueen:
liazrdqueen Featured By Owner Aug 5, 2011   General Artist
Happy, Birthday, Kev! :D
Reply
:iconhamletspants:
hamletspants Featured By Owner Aug 16, 2011
Thank you!
Reply
:iconblueskye27:
Blueskye27 Featured By Owner Jun 5, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
Hi, Kevin. :hug:
Reply
:iconhamletspants:
hamletspants Featured By Owner Jun 6, 2011
Hi sweet! Hope you are well!
Reply
:iconblueskye27:
Blueskye27 Featured By Owner Jun 8, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
Hope you're well, too. :hug:
Reply
:iconliazrdqueen:
liazrdqueen Featured By Owner Dec 24, 2010   General Artist
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to you and yours, Kev. :hug:
Reply
:iconhamletspants:
hamletspants Featured By Owner Dec 26, 2010
Merry Christmas and big hugs all around. :santa:
Reply
:iconblueskye27:
Blueskye27 Featured By Owner Oct 28, 2010  Hobbyist Writer
I came by to see your new poems. I don't see them... :tears:
Reply
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