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Literature
A woman is missing.
A woman is missing.
My sweater is knit too loose and the wind blows through.
The leaves are done changing and are waiting to fall.
I think of them collaged against my morning-damp windshield;
they will mostly be red. My wipers will push them off;
I will forget about them. But inbetween these thoughts
my brain hums. A woman is missing and I cannot forget.
Two weeks ago the leaves were mostly green and yellow.
Two weeks ago a woman went missing.
I didn't know her but she went missing and today
I am standing at a wall covered with candles and
I am rolling her name over my tongue and I am thinking.
I am thinking and praying, but I am not hoping.  
A woman went missing; a woman is missing.
I keep going to work, getting up each day.
I brush my teeth, comb my hair, pack my lunch, drive my car.  
And mostly I do not think about her. But sometimes I do.
Sometimes the hairs on my neck stand up and the two blocks
between the library and the coffee shop are impossibly long.
Som
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Literature
September renga no. 3.
Evening lake…
making a Monet
with my paddle.
:iconOritPetra:OritPetra
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Literature
Going home to a home.
Being alone is not like dying
or like suffocating; it's not a black pit, it's not
any metaphor or simile - not dark Decembers, not falling leaves.
It's just you not there on the couch
when I get home from the graveyard shift.
It's just me knowing that you haven't fallen asleep sitting up
waiting for me to get home and kill the TV, drag you to bed.
It's just all the stupid stuff that
doesn't sound good in a poem, that doesn't
lend itself to intricate metaphors or literary tricks.  
It's just me sitting here at the kitchen table
filling out passport papers because I can't stand
one more damned winter in this cold, cold city;
no, not if it's going to be without you.   
I guess maybe in the end this loneliness is just me
on this towel on this beach in this new city
soaking up sunshine that I thought would heal me
and wanting to go home to a home that's
not there anymore.
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Literature
September renga no. 2.
the old treehouse – 
      a bee with no wings
             the smell of decay
:iconOritPetra:OritPetra
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Literature
September renga no. 1.
scrape of the bow
on the sandy shore –
a nap in the shade.
:iconOritPetra:OritPetra
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Literature
Preserves.
There are tomatoes in the sink
and I am sunburnt
from picking raspberries.
My dog is sitting on the doorstep
snapping at flies but down by the field
there are apples ripening!
In the garden, squash and cucumbers
grow fat, racing autumn's first frost.  
In the forest, animals gather up
summer's zenith, and in the air  
birds fly away in search of
warmer skies.
Indeed, the whole world is preparing
to die and I'm in the kitchen
putting off making preserves!
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Literature
Tessa.
We laid you in the earth
as the day reached its close.
The afternoon's thunderstorms
passed to the east and in the west
the sun burned brilliant,
its diurnal death a ruddy kiss
upon our swollen cheeks.  
That morning you looked at me
from the backseat and suddenly
you knew what we meant by
"it's time."  And you let go so quick,
so quiet – your tail thumped, thumped
against the clinic floor, then stopped;
your face was a calm, golden yellow.
The tears did not come then
in the office, transactional and sterile,
but as my bare feet picked up the rain  
lingering upon the backyard grass –
here where you scouted out smells  
and followed us children about,
nosing our pockets for something tasty.   
Tonight, the hollyhocks are in bloom
beside the old oak tree in whose
shade you curled up, contented
as you aged to simply watch over us
and paw at the occasional acorn.  
You never asked for much – a little lov
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Literature
Fireflies.
glowing ember sinks
into a black coal sea –
fireflies flicker.
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Literature
Nature's last green is gold.
Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

