The-Ditch-Digger

I don't write autobiography.

16 Watchers99 Deviations

6.8K

Pageviews

Latest Deviations

See all

The Postcard by The-Ditch-Digger, literature

Literature

The Postcard

God went out to His mailbox early To wait for the tardy postman. He was expecting a letter that He hoped would come But kept failing to arrive. A hundred-billion invites – you’d think one would respond. At least if they were busy they could say so – if they were lazy admit it to Him But no one stopped to tell Him why they would not, could not attend. I made up a room on the west-side: there are daisies on the desk. When the sun sets you can watch as the flocks come home to rest. I made it up and I asked you – But I did not get an answer. All I received was a fundraising bill For the plague, HIV and cancer. I made you

Homesick by The-Ditch-Digger, literature

Literature

Homesick

The mallards on the lawn fluffle in the rain Their oiled feathers beading water as it falls. On the grass they sleep in pairs and threes, Cozy and indifferent to the passing crowd. Inside the jazz and clamor of life continue Uninhibited; just as lively, just as loud. Perhaps more than usual as more people seize The opportunity to stay warm and dry. - Fluffle’s not a word I just look at her, half-joke, half-glare. It’s a word we used to use back home, A verb form for ruffling fluff. It was used primarily for the insane bird That we had in her cage, who had a flare For the dramatic, soap-operatic when alone. - She really was quite

Christmas Radio by The-Ditch-Digger, literature

Literature

Christmas Radio

If at all possible, don’t get hungover The morning you are opening shop On a Christmas Eve. If the whirl and screams of blenders Ovens toasters refrigerators grinders Machinery all going at once If that doesn’t make you vomit in pain Then the thunder of voices The shrill trill of insipid music The stomping of feet and the scraping of chairs These will bring you to your knees. I never wanted to eat again – Every now and again I met the eyes Of the watching poet in his corner The corner he was in every week At precisely 8 am on Tuesday. His eyes, which would follow me Whenever he reached a block As if the stumbling dance of

Closing Shop by The-Ditch-Digger, literature

Literature

Closing Shop

Five minutes left – then the cleaning begins. Note the late customers – see how they huddle. It’s cold outside and they all know That they will all be kicked out in a minute To go home or to some other haven’s glow. Trade the coffee for alcohol, perhaps? On a night like tonight, it was more than likely. One minute to go when the door opens wide And in walks old James Farrell, shivering bad. I sigh, knowing now that I will be closing late As old James has a reputation he’s sworn to keep. And why not – he’s got nowhere else to sleep But the parking lot outside – why shouldn’t he – Whe

The Date by The-Ditch-Digger, literature

Literature

The Date

The look in her eyes The brush of his hand Intended or not They both understand. Oh sure, they’ll pretend They’ll surely deny But you know the end Just as well as I. It’s kinda cute, though How they play their game Subtle little things That fan that small flame. I focus on drinks So they won’t see me Watching their progress; From that stress they’re free. But I notice it When he gets a call – The look on her face Like the sky might fall. And then I notice That left-handed ring Glinting in the sun; Glittering, barring. I wonder if she – While talking to him – Knew that they’d not be;

Pupa by The-Ditch-Digger, literature

When the Old Friends Meet by (Planned) Chance by The-Ditch-Digger, literature

Literature

When the Old Friends Meet by (Planned) Chance

The silence Oh Lord, it’s unbearable. But it’s all we have. Is this seat taken? I know you haven’t seen me In ages and ages But I was hoping to sit for a time And speak with you again. How I missed your voice How the absence of Left me feeling No, I never did forget I didn’t move on I couldn’t. There still is this ring Invisible but omnipotent On my pointer finger. Why the pointer? Because it’s the most active. Would it be easier – Would you prefer – If the ring came off? That was always the question That I wanted to ask. I always wanted to ask But the silence It was too powerful.

At the Bridge West of Town by The-Ditch-Digger, literature

Literature

At the Bridge West of Town

Will you recall my name When the stars are out above the flowing river? Will you see my face When the moon is high above this old town? Cause I remember now Like I felt it then Out on that flowing river And I can still see you And your smiling face In the streets of that old town. But I left no mark Not a sign or thought to remain behind me And you’ll like forget Within a year from now That I lived in this old town. I don’t say “Love” lightly And I don’t let go easily And even now I can hear your singing voice Out on the flowing river And I still wonder As the years pass by If you’ll be there in that

Viden? by The-Ditch-Digger, literature

Literature

Viden?

