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The Dead Horse
The Dead Horse
Snow had been falling all of winter break. It wasn’t that snow was a stranger to the Gorge, but a storm like this one hadn’t visited for at least a decade. Dalton Buckle and his son, Jeremiah, plodded through the snow in their hulking boots and jackets up to the door of a rather large farmhouse up Mill Creek Road. Three knocks sounded into the otherwise silent night.
“Buckle, my man!” The door opened and a bearded, cheerful man stepped out, greeting the two men with open arms and a wide smile.
“How’s it going, Jerry my boy?” Derek turned to the younger man.
“Jeremiah!” A squealing girl came to a skidding halt on the snow covered porch and wrapped herself around her older brother’s leg.
“Emily, you don’t have any shoes on.” Jeremiah pried her off and set her back in the doorway, her onesie pajamas were soaked up to the knees now.
The ConditionThe Condition
The first time I heard “New Soul”, by Yael Naim, I was with a handful of quiet strangers down at Sid’s Suds Laundromat on the corner of Second and Alder pondering the curious aura of hostility that laundromat-people always seemed to broadcast to strangers like myself. Everyone was always so quiet, so keeping-to-themselves. They shuffled about like they were in a frightful hurry and did everything they could to keep their shady eyes to themselves. I was not one of them, at least not yet. I was a new tenant in an apartment building in the middle of downtown. Someone had let me know that Sid’s Suds was only a mile or so away from my apartment and the least-dodgy place to wash and dry my clothes around town.
The reason she caught my eye, and the same reason I remember the song, was because of how sorely she stuck out from the rest of the laundromat-people the moment she walked through the door. First of all, she shoved open the door so violently that t
You're Not A PoetYou’re not a poet because of strung words
Together on row upon row again
Of blank verse or perhaps liberal rhyme.
‘Slam’ all you want, other poets wonder;
Your ignorance of couplets a blunder?
Yes! I speak harshly, but it’s no gross crime,
To point with honesty failed verse of thine.
No real poet discards upper case words;
Lets prose crawl on paper like listless worms.
You seek to free verse of those stern letters,
Sever away bleak capital fetters,
But it doesn’t sing of great speech sublime,
Rather, it sneaks of writing in spare time.
Wait! before you throw me in the icy Rhine;
It’s hard to put verse together in rhyme,
To make our dull words sound great all the time,
Hear them ring out loud, like a clear clock’s chime,
Heralding a poet’s summer prime.
Yet the sacred muses weep at your crime;
Your pentameter mangled thick like slime,
The subject not gilded in raiment fine;
Your bold ink font, crystal waters divine
Tastes bitter to the ton
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More