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About Literature / Artist Amy FaeFemale/Unknown Recent Activity
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Literature
Hereford meets Springtime
Hereford meets Springtime
Hereford meets Springtime, furtively at first,
   passing snowdrop-notes in the hallways,
winking green and brushing shoulders with
         the yellow-white-purple crocus.
Full infatuation erupts in public
   displays of daffodils and forsythia,
          the lunch-time dramas of rainfall
amidst nods and smiles from the pansies.
Love takes root dandelion-deep,
   despite unpredictable temperature fluctuations,
and explodes in a burst of cherry-pear-plum
          fairy-petal blossoms.
Hereford and Springtime hold hands,
   their shoes covered in mud and grass,
while the lilacs awaken
          and everywhere turns green.
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Literature
April
April
Finally
the lawn
is dotted with violets
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Literature
Cotton Balls
Cotton Balls
She hides treasures in the cotton ball jar:
     buttons, shells, favorite crayons,
and once, the skull of a bat she found outside the garage.
Mother inevitably finds them,
     reaching in the jar for a fluffy squeak of cotton
     to remove her nail polish.
She pulls out cerulean blue or red violet,
     a piece of purple quartz, and once
her own emerald ring.
That was the worst time,
   worse even than the bat skull.
Mother yelled and threatened the removal of all crayons,
     shells, rocks, and grocery store machine jewelry.
She tried to stop that time,
        kept her hands off the jar for two whole days,
but by Thursday she couldn’t sleep
until her Canadian penny rested,
   nestled safely among the cotton balls.
Mother’s been gone for five years now,
  &
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Literature
Geometry
Geometry
In high school geometry, we learned
          the triangle is the strongest shape,
  while Melanie played the turtle,
crawling about the classroom
          in a shell of desk.
In college, we learned
human relationships are not geometry.
Not all triangles are isosceles.
    Fewer are right,
and even fewer beds
comfortably fit
        three moving bodies.
Now I am suspicious of all maths.
   You approach, calculating
one and one and one make
       I count my fingers.
There are one too many threes in this equation.
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Literature
AAM 8 - Solstice
Solstice
My baby likes a cold, chocolatety milkshake on the longest night of the year.
“Mason-Dixon’s so close,” he says, incisors gleaming.
My baby thinks all the pagan holidays are excuses for sex.
He ignores his cell phone, leaves the lights on,
and always craves fries afterwards.
So my baby’s scarf-wrapped and smiling tonight,
with January so far away.
The fake leather booth chills his legs,
but he’s dreaming about Equinox tonight.
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Literature
AAM 11 - making cookies
The cookie-making impulse always strikes at night,
the colder and darker the better.
The scent of chocolate-chip mish-mash is irresistible,
licking off the beaters,
filling the house with cookie-warmth.
You might be sitting on the couch,
(in fact, you probably are)
reading, or watching television,
when it hits you upside the tastebuds:
semi-sweet chocolate waiting for you,
in the cabinet, behind the pots and pans,
hiding from Dad.
(Dad’s not supposed to have sweets;
if you make the cookies, you’ll have to hide them, too,
and you really ought to have made them before he got home from work.)
The thought of those tiny little chips
sets you salivating, and you pull yourself up out of the couch.
How many eggs do you have?
How much butter is there?
Did anyone bother to buy more brown sugar
after you upturned the last bag onto your oatmeal?
You quickly scan the kitchen, the cabinets,
the pantry and refrigerator;
your brain cataloguing ingredients and utensils.
This could work
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Literature
AAM 7 - fairytales
She stirs the milk into her tea,
dreaming of big noses and overalls,
licking honey from a spoon.
It’s raining again, the drops
tapping out enchantments
to keep the world quiet and gray.
She remembers muddy feet,
the warmth of hands on her back,
the weight of two bodies in her bed.
The fog huddles against the windows,
dragon-like, and she settles herself in
for another hundred years.
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Literature
AAM 6 - Catullus 2
Little bird, you’re a god to my girl.
She’s all lap and fingertips to you,
a veritable human playground;
she incites you and excites you,
and you, full of nips and quips,
comfort her dark heavy days.
Comfort me, little bird,
like her, if it’s so easy…
It’s as good as golden apples
slipping from a belt
to fast-running girls.
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Literature
AAM 5 - newspaper clippings
Newspaper Clippings
We are reduced to this:
a newspaper clipping, a photograph,
an old recipe.
What lies they whisper to coffee-dampened ears.
Disguised as history,
hiding their half-truths in yellowed pages
and brittle bits of tape.
These are our lives, outlined:
birth announcements to obituaries,
a collection of bloodless facts.
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Literature
AAM 4 - drought
drought
We look to November rains to save us,
but they only mock our fields
while the banks of the reservoirs widen,
earth’s own chapped lips.
We are dry: dry hands, dry hair, dry eyes;
we cannot afford tears this year.
We cannot even sweat.
Our lips like earth,
we seek moments of moisture,
tongue to tongue.
Together we can pretend
the drought has passed.
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Literature
AAM 3 - Daylight Savings Time
daylight savings time
the world slows down
in one extra hour
we sleep and consider ourselves
saved
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Literature
AAM2 - Autumn Planting
Autumn Planting
My mother and I plant daffodils in the autumn afternoon.
Leaves still cling to the trees, mourning their fallen fellows;
the wind has barely begun to breathe cool breaths
and already we look to spring.
We bury our sunshine thoughts with the bulbs,
our warm weather hopes and daydreams,
sprinkling the bottom of each hole first
with bone meal – the calcium left behind when things die
and dry and crumble.
We cover each bulb carefully,
whispering the prayers of our ancestors
to keep them safe and sleeping through winter,
comforted by death and decay.
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Literature
AAM1 - Death of Che
Your bones lie silent beneath half-truths and exaggerations,
reaching for fingertips they’ll never feel again,
while your hands wander restless,
aching for wrists and arms.
Yesterday I could not have named your iconic face;
tonight your hands haunt my dreams,
inky from identifying fingerprints,
lonely in the first cold days of autumn.
And what are you now, Che, without hands?
A symbol? The face of a cause?
Are you still only a man?
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Literature
40 minutes outside Philly
.
40 minutes outside Philadelphia
     the notes pluck pluck pluck
irritating the stairway and stoic doorways;
          she is stuck staring, for it's
too forced to be a gaze
   out the window
   while the lyrics carve wrinkles into the skin
around her eyes and mouth
  and the sun shines, and watches, and can do nothing.
.
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Literature
Written Word
.
We write nothing new.
It is all old – old as Adam
   when he first pressed his dusty hand,
      flat-palmed, to Eve’s.
The Earth read their fortunes that day,
      all the serpents, the fallen, sons and daughters
   spread sundry across the lands, trying to touch
      the others’ mouths.
We are still licking the apple’s juices
   from each others’ fingertips.
From the moment our souls first breathed,
      Adam into Eve,
all these were written and will be wrote.
.
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Literature
Color - Sticky
.
She walks on warm-sand beaches, sun-soaked.  Her hair is long with honey-colored highlights, a hint of red, and it sticks slightly to her sweaty neck.  There is a warm summer breeze; it kisses her collarbone and tickles her bare back.  She steps like lazy light, toes in the sand, face to the sky.  The sun sets slow and she smiles.
When she is inside, she wraps herself in towels just out of the dryer, big fluffy towels, and she falls asleep on piles of clean laundry, curled in fetal position.  Everything fades into an afternoon cuddled catnap.
She smells like citrus and digs her teeth into the skin-fuzz and flesh of a peach.  Juice drips into the palm of her hand and trickles down her wrist, thick and sweet.  It tickles just a bit, and all her senses are heightened.
She believes in natural light, natural heat, summer days, and the faces of tiger lilies.  When she kisses it is firm but giving, like friendsh
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deviantID

amyfae
Amy Fae
Artist | Literature
Current Residence: out yonder
Favourite genre of music: stuff I can dance or sing to
Favourite photographer: echo-si
Personal Quote: All these shapes are the problem. I need to break out of this geometry.
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:iconvespera:
vespera Featured By Owner Apr 24, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
I wonder when you'll be back.
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:iconepimetheus:
epimetheus Featured By Owner Jan 7, 2010  Professional Interface Designer
Boo!
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:iconcatching:
catching Featured By Owner Jun 11, 2008
Thanks so much for the recent (kinda) comment and fav! :aww:
Reply
:iconpupasoul:
pupasoul Featured By Owner May 16, 2008  Hobbyist General Artist
Thanks Amy! :sun:
Reply
:iconjoannabromley:
JoannaBromley Featured By Owner Feb 16, 2008  Professional Traditional Artist
Thanks for hte fav! :blowkiss:
Reply
:iconcpersampieri:
cpersampieri Featured By Owner Feb 5, 2008
hey you!
Thanks for the add! =)
:glomp:
Reply
:iconecho-si:
echo-si Featured By Owner Feb 4, 2008   Writer
Baby write something, anything. Write about shadows on dirty snow, or due dates, or rain that doesn't stop for weeks on end and ruins the best part of summer....

:heart:
Love you.
Reply
:iconilona:
ilona Featured By Owner Jan 18, 2008
:bow::flowerpot:
Reply
:iconepimetheus:
epimetheus Featured By Owner Nov 7, 2007  Professional Interface Designer
Just wanted to drop by and freshen up your page. It is nice to be writing again! I'm over 17,000 words on my NaNo Novel, which is really exciting! And the story's even moving along nicely as well! More hooray-ing!

A.
Reply
:iconpoetryod:
PoetryOD Featured By Owner Nov 1, 2007
yw, your work is amazing :heart:
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