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chancethe chance at last
a rainy day on lake's grey water
there'll be no one sailing but us
left by the lazy and weak of spirit
for fireplaces and cozy chairs
and reading lights
only the truly alive and willing
lightly clad but afire with joy
could find this day of quiet beauty
disguised in cool and wet
a place of opportunity
Lancelot Price 2013 N0vember 15
chokedChoked by halo
never to return
His fans could not believe it
Would not believe it
There has to be an after
He's in a better place, they said
No, I said
The Pontiff's dead
and all he came from
Just like my Mom and Dad
Worth more to me than any church
Even the one we went to
When I was a lad so long ago
Of Catholics and Baptists
and all else but dinosaurs and dogs
and toy trains
Lancelot Price 2013 September 22
anniversaryShadow slides back with sunrise
the text is revealed
That one day of the year
when sun penetrates the chamber and
lights wisdom from the side
to bring it to the seeming of relief
The god in bedrock smiles
The fools have returned
Ten thousand times
Lancelot Price 2013 November 26
Once, there were hardwood floors in stores
even in the sixties
Bare of finish, and very real
Texture of life
Sound of footsteps that show we're here
In tiny stores run by Mom and Pop
like something from the Old West
or the Old East
and in modern streamlined outlets
run by nameless executives of something soon to be K-Mart
The seventies happened
The weak and cowardly
riding in their motorised walkers
armoured and armed
avoiding personal responsibility and personal Death
make a new rule on the spot
ignoring fifty years without a flame
overhead sprinkler systems
and the Firehouse two blocks away
filled with experts at stopping fire
Everything must be metal and glass
including more and more rules that cage life and freedom
And yet despite cages
and all of their armour
despite all their padded
interregnumThere was an earthquake here once.
Then twice. And then again.
And several more times.
And each time ended
Life came again
building hidden layers on
what had not sunk in the sea
At last, though maybe not
the deep break moved on east
the hole was sealed
the island left in peace
a large high ring
not quite complete
surrounding the abyss of calm cool water
that was all that was left of mountain
It was here we began
to build a home again
to make music and beauty
Even if explosions come again, we had our time
Lancelot Price 2012 May 13
seekerI wander much through such old country,
a ghost who's thinking of other ghosts,
missing them and their effects,
an exile from the present, and from past.
The rhythm's the same
It never changes
But as he dances
he always changes
with the synths
The drums beat fast
The drums beat deep
He sings a song
and lies to self and all
And finally he lies
Down and dies
But the flashing lights were fun
The sounds and sights were beautiful
It was worth it.
And so was I.
Lancelot Price 2014 January 16
Things passed.Things passed.
I used to live somewhere else. Back there we had true autumn. On a foggy fall morning, just ahead of me in the mist, I could see Christmas, that time divine for its softly decorated trees and beautifully wrapped presents, quite ungarish. For some years, all was well, but then we moved South and Fall and Christmas were gone.
It was still winter when we moved in early January, so at first I didn't notice, I just thought that spring had come three months early. Everything was so different from the old place that I was completely caught up in adjusting to it all, and enjoying the new things and ways, but when September had gone by, and then October, and everything was still warm and bright, I began to notice that things were different here.
"The rules are different here." That's what they liked to say, those people who had lived here for more than my few months of habitation. Then November passed. And December. And still the sun was bright. It was then I r
no life...and though we thought we'd tire
of strumming on your bones
the song we sing's the same
the names we changed
'til we forget to write
and christen this concrete
in neon light
who thought you were alive?
the last few lines
are leaving you behind
We Were All Going to be WonderfulKathy's mom, shaped like a ripe pear
black-haired, she wore it long, tied back.
She looked foreign, she should have been a gypsy--
silver and red, smoky and asleep;
should have smelled like cardamom or cloves
but she smelled like onions and carrots, potatoes and oregano.
She leaned at the sink in the tiny kitchen
peeling potatoes, head bent, sallow-skinned, heavy-hipped
her dark hair traced with the first lazy spider webs of gray.
We slunk past the gray-mouthed man on the sofa
with his Reds game and his beer;
men weren't soft then, but the new kind was coming along.
The suburbs were a garden
through the hot summer days and the Catholic schools,
and it wasn't the dads who had the dirty fingernails.
