tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-85884014217253597722024-03-05T09:27:14.550+00:00Out of my Ocean - PoetryPoetry blogSusannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09581993763700327953noreply@blogger.comBlogger135125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8588401421725359772.post-32906000570336618462012-02-11T09:42:00.002+00:002012-02-11T09:58:52.203+00:00AriaThe sadness,<br />goes down as deep as her bones.<br />Oh, she clothes it well, with optimistic flesh,<br />joyful tendons and beautiful skin.<br />But in the quiet times,<br />she hears it singing.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><div class="blogger-post-footer">Images, poetry and thoughts that emerge from the depths and are washed up on the shoreline of this blogging girl.</div>Susannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09581993763700327953noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8588401421725359772.post-46235599934313181912012-02-04T08:43:00.002+00:002012-02-04T08:47:32.763+00:00When Darkness Come Again . . .Spread your whispering story.<br /><br />Those glittering shards that sing<br />of instinct and fine urges.<br /><br />Scatter some of your charm<br />upon this ashen soul.<br /><br />Scald me with your joy.<br /><br />Let me steal from you<br />the knack of carrying light.<br /><br />So that when the darkness comes again,<br />to pour its inky stains and crush my violet hope.<br /><br />I can shout out to my sisters<br /><br />and with their hair streaming<br />and wild voices splitting the air.<br /><br />They will coming running.<br /><br />Whooping and hollering<br />and dancing in circles.<br /><br />Until all of the shadows are gone.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Images, poetry and thoughts that emerge from the depths and are washed up on the shoreline of this blogging girl.</div>Susannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09581993763700327953noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8588401421725359772.post-38829366848163686942012-01-29T08:46:00.024+00:002012-02-02T08:31:01.320+00:00These Broken Words<div style="text-align: left;">With these broken words,<br />I try to cobble together<br />a structure. - A bridge<br />that is strong enough<br />to hold the weight<br />of all the beauty<br />that I see.<br /><br />In the open spaces<br />between what is known,<br />and what is not.<br />I wander.<br />And like a sponge,<br />I soak in the essence<br />- absorb the goodness.<br /><br />But when I try to tell.<br />To share the contents<br />of this overflowing cup.<br />The words cannot hold it.<br />They lay in silent shards,<br />scattered and broken<br />about my feet.<br /><br /><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Images, poetry and thoughts that emerge from the depths and are washed up on the shoreline of this blogging girl.</div>Susannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09581993763700327953noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8588401421725359772.post-83032430157322083422012-01-12T09:49:00.000+00:002012-01-12T09:50:23.892+00:00Lost For WordsWhen the words don't come<br />I look for them.<br /><br />I shine a torch into dark corners,<br />- dig down into the silt.<br /><br />Looking for letters that have fallen<br />from my mouth as I was speaking.<br /><br />And there, half buried in the sludge<br />I find them.<br /><br />Carefully I dig out each one.<br /><br />Only to discover that they<br />spell out one word. . .<br /><br />W R I T E<div class="blogger-post-footer">Images, poetry and thoughts that emerge from the depths and are washed up on the shoreline of this blogging girl.</div>Susannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09581993763700327953noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8588401421725359772.post-70391397075452649252012-01-07T20:04:00.003+00:002012-01-07T20:09:35.823+00:00I am life movingI am life, moving<br />flowing<br />like breath<br />like rivers<br />like rain<br /><br />I am life, moving<br />In my perceptions<br />my feelings<br />my thoughts<br /><br />I am life, moving<br />growing<br />like a tree<br />a wild love<br />a child<br /><br />I am life, moving<br />in tender moments<br />in grief<br />and<br />in joy<br /><br />I am life, moving<div class="blogger-post-footer">Images, poetry and thoughts that emerge from the depths and are washed up on the shoreline of this blogging girl.</div>Susannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09581993763700327953noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8588401421725359772.post-79495435014940246792011-12-10T11:16:00.001+00:002011-12-10T11:19:51.198+00:00Trying not to moveIt was a shallow hollow<br />in which she kept<br />her misery.<br /><br />No depth at all.<br /><br />In fact<br />the slightest motion<br />would set it moving.<br /><br />Like a mini tidal wave.<br /><br />Back and forth,<br />gaining momentum.<br /><br />Until it would slosh<br />over the edges<br />and run<br />d<br />o<br />w<br />n<br />her pensive face<br /><br />following<br />the limescale trails<br />of its watercourse.<br /><br />And then<br />splish, splash<br />d<br />o<br />w<br />n<br />onto the ground.<br /><br />Spoiling<br />the shiny shoes<br />and cheerful gait<br />of those who were passing.