Daily Lit Recognition for October 20^th, 2014

We are proud to feature today's Daily Literature Recognition!
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Please comment and the features and congratulate the artists!

Poetry

Featured by: AyeAye12

of oxygen and water (hope and memory) goodbye oleander ghost
    freckled phantom flower
drifting ever more featureless
          in the floodstream engine
           you withered in the atrium,
   were crushed
       under oceanic gears--
no one ever told you
     the same things sustaining life
also destroy it.
 
of oxygen and water (hope and memory) by nawkaman

<sub>Terse and well executed poem.
Drifts from the tangible to the analogous.


Featured by: chromeantennae</sub>

AweYou're still something I'm afraid to touch.
Your skin is like rose petals,
and I never want you to wither.
Awe by justayne

_{This is a short, succinct piece with
solid imagery. Overall, a great tercet
with a beautiful little message.}

Prose

_{Suggested by: toxic--sunrise
Featured by: betwixtthepages}

A Grave Digger's KissesI fell in love with a gravedigger. His hands were rough and calloused; no matter how many times he cleaned them, grains of soil remained rattling in his palm.  It should have been a warning – dirt nestled in his love-line, but something about the way he held me, how he always seemed surprised that I was warm, that I was alive, was endearing. He once said that in winter, when his fingers were like ice, he couldn’t feel the difference between the coffin and the bed. But he refused gloves, scoffed at them; said feeling the earth part under his feet was the only way he knew up from down.
And his eyes were like shovels, constantly burrowing through me, dragging up fossils, the skeletons dancing in my closet. He lived with the dead, only understood the chattering of skulls, would unearth forgotten secrets, examine them as if he were a mortician, a pathologist. Then those eyes would silently begin again, reburying them in perfectly square holes, in perfectly straight lines. H
A Grave Digger's Kisses by comatose-comet

<sub>This witty piece uses beautiful prose
and a few well-chosen turns of phrases
to tell a story that will leave you thinking.


Featured by: Rose-Em</sub>

growing upI grew up on the back of a vegetable cart, counting the months of my life in seasonal vegetables, and counting the years in the objects I took on board to keep me company. Aged seven I remember perching on a sack of onions with my sock puppet and reading Alana’s book about a witch disguised as a pedlar woman. I flinched away from the crates of rubbery okra; green fibrous witches noses. When aunty stewed the witchy okra for our dinner it was unrecognisable. It looked like stars.
The ceaseless jolting of the cart against uneven terrain and the fresh air contrived to blur the words I read, stirring them into a bubbling green potion. Blinking fast to fight dry prickly eyes I read another page, then leaned back against the wooden flanks of the cart and realised through long heavy blinks that stars themselves were actually less-star-shaped than slices of okra. You couldn’t count their points, there were meant to be five, one two three four five. I couldn’t draw a pointy sta
growing up by apoemhowsweet

_{A short, sweet and majestic piece.}

Foreign Language

Featured by: OoJitkaoO

Und am AbendUnd am Abend: stilles Glück.
Altes Sofa. Trautes Heim.
Sitzen. Schweigen. Blick zurück.
Leise lächeln. Mondenschein.
Und am Abend by fantom125

_{A short poem about peace,
being at home and about luck.
It touches the reader in a heartwarming way.}


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to be featured, please visit us at DailyLitRecognition.

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~ The DailyLitRecognition Team ~


_{Prepared by: SilverInkblot}