But he worked every day, by god he did,
drove a truck fat with bakery goods
flaccid and without souls
(whole wheat was a color not a life.)
Robert kept the kids fed, didn't interfere
with their summer afternoons.
"Come in here, Josie, pull down my pants and make love to me."
She only grunted,
The bell jar will not kill meA low white sun ignited
crystals on the sidewalk,
even her trash
had its color.
a dead rabbit,
I can't hate The Wasteland.
a striving resenment,
drives my sidestep
to watch cars
fume and glisten,
listen to the radio,
get up for work on Monday and
smoke on the dock.
StringTiny green spots on winter-dead branches
A holocaust, a death-march, a tiny string of hope
Braver souls than I have retreated, phoned it in
Fascinated by that string, I want to pull it, I
Want to know
Close to the borderline, red drops, white snow
A stench hovers over the city, mad yellow cabs
Ray of sunlight glints through broken window
I begin to pull the string towards me, heartbeat;
The string breaks
Old fallout shelters revived, black planes fly
God isn’t here today, playing cards with Buddha
I look for you in the empty Wal-Mart, still hoping
That none of the blood on the barbed-wire is yours
You’re not there
Out in the field of old televisions, night falls hard
Sleeping beneath cardboard by the blue-screen light
Tomorrow I will find you in an abandoned garage
We will find the string, follow it to freedom, I think
It will happen
QuestionsA thousand monitors in a dark field, all flashing blue
A ghost in the machine, he said
I began going down the rows, smashing each with a hammer
Nothing will ever grow here again
Did you know about the stars?
Do you know what’s waiting behind the door when you get home?
How many toes have fallen off since we walked together?
Are you whole enough to make it home, where the pictures on the walls watch your every move?
How long has it been since we really talked?
You don’t even remember me, do you?
RadiatorThe burnt-out ruins of an old hospital still smoulder
All I can do is stand and watch as day becomes night
Chain-smoking and sipping from the pint in my jacket pocket
Wondering how many stories have been forever lost today
Tomorrow I will meet a friend who won't understand
Why all I speak of is hospitals, trains, clocks and crows
Or why I painted my apartment industrial green
And keep ancient plastic flowers on the windowsill
But you, my good Catholic girl who lost her religion
You know about all these things and so much more
You know why it's so hard to leave these ruins
And why the radiator hisses poetry on a winter's eve
The Flutter VelocityI didn't know the bridge would fall
or that the water beneath could consume
the last structures of an identity,
when held still I don't
The architects were ignorant.
I make gills and breathe,
submit to pressure,
the last car to fall is black.
I don't care anymore.
The shore persists.
RavenI’ll never forget the night you became a raven
How bright your eyes were
How the tips of your elongated fingers sparked electricity
How your laugh became a caw
The way you wrapped your wings around me
And pulled me down into the darkness
And my fingers became tiny branches
We laughed, soft and low
The way the damned do
I sit behind the windshield
as water floods the outside
looking out as they look in
I turn on the wipers
just for fun
As the window clears I see them
With every windshield wipe
I fade a bit
They cannot see me anymore
and I am gone
Just as I began
Lancelot Price 2014 January 16
MercyOh sweet God how the grassland
ignites in moonlight tonight
I must thank you for creating
her tangled fingers' slow pace
through the handsome rain Her
trochaic kinesthesia to rhythms
in Stravinsky's The Rite of
Spring Is this how you meant
for us to love you Yahweh
Tumbling clumsily down hills
of sheets into perpetually
immutable silence I could love
you like that I think I've been
practicing on this Savanna
for days and months Lost in
her crystal canvas Rolling crests
and troughs And when she touches
me Oh fair Lord I'm dragged into
your city past Gethsemane's
pulsing green and gold
Please hold us together
under this luminous stretch
Oh Father We are live
unclothed Our reflections awash
with the skin of your sun
Keep in Touch!
A two-time Community Volunteer for the deviantART Related category, Anne is well-known as a positive, helpful force. She is the community's resident expert when it comes to CSS (Cascading Style Sheets), and her personal gallery offers a wide variety of tutorials for new and experienced coders alike. In addition, each winter she hosts a calendar project encouraging members to create Journal designs for all to use, bringing more creativity to the community.
It is with immense gratitude that we acknowledge Anne as the recipient of the Deviousness Award for October 2014. Read More