- Robert Frost, 1923.
Nature's last green is gold:
the deepening of summer
into rich yellows, oranges, reds.
In our maturity, grown
comfortable with ourselves,
we stretch out, languid,
in the embrace of a hay field –
limbs entangled.
Our flowers are not the
delicate sort that die away
after spring's first flurry;
they are smaller, less showy,
but sure of themselves
and hardy.
Indeed, the honeyed scents of a
ripened earth are strongest
just before winter, and
we lament Eden no longer.
Your touches are reverent
not only of my body, my soul,
but of my knowledge, my mind;
and I much prefer the hard skin
of an apple, its juices slick
in my throat, to the drab language
and fine print of scriptures –
orchard tastes of an autumn
kissed by gold.
And as winter swallows the
sw
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Sky-mirror. by OritPetra Sky-mirror. :iconoritpetra:OritPetra 3 11
Literature
Big fire.
Big Fire came
during dry-sand summer.
I still remember
my roots ached and
Lake shrank away
until I could not feel her.
Sky had nothing, either –
blue eyes dry;  
the blackflies, heat-dead, gone too.
Parched, we prayed to
Rain Spirit.
I was young, just
ten rings, and this
my first baking heat.
Like my aspen brothers further south,
I trembled.  
But rain came one night,  
dark, in sating sheets,  
and we drank
big, long draughts,
while Sand got thick and wet
and Lake rose up again.
But too greedy then
were we, and forgot
our Southern brothers when
our Sky tried to make Rain stay  
in just this forest.   
The Clouds, angered,
cracked out their rage
in bright jabs
until they hit Big Mother,
Seed Mother,
across the shore from me.
She, the driest of us all,
had given everything to her children;
she smouldered,
injured, and could not
dampen the fire
in her heart.
That's how Big Fire came,
bright and hot,
and burned them all
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Literature
History, molecular.
Packing up, stacked
cardboard boxes filled -
everything I own tucked away,
ordered, labelled.
Standing, empty
once-cramped walls expansive - 
I cleaned to spotless white,
every nook, cranny.
Leaving, stillness
just the moving van idling outside - 
I pause for one last look,
introspective, tired.
Settling, cornered
dust that could not be evicted -
remaining as I shut the door,
history, molecular.
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:iconoritpetra:OritPetra 13 29
Literature
2011 June Haikuthon
The following is my contribution to the-haiku-club's 2011 June Haikuthon.
This is an on-going deviation and will be updated through-out the month
of June 2011. Stay tuned for more Eastern poetry and if you're interested
in participating, check out the-haiku-club!
1. (haiku)
jostling pick-up truck
lovers hold hands    
rough roads, big sky.
2. (haiku)
spring's open road -
bike tires ready
to leave winter behind.
3. (tanka)
momma-bird with a worm
waits on the telephone wire:
across the street chirping
babies with rumbling bellies.     
4. (haiku)
on the motorbike:
wind-tears and a
side-mirror sunset.
5. (haiku)
watering flowers
the goat bleats
the bees hum
6. (haiku)
on the roadside
a dead deer
and budding flowers
7. (senryu)
buoyant
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Literature
King Saul's daughter.
I found a photograph of us last night,
one from our college days.
It fell out from between the rice paper pages of
my collected works of Shakespeare and floated down
to the floor, settling among dust bunnies flushed out  
during this year's spring clean.
From five feet and fifteen years above,
our younger selves stared up at me,
smiling with a fresh flushed newness –
full-faced and growing, we swelled with promise:
the burgeoning fruits of an orchard in springtime,  
the hope of a rich harvest come fall.
Cheeks young and feverish, sun-tinted red –
the first rays of warming summer darkened our
thickening adolescent skin, ripened our nubile flesh.
We were bright with the mad urge to scribble poetry:
in gas station bathrooms when we stopped on road trips,
on park benches on our walks through the city,
and inbetween the keystrokes of papers furiously written,
rushed metaphors more important than sleep.
We moved together, our urgency beating at our chests,
we w
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Literature
Blackflies.
trimming goat hooves
the blackflies bite
blood, sweat and bleating
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Literature
Azaleas.
Early morning
the telephone rings;
it's for mum,
the doctor's office.
She's outside,
watering the azaleas,
hands weak with age.
The wet grass
between my toes
reminds me that
I was a child once.
As my grin at an earthworm
suggests:
not so very long ago.
And the mud on
mother's hands    
tells me:
maybe she was too,
   
not so very long ago.
:iconOritPetra:OritPetra
:iconoritpetra:OritPetra 12 16
My gallery here on deviantART is rather eclectic. While its centerpiece is poetry, it also plays home to my prose works, fan fiction, travel and art photographic, and a hodge-podge of other artistic endeavors, including a stained glass work, traditional artwork, and fabric art.

Critiques of and comments on my work are greatly appreciated and warmly welcomed. And anything goes: simple or detailed, positive or negative.

But I also don't mind if you :+fav: and run!

:heart: :heart: :heart:

Deviations of the daily variety.

Journal Entry: Wed Nov 30, 2011, 9:39 PM

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:lightbulb: PLEASE NOTE, I am presently on a partial hiatus on from deviantART. Due to issues and time constraints in my offline life, I am in and out of here somewhat irregularly and infrequently. Replies to notes and comments may take longer than usual, and those I watch may notice that I comment less on their deviations and journals. Please do not take offense to this, as none is intended. I simply don't have the same level of time to invest here as I did before. Once things settle down, I'll be back on a more stable and regular basis. :heart:

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A woman is missing.A woman is missing.
My sweater is knit too loose and the wind blows through.
The leaves are done changing and are waiting to fall.
I think of them collaged against my morning-damp windshield;
they will mostly be red. My wipers will push them off;
I will forget about them. But inbetween these thoughts
my brain hums. A woman is missing and I cannot forget.
Two weeks ago the leaves were mostly green and yellow.
Two weeks ago a woman went missing.
I didn't know her but she went missing and today
I am standing at a wall covered with candles and
I am rolling her name over my tongue and I am thinking.
I am thinking and praying, but I am not hoping.  
A woman went missing; a woman is missing.
I keep going to work, getting up each day.
I brush my teeth, comb my hair, pack my lunch, drive my car.  
And mostly I do not think about her. But sometimes I do.
Sometimes the hairs on my neck stand up and the two blocks
between the library and the coffee shop are impossibly long.
Som




I was at work all day, so I didn't find out until late afternoon, when I finished my shift and went to the library to get some schoolwork done. I got all emotional in public and had to hangout in the bathroom for a moment to collect myself - all in the very best way, of course.

