| excerpt: in the garden out front there is a quince tree, it's november but its fruit still hangs heavy off its leafless branches, looking like ugly, stunted apples. i bit one once, like eve, while he was walking me home it was like vinegar; bitter and sharp. he warned me, but i did it anyway. later, as he pressed into me, i could still taste the fruit's acrid juice on my lips. so i licked them, and i did not regret it. |
someone's died again
Original Poetry
robots and war gamesCritique is welcomed and sought!robots and war games
"what are we fighting?" a question from younger brother to older brother, asked in play "robots!" is cried in fervent response.
"they surround us!"
the little brother nods
his smudged face fearful,
but battle-ready, and picks up his weapon of knotted gun-shaped wood.
"we'll fight them together."
but then: "you guys, you guys,"
yells the kid next door, "you wanna play ball?"
make-shift weapons dropped,
abandoned for another game.
"what ar
by *OritPetra
fighting sleepsleep makes my eyes heavy. i close them to see the image of a laugh, a smile; to think offighting sleep
whispered love poems echoing, remembered through this wool-brained fatigue. just one more moment, please, in case i do not dream.
i'm fighting sleep
to think of you (again).
- see author's note for some important notes on this piece!
by *OritPetra
sexCRITIQUE WELCOMED!sex
the race of blood synapses fire touch, touch, touch me
breath catching hands trembling need, need, need you
pieces of ordinary on the floor torn off exposing you and me as
us
by *OritPetra
centipede searches - version 3PLEASE CRITIQUEcentipede searches - version 3
damp, haziness hangs heavily -- oranged and incandescent. night air filled with the scent of charcoal, wafting thick and overwhelming. eyelids drift shut and concrete breaks beneath feet streetlamps melting into the cracked concrete crevices of my earthquake imagination, decomposition of ideas into senses.
rich scent of decaying of adulthood these skyrises and steel-brick constructs melt in the heat of mind-conjured embers and give way to childhood remembering. another world: damp still, but dif
by *OritPetra
until next year -- gone.CRITIQUE APPRECIATEDuntil next year -- gone.
we breathe, white clouds wisping in fragrant, sea-salted air and then dissipating; until the next exhale -- gone.
we stare at the wave-washed beach, light from above littering the water;
a shifting universe of lunar stars, reflecting.
moon reaches its peak. hours later it will set; until tomorrow -- gone
and we press our hands into our pockets, our feet into the sand and ask: 'where did summer go?';
until next year -- gone.
by *OritPetra
.too young for the blues. PLEASE CRITIQUE THIS!.too young for the blues.
late for school again; hands shoved deep into my pockets, i forgot my gloves; my feet get wet as damp grass dew seeps through my unlaced sneakers.
get to main street and the light
won't change.
i shift my weight a few times and i think about changing the song on my ipod – i'm too young for the blues, yeah.
but i sit it out, i don't hit ||> the light changes and i cross, shuffling forward as the song ends, and in the white noise gap i overhear a private conversation
betwee
by *OritPetra
someone's died againPLEASE CRITIQUE!someone's died again
someone's died again. there are lights on in the funeral home across the way; i can see them faintly
from the steps of my front porch.
i flick the butt of my cigarette to the ground. don't usually smoke but i'm in some sort of a mood
and the flickering embers look good
against the dull gray of early night.
sit a while longer but soon i am
restless, cold; i need to move. i tug the scratchy wool of my scarf over my face and head off for a walk.
i cut across the funeral home parking lot. lights still on,
by *OritPetra
| a collection of my more recent poetic endeavors. enjoy. <3 |
Photography
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| various photographs from my summertime travels. i don't fancy myself a photographer by any means, but i thought i'd share these little pieces of my summer with you all. <3 |
Newest
robots and war gamesCritique is welcomed and sought!robots and war games
"what are we fighting?" a question from younger brother to older brother, asked in play "robots!" is cried in fervent response.
"they surround us!"
the little brother nods
his smudged face fearful,
but battle-ready, and picks up his weapon of knotted gun-shaped wood.
"we'll fight them together."
but then: "you guys, you guys,"
yells the kid next door, "you wanna play ball?"
make-shift weapons dropped,
abandoned for another game.
"what ar
by *OritPetra
fighting sleepsleep makes my eyes heavy. i close them to see the image of a laugh, a smile; to think offighting sleep
whispered love poems echoing, remembered through this wool-brained fatigue. just one more moment, please, in case i do not dream.
i'm fighting sleep
to think of you (again).
- see author's note for some important notes on this piece!
by *OritPetra
Favourites
The Lost LandI have to grip onto my bed sheets, So while I sleep, I don't float away.The Lost Land
But that one day he cut off my fingers, And watched me drift up into the sky. Starting at a few feet, then arising more. And more. And more. Until all I could see on the ground Was street lights, and the few cars passing by. This is the most peaceful I have been, Ever. I can feel the blood draining my body from my finger tips. Its numbing, but I want to be numb right now, Rested, and not aware. Stars glimmer as I float on up toward them, They twinkle at me and edge me on. Lik
by ~lisabrinker
We Are Screaming Secrets. I am ashes on the plains of New Zealand. I'm staring up at the open skies and feeling like I don't exist at all and it's beautiful. My fingertips are worn and dry from too much reaching and catching only my palms, and suddenly I'm wishing you were here to pull my heartstrings taut because you and I never cared much for lonliness.We Are Screaming Secrets.
We are a symphony of softly spoken secrets, too quiet to know and too loud to ignore. We are bruising hands and rotten words and everything we never wanted to be, but it's okay because one day all we'll be is dust in the wind.
by ~HandOfDietrich
Sunday Sins - Erotic PoemA perfection Beyond The shade of my lips Lays in the spaces we fill Between liquid hips,Sunday Sins - Erotic Poem
The chemistry of our skin Melting together... Cherry-vicious Nailpolish running.. Away with my emotions Dripping down The back Of his caramel skin..
My thoughts Narrow... And thicken Feeding air to our fire From my lungs... A whispering melody Moans that'll melt your ears...
Tears of lust, beads of love Pearls of you and me... Dribble down my chin One last taste... To finish up our song
by ~twistedambrosia
Star Trek
| star trek - my current fandom of interest. this collection's got some fabulous works by some fantastic fan artists. please check them out! |
Friends
Watchers
think about this the next time.... 
PeacefulJournal History
- Nov 17, 2009 think about this the next time....
- Jul 3, 2009 humanity
- Jun 21, 2009 train whistles and rainy sundays
- Jun 10, 2009 Drunk and Philosophical
- Apr 30, 2009 can everyone stop panicking now? yeah? okay!
deviantID
| a b o u t . m e I love finding the good in all people, discovering the peace in all things, and uncovering the stories in all places. 21 years old. Canadian. University student and major academic nerd. Witty and intellectual. Cutting and sarcastic. Insightful and intuitive. Mildly insane and temporarily unstable. Occasionally Obtuse and a little dim. Generally unable to provide for anything as needy as a cactus. But I will love you even with your chicken pox scars, and brain bandaids, and mental meltdowns. And I won't even ask you to love me back. |
Devious Info
- Current Residence: Nova Scotia, Canada
- Interests: poetry, prose, gender theory, gender history, history of ideas, camping, motorcycling, outdoor life
- Favourite movie: A Very Long Engagement
- Favourite band or musician: Roisin Murphy, Artic Monkeys
- Favourite gaming platform: SNES, man. I will never move on.
- Personal Quote: Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful - Rita Dove
- Tools of the Trade: Microsoft word, scraps of paper, torn notebooks, dull pencils, and leaky pens.
- Website: http://www.fanfiction.net/~oritpetra
- Email: oritpetra@hotmail.com
- AIM: OritPetra
- MSN: oritpetra@hotmail.com
- Skype: OritPetra
Poetry or prose? Explain your reasoning in the comments!
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