Footprints left on leaf stains overlaid with tire treads My path in the late winter sun Sometimes it’s hard for me to tell Where the shadows of trees end And the dirty stains on the sidewalk begin A Pollockian nightmare of contorted lines Meeting jaggedly Signifying nothing My instinct is to grab a broom “I tried to go grab a copy of Foucault So I could read the book in physical print; But they only had him in the original French, And while I can piece together un peu français, I’m not ready for that complicated of syntax.” Walk home empty handed With mind overflowing Keeping your eyes down so no one can see W

Broken Bones and Spiders' Silk by The-Ditch-Digger, literature

Literature

Broken Bones and Spiders' Silk

It’ll be any minute, he tells himself Checking his gig line and watch. Any moment now, and it will begin; The long wait will be over; I’ll belong. Any minute, he recites anew, Running a hand through his hair Resisting the urge to grip and pull. Any minute. My lungs are tired from countless days; My chest constricted and ever tight. When? When! I can only hold on so long I can only be so patient. Cause there are thoughts too complex Too complex to express in words Sensations far too delicate Too delicate to jot down in verse Grasping spider silk to stitch broken bones Even if it could hold It would be uneven and jarring A quart

See All

Featured Gallery

See all

The Postcard by The-Ditch-Digger, literature

Literature

The Postcard

Closing Shop by The-Ditch-Digger, literature

Literature

Closing Shop

Pupa by The-Ditch-Digger, literature

When the Old Friends Meet by (Planned) Chance by The-Ditch-Digger, literature

Literature

When the Old Friends Meet by (Planned) Chance

At the Bridge West of Town by The-Ditch-Digger, literature

Literature

At the Bridge West of Town

Viden? by The-Ditch-Digger, literature

Literature

Viden?

Broken Bones and Spiders' Silk by The-Ditch-Digger, literature

Literature

Broken Bones and Spiders' Silk

Patina by The-Ditch-Digger, literature

Literature

Patina

Droplets of wisdom Fall counter to my design Oxidized lifestyle Changes the shimmering hue To one of thick dullened green Wisdom that reacts Carbonates and chlorides mixed Weather’s byproduct Protects from the corrosive Oxidized lifestyles gone wrong Leave the shimmering The wind and rain will tarnish Give it time and see All that shines is still fading All that stands is still crumbling But leave the shimmer For a moment or two more A glimpse of beauty Before the shimmering hue Fades away to dullened green

Cat + Mouse by The-Ditch-Digger, literature

Literature

Cat + Mouse

The buzzing, shrill, piercing my skull Like the darting pains whenever I turn My head to look to where she was – Is, if there is any continuity. The grip on my chest has not eased up; I’m still as tight and breathless as ever. But it’s easier now – albeit barely – Wound up, it’s easier to hold it together. All my parts, my wayward paths, Wrapped up in a ball of yarn – Yarn for someone else to knit with. God knows I never could figure out how – How the needle and thread could create something – Something so cohesive and whole Out of such disparate and loose material. I always just used t

The Fugitive's Last Night by The-Ditch-Digger, literature

Literature

The Fugitive's Last Night

Come kneel close, closer still abide For I am cold, and night is coming fast; Come kneel close, closer to my side By the fire, to shield from the icy blast. This tattered rag, hung around my shoulders; This tattered man sits by while fire smolders. But still kneel close, and in you I’ll confide. Oh oldest friend, how yearned I long To see your face, to hold you close; My sweetest wish, my daily song To see you once before I froze. Out on the lam, away from home; Out in the snow, where I do roam. This life I live, but never chose. The price I pay, I earned in full measure Do not think unjust my resting place, For this my crime I commit

Watchers 16

See all

saevuswinds

bettybrink

m-angel05

Unicorn-Butt

RavensQuill

Lightstryker

PossumFan

TheBareSheet

wima143

squibblyquill

KaterinARTadenev

Sam--I--Am

Watching 29

See all

PoetryParadise

SecretPoetry

RavensQuill

poetic-clan

WritersInk

Open-Mic-Poetry

ignotism

UnsungWritersGuild

Authors-Club

Literature-Realm

CRLiterature

Poetic-Ensemble

We-Poets

Writers--club

Golden-Koi

Collection

Favourites

See all

Submission by RavensQuill, literature

Literature

Submission

-Okay, breathe- In and out, right? Just one in... ...then one out. Repeat. Ignore the slightly blurred lines. Forget the dark spots threatening to invade my line of sight. -Breathe- -I don't know how- My chest-it feels so tight. My lungs are too confined. Resist the urge to undress. It never really helps. And yet, my hands tug at my shirt. They grasp the fabric over my breasts. -Please- -Some one save me- My mouth gaps open. I can feel the air choking in my throat. The sound is heavy all around me. Maybe if I close my eyes... Looking at the darkness inside my own mind. The small silver splashes of light- sparkles. -It's crawling inside

Believe by RavensQuill, literature

Featured Deviants, January 2015 by DailyLitRecognition, literature

Seth by AlvorReal, literature

Literature

Seth

Silent drops of rain, Drown my mother's pain, Bring not the peace of death, Spare the child Seth, Born from murder, To atone for brothers sin, He shall never leave his kin, With mother he begs for the oil, Denied, he shall return to soil, Son of first man, gift of God, Visions of flood, A city he raises from mud, Teacher and prophet, guide and just lord, None may harm, save brothers sword, Thousand years he shall reign, All who are righteous know he is a gift and penance of the Second Sin. Twice his child shall save man and beast, eternal his line, and eternal his reward.

Peter by AlvorReal, literature

Literature

Peter

A servant of Christ, he walks to the death of all true servants. A thousand men gathered to laugh and mock, peasant and king they scream. A mass of wild animals in ecstasy, a dark, a twisted carnival. Ten thousand gather in homes, five bells sound. Ten thousand pray for peace, hope for salvation. Ten thousand fear they will face the executioner next. The Servant smiles and proclaims forgiveness of all. The Servant prays and asks only a single boon of his murders. The Servant claims to not be worthy to die in the same manner as his teacher. Nail splits bone and wood, the blood flows like water. Nail struck home, seven blows to each wrist, f

treasure seeker by YuriRenard, literature

Literature

treasure seeker

Rule I. what breathes and moves through the deep, belongs to the deep you walk and darkness follows bleeding like rain of dusty shadows from the highest ceilings from their weeping slots of bone and broken stone you walk fast and yet nothing else moves in the dark but that ghastly dreamy glimmer of your hopeful eyes... oh my treasure dreamer everything is dead deep under ground even an echo even a sigh did you forget? listen and do not turn back, treasure seeker do not turn around my brave my greedy soul it's too late far too late there is a demon with eyes like pits of ember following your eager steps and he won't let you go listen how h

It Only Takes One by Sollenius, literature

Literature

It Only Takes One

Part I People are infinite... The mind is too... Reality, there is only one Just like me and you. And to each person May a separate reality lie, Existing through thoughts & memories; Our mind gives us this lie. What's beyond my Imagination Is what's after we're to die But the thought that hurts most Is having to say "goodbye" And out of all these lives I could tell you That it only takes one one person to change your perspective. And one person to change your lie. Part II So where is that person, that one? Because If one person, Just one Out of all who've passed by Stopped For a

All is fair by TapedGlass, literature

sapphire-eyed devil by TheBareSheet, literature

Literature

sapphire-eyed devil

i became that soundless sanctuary. your pulse, the rising tune weaving through the spilling dance of dew. though in collapsing pursuit, i tread on blankets of silk, billowing clouds yielded, parting. even if and when the wind looses direction, summer grass darkens, mountains topple in larger avalanche, we were a pause, a hiatus; an eternal yesterday; a fleeting patchwork; paper planes against the world. i was moses of the morning shower; you were the devil clinging onto the crook of my arm. no more than a poorly enunciated “miaow" (her eyes were sapphires and I was sure no other gem would make me feel more alive. always in my min

apple of Eden by YuriRenard, literature

Literature

apple of Eden

trees always grow where they are planted what you sow is what you reap she ate an apple of Eden and with a simple bite of her pearly teeth she woke the plaque to condemn us all... and weeping and lamenting banished and forsaken alone burdened with the heaviest gift of all Eva gave us life so we, her children cursed with freedom and its trickery cursed by gods and their daemons with all their witchery would reshap

Deviation Spotlight

You. Got. This. by The-Ditch-Digger, literature

Literature

You. Got. This.

I see these people all over the place – Depressed, anxious, confused, confounded even – And I see them, all uncertain, not knowing what will happen next I see them trying to be brave or just accepting the fear I see them breaking and then pretending not to be broken I see them, and I have only three words: First word: You Second person pronoun, indicating the person to whom I am speaking It’s every person, just as it is specific to the one, making no discernment between the two Second word: Got A word indicating possession, ownership, belonging Also a word indicating inevitability; In this case You must own, You must posse

You. Got. This.

The-Ditch-Digger

Group Member 22

Group Admin

The-Ditch-Digger is not a Group Admin yet

Groups they admin or create will appear here

About The-Ditch-Digger

See all

Artist // Student // Literature

July 16
United States
Deviant for 10 years
He / Him

Badges

My Bio

I am a student of Literature and an artist working towards a Lost Generation 2.0. While my own work has been a slow progress, I have worked as an editor and consultant for Nicholas Landon.

Favourite Visual Artist

If I say Pollock, is everyone going to hate me?

Favourite Movies

Cloud Atlas, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, 8 1/2

Favourite TV Shows

Anything written by Sorkin

Favourite Bands / Musical Artists

Josh Turner (and the other members of The Other Favorites and Coyote Armada), Airborne Toxic Event, Gogol Bordello, Old Man Markley, fun./The Format

Favourite Books

Ghostwritten, The Sparrow, Gilead, The Sound and the Fury

Favourite Writers

Russel, Robinson, Faulkner, Eliot, and Mitchell

Favourite Games

Word games.

Favourite Gaming Platform

Coffee tables and other flat, even platforms. Anything else makes writing too difficult.

Tools of the Trade

Books. Lots of books.

Other Interests

Education, Economics, and other things starting with 'E'

Posts

See all

The-Ditch-Digger

Jul 4, 2014

Poetry

0 min read

Poetry gets a bad rap sometimes. I understand why. Really I do: It can be a hard medium to tap into. Balancing meter and cadence, and especially rhymes isn’t always easy. The difficulty, though, may be exaggerated. With practice, writing like Poe, Coleridge, Byron, Brown, or Shakespeare is actually a task that you won’t have to fear. Firstly, rhymes are only hard with end-stopped lines. In reality rhymes happen naturally without prior thought all the time. The problem is that often we are taught this formulaic pattern that goes like thus:            Roses are red,            Violets are blue,            I write poetry    