These are a bunch of things that you didn't need until I listed them.
FreeMind A mind mapping program which I find very useful.
Scrivener This is the all-in-one planning, research, drafting, writing, and publishing tool you've probably heard a lot about.
CoSchedule CoSchedule is an editorial calendar, task manager, and social media planner for WordPress.
Evernote I store my brain in Evernote. This is an amazing notebook tool for research. Another is ...
Google Keep Fast, easy, light and backed up on your Google Cloud. Never loose any note again.
iA Writer Minimalist writing app for iPad. Using Dropbox, you can sync writing in iAWriter between your devices and Scrivener.
TweetDeck MarketingTweetDeck is the easiest way to keep track of your social accounts without needing to log in every time.
Buffer Buffer is a lifesaver. It posts automatically, using a queue-like list of your scheduled updates.
AWeber It's the #1 mailing list provider, and I use it for all of my newsletters.
MailChimp "Sexier" than AWeber, because there is a Chimp, easy-to-use, and free (up to a point), it's only #2 because of feature limitations.
MindMup is a mind mapping tool, like FreeMind, but different. It's super easy to use, but limited.
Feedly RSS reader to keep up with all of your blog reading.
Skype Skype is my phone -- no, seriously, it is what I use for most of my communications That and ...
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Nocturne
-- From Sleeping with Nefarious Intent
As your nocturnal neighbor,
I slide next to you in Winter,
whispering across your breath,
the South Wind's wildest words.
When dawn warms the
window glass, and
marmalade flame transverse
the ceiling, I carefully
caress your lips with
thinly sliced strawberry,
and mango until you smell
the fresh roast brewing
in the kitchen and are ready to brace
against the cold tile floor
and shower steam.
As you are now,
stretched in graceful
recline, I see illusion,
projected on the silk
of your skin by
my mind; a rendering
in my image.
I stare to
burn my eyes,
to go blind,
so I can see your-self,
not my after-image.
My what-you-ought-to-be's
are tangled in your hair,
my wishes constrict your hips
bruising what is you.
It is difficult
to see with eyes
unclouded by wish
and ought-to's.
Hard to recognize illusion;
to realize that while I smell
your perfume, and feel the
heart beat of your thigh
What I feel, is not
what I see.
Precious enough are the moments,
that you are you;
precious enough to
sear my eyes,
so to experience each hair
and lash through the
boiling steam, and notice that
Winter has turned to Spring.
As your nocturnal neighbor,
I slide next to you in Winter,
whispering across your breath,
the South Wind's wildest words.
When dawn warms the
window glass, and
marmalade flame transverse
the ceiling, I carefully
caress your lips with
thinly sliced strawberry,
and mango until you smell
the fresh roast brewing
in the kitchen and are ready to brace
against the cold tile floor
and shower steam.
As you are now,
stretched in graceful
recline, I see illusion,
projected on the silk
of your skin by
my mind; a rendering
in my image.
I stare to
burn my eyes,
to go blind,
so I can see your-self,
not my after-image.
My what-you-ought-to-be's
are tangled in your hair,
my wishes constrict your hips
bruising what is you.
It is difficult
to see with eyes
unclouded by wish
and ought-to's.
Hard to recognize illusion;
to realize that while I smell
your perfume, and feel the
heart beat of your thigh
What I feel, is not
what I see.
Precious enough are the moments,
that you are you;
precious enough to
sear my eyes,
so to experience each hair
and lash through the
boiling steam, and notice that
Winter has turned to Spring.
Walking through Logan
breathing the miasmas of needing,
hearing the the wrenching seizures of solitude
and foot fall through the shallows
of winter's waters
horded in pot-holes.
In the dark looks, under the heavy brows
of the shadows limping past, needing,
I see their eyes are no longer
lucid devices.
Headlights and Broadways
by static amber light and
speeding white-blue
a boy picks from the gutter
not a toy,
or a ball,
not a coin,
but the death of a squirrel
holding it high
bushy brush tail wire
between thumb and forefinger
Joy
alarms from his lips
but there is too much alarm
on these streets
for others to notice.
The Furies and Lucidity
each turn of the sunlight
mine are only troubling
in an articulate way
The voice of the calling
from outside the amber light
inside the edge of shadows
is easy to ignore
He is mad you say
His is intoxicated and estranged
He is not me you say
You walk on untouched
My words are ruthless lucidity
Dark, yes, Shadow, yes... clear
not coal for wrath
but edged for bloodletting
Within the melee and uproar
of the towering full moon
may my words taint
the madness calling
and open to you,
the woes and the furies in his drunken heart
The Morrigan
From Ghost Pictures |
- She is the vibration,
- the note, the chord
- of night's abject abysses
- which sundered my eye's light
- From full lips
- dropped with
- red wine dew;
- Moonlight silver
- on her wetting tongue... perish
- Between stones and surrenders
- under descending onyx autumn
- on brittle leaves and moss rock
- Winter's waters draw from breath
- a cannonade of thirst.
- Crow and wolf
- and cat's eyes
- will open before
- the pith of the sun
- hurling the rage of day
- like snow across the dead
The Time that held her Still
The Time that held her Still
The musk of rotting walls
laced with web and dust
and ivy's fresh green
wet dark by fog
A blue dress,
the hem a scythe-whisper
across grass and weed.
Alabaster fingers
bruised by brick.
Fear runs, tracking blood
in its wake and wash
of flowers, closed, but
waiting.
Hands, white, gripping stone,
pulling,
wanting.
Sunlight, pulled under the mist water
drowning...
Time
white and bruised as the fingers which
claw the walls, crumbling
slips its hands between her breasts
to hold
her heart still.
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