A huge 'thank you' to LadyofGaerdon and BeccaJS both. This is, for all intents and purposes, my first DD. The Poem Prayers project was DD'd by Halatia, but I don't conceptualise that as mine. Rather, it belongs to everyone who contributed to it and to everyone affected by the crisis. That DD was amazing, uplifting, and inspiring - particularly as all those prayers just kept coming in - but this one was so in a different way. It hit me in a different place, I guess, to have something that I alone created and poured myself into so fully, so openly, so intimately, recognised in some way. Both have been beautiful experiences and both have left me feeling so very, very blessed - as this community always does.

In closing, thank you to everyone who read, favourited, and commented on A woman is missing.; it means so much. And welcome to all the new watchers who've added me in the past two days! I look forward to getting to know you in the coming months.

So much love to you all,

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1 March 2011 - 30 April 2011
See this entry for details.

To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee
This one came very highly recommended both from my friends on here and my offline friends. And let me tell you it did not disappoint. I got to the trial scene right before bed one night, and ended up staying up until I finished the whole damn book. I can't remember the last book that hit me in that way, that made me laugh so deeply, cry so deeply, smile so deeply. It was just...wow. Often when I read a classic I like to think about why it's been dubbed 'a classic.' Sometimes it's because of the caliber of the writing, other times because of its historical weight, and others because of how it resonates with human experience. Very seldom does a classic manage all three. This one, though, does and astoundingly so. A remarkable read.

The Secret Garden, Frances Hodgson Burnett
When I first listed this on my reading list zebrazebrazebra said "The Secret Garden is a stunning book. I read it whenever I feel down and the downness just slows down," which I thought was a wonderfully whimsical way of putting things. And now that I've read it I know exactly what she meant. It was a joyful and heartwarming read and I think Dickon, especially, will be a character that sticks with and makes me smile spontaneously for a long time to come.

Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen

Generation X, Douglas Coupland
What can I say? I was written for the generation before my own, but a lot of the problems - the wayward, cheated, but evocatively introspective feelings of being 20th or 21st century 20-something ring true for me, and for most others my age I reckon. I love this book's comments on youth society, and on North American class structures and economics. It's poetic, strange, eerie, hilarious, and far too much like looking in the mirror. I can't wait to pick up Generation A.

Celebutantes, Amanda Golberg and Ruthanna Khalighi Hopper
Man this was a trashy book. I really couldn't get into it at first, finding it much more vapid and frivolous than I'm used to, but I just sort of let go and went with it, and by the end I was enjoying myself thoroughly. Nothing that'll blow you off your feet, or make you think or question your existence, but a decent, humorous read that just lets your brain chill.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, Stieg Larsson
Holy-fucking-awesome-book-oh-my-god. Seriously, guys, I could not put this one down. I'm not generally one for crime or mystery type novels, but I just found this one to be so well-crafted and so out of the norm, with such vivid characters, that I devoured it with hesitation. Really stoked for the next two books, and interested to see how Larsson develops Lisbeth and Blomkvist in the next installments. And I think must rent the movie this or next weekend!

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JULY 2011

“A poem is never finished, only abandoned. "

- Paul Valery

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Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen
The Bible (for serious; I'm trying to read the whole thing cover-to-cover by year's end).

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Skin:
Simplex by helvegr.
  • Reading: Pride and Prejudice and Zombies

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:iconscottman2th:
ScottMan2th Featured By Owner Aug 4, 2015  Hobbyist General Artist
happy birthday Tazz :D (Big Grin) hope you are doing well and hope to see some new postings soon.  
Reply
:iconscottman2th:
ScottMan2th Featured By Owner Jun 7, 2015  Hobbyist General Artist
hey Tazz, still here on DA...lot's of collaborations and personal projects over the last few years...skillset has really developed during that time...so glad i found DA when i did... hope you are well and hope to hear from you at some point in the future :D (Big Grin) Hug :happybounce:  
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:iconjasperinity:
Jasperinity Featured By Owner Aug 4, 2014
Happy birthday! :D
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:iconsammur-amat:
Sammur-amat Featured By Owner Aug 4, 2014   General Artist
happy birthday, beautiful soul :iconlachoirplz:
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:iconladyofgaerdon:
LadyofGaerdon Featured By Owner May 26, 2014  Professional Writer
You've been featured on my blog:la: Come check it out if you'd like. :heart:
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