<br /><br />She tried to keep it inside,<br />she really did.<br /><br />But she found<br />the constant stillness<br />so very very hard to bear.<br /><br /><span style="display: block;" id="formatbar_Buttons"><span class=" down" style="display: block;" id="formatbar_CreateLink" title="Link"><img src="http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif" alt="Link" class="gl_link" border="0" /></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Written for <a href="http://www.threewordwednesday.com/2011/11/3ww-cclxvii_23.html">Three Word Wednesday</a></span><div class="blogger-post-footer">Images, poetry and thoughts that emerge from the depths and are washed up on the shoreline of this blogging girl.</div>Susannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09581993763700327953noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8588401421725359772.post-49397547514008111302011-12-01T05:09:00.004+00:002011-12-01T05:41:44.843+00:00Staying CenteredI am the fulcrum around which my life rotates,<br /><br />I hear the rush and shudder as the cogs turn.<br /><br />Ruddy and metallic, this movement is vital.<br /><br />Freed limbs rotate, idle thoughts rustle.<br /><br />It is not easy to be mellow and mindful,<br /><br />in this untidy world of man and machine.<br /><br />I may sound smug, but I am no longer gullible.<br /><br />I will continue to ignore the subliminal messages,<br /><br />pasted onto the detritus and divinity of my life.<br /><br />And let the spinning wheels slice the sunshine,<br /><br />into bite size pieces that I can eat.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Written for Wordle 32 at <a href="http://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/2011/11/27/wordle-32/">The Sunday Whirl</a> -</span></span><div class="blogger-post-footer">Images, poetry and thoughts that emerge from the depths and are washed up on the shoreline of this blogging girl.</div>Susannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09581993763700327953noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8588401421725359772.post-19391798288335742412011-11-21T14:02:00.001+00:002011-11-21T14:04:18.174+00:00Personal EvolutionShe'd been trapped,<br />drowned in silence.<br />Oblivious to the planet<br />and its clockwork motion.<br /><br />She had skated on thin ice,<br />started fires and left them to smolder.<br />She was a maverick, a firebrand,<br />she walked on a knife edge.<br /><br />She was mindless, oblivious.<br />Unaware of the great universe,<br />and the fleeting spark<br />that was her life.<br /><br />Until the diamond<br />of her consciousness,<br />was honed and polished.<br />Rough edges smoothed.<br /><br />Then all of her facets<br />began to reflect the light.<br />And her clear eyes shone<br />with everything she was.<br /><br />And in the vast blue sky<br />of her now peaceful mind.<br />She watched as her thoughts<br />went floating by like clouds.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">This was written for this weeks<a href="http://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/2011/11/20/wordle-31-a-bakers-dozen/"> Sunday Whirl</a></span><a href="http://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/2011/11/20/wordle-31-a-bakers-dozen/">.</a><div class="blogger-post-footer">Images, poetry and thoughts that emerge from the depths and are washed up on the shoreline of this blogging girl.</div>Susannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09581993763700327953noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8588401421725359772.post-72776285948284101612011-11-16T10:13:00.011+00:002011-11-16T18:46:39.625+00:00No More BridgesYou take out your blade<br />and cut down the clouds.<br />Their softness a blight<br />in your hard edged world.<br /><br />You collate all the bridges<br />and you set them a burning.<br />Until everything's destroyed<br />but their rusted-out bones.<br /><br />You drag the singing bird<br />down from the cloudless sky.<br />Its feathered beauty, stretched<br />and ragged in your idle hands.<br /><br />You judge the nods and winks<br />as evidence of your belonging.<br />A cracked glaze on a broken pot<br />that leaks, and spills, and stains.<br /><br />You think it is just beginning,<br />the tide rolling in and carrying<br />your long awaited ship in its swell.<br />You do not see the rocks you made.<br /><br />And you can straighten the cushions,<br />put on the kettle, and bake a fine cake.<br />But your house is barren, and the path<br />to your doorway is covered in thorns.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 51, 51); font-family: times new roman;">This was written for </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 51, 51); font-family: times new roman;">The Sunday Whirl</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 51, 51);"><span style="font-family: times new roman;"> and I managed to include all of the prompt words (rusted-out, nods, glaze, beginning, stretched, ragged, rolling, blade, straighten, clouds, drag, bridges.) - A strange and bitter tale seemed to arise out of this set of words for me. I stared at them and 'got' the first two lines and just went on from there!</span><br /><br /></span></span><div class="blogger-post-footer">Images, poetry and thoughts that emerge from the depths and are washed up on the shoreline of this blogging girl.</div>Susannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09581993763700327953noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8588401421725359772.post-85258635702424493932011-10-26T11:25:00.014+01:002011-10-31T17:54:04.091+00:00The Missing LightBring that great storm of you<br /><br />and drive away these bats of melancholy<br /><br />that swoop and flutter around<br /><br />my lonely head.<br /><br />For I have found<br /><br />that spun gold hair<br /><br />is no deterrent to darkness.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Images, poetry and thoughts that emerge from the depths and are washed up on the shoreline of this blogging girl.</div>Susannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09581993763700327953noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8588401421725359772.post-30058665383689106122011-10-13T20:40:00.003+01:002011-10-13T20:49:15.697+01:00PruningI have been cutting out dead wood,<br />pulling out all that is dry and rotten.<br /><br />Some pieces crumble in my hand,<br />some need a sharp blade, to cut<br />through wiry sinews.<br /><br />I am letting in air and light,<br />penetrating the dark centre.<br /><br />Branches, weaved and twisted.<br />They've been cocooned that long<br />they have forgotten how to breathe.<br /><br />My fingers are creating space,<br />leaving only what is good wood.<br /><br />Hands cut and scraped,<br />I step back and observe<br />the transformation.<br /><br />A deep breath.<br />My work is done.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Images, poetry and thoughts that emerge from the depths and are washed up on the shoreline of this blogging girl.</div>Susannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09581993763700327953noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8588401421725359772.post-55985988112848698212011-10-04T14:06:00.007+01:002011-10-04T14:18:18.417+01:00Love All . . .<span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 51, 51);font-size:85%;" >(Another one written for <a href="http://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/2011/09/25/wordle-23-a-la-viv/">The Sunday Whirl</a> prompt which gives twelve words weekly for participants to use in a poem. I enjoy these prompts so much as they seem to lead me to create stories that would never have arisen without them. Here's the latest. . . </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 51, 51);">)</span></span><br /><br /><br />The shaft of light was no accident.<br />The shimmering halo<br />it cast around your<br />beautiful head,<br />was fitting.<br /><br />We would chat.<br />Volleys of tumbling words,<br />batted carefully back and forth<br />over the cumbersome net<br />of our politeness.<br /><br />Occasionally the motion slowed.<br />We would shift uncomfortably<br />in our seats, eyes averted.<br />And you would look outside,<br />at the faceless passers-by.<br /><br />Watch them,<br />strolling from shop to shop.<br />Arms full of their baggage,<br />that was always so much<br />smaller than ours.<br /><br />A strange silence<br />would descend over us,<br />like a great blanket woven<br />with longing, and all that we<br />couldn't, shouldn't, say.<br /><br />Then I would jostle my papers,<br />move my chair, clutch at straws.<br />Until, like a great white bird<br />taking flight in a black sky,<br />your gaze would return to me.<br /><br />And the dangerous dance<br />we were participating in,<br />would continue. While we<br />pretended that it really<br />didn't mean a thing.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Images, poetry and thoughts that emerge from the depths and are washed up on the shoreline of this blogging girl.</div>Susannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09581993763700327953noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8588401421725359772.post-50294998298671480782011-09-27T19:42:00.002+01:002011-10-04T14:16:13.125+01:00Knowing When to Speak. . .You speak of sheep,<br />the modern man asleep at the wheel.<br /><br />While you, with your vigor and verve,<br />have your ready muse, pouring forth<br />from your elegant and tapered fingertips.<br /><br />You do not see yourself, in the mirror of the parry<br />and thrust that you use to strengthen your ego<br />and reinforce the satin thread of your diatribe.<br /><br />And as I walk your book lined corridor,<br />to the green walled den, that has your smell<br />and your superiority stamped onto its silk lined walls.<br /><br />I yearn to tell you that an opal does not get its fire by learning,<br />that some things intrinsic and raw, have a power<br />that intellect has long forgotten.<br /><br />But my eye is caught by a moth, fluttering,<br />blustering against the cold hard glass. Shut off<br />from the majestic trees and the moon, rising<br />like a great silver disk in the violet sky.<br /><br />And I see it as an omen,<br />an oracle speaking in hushed tones,<br />talking of a deeper truth.<br /><br />And it cuts so deep, that when<br />I open your slow and creaking door<br />and see that there is no light.<br /><br />And that your studious eyes<br />are roaming my face like a map.<br />Looking for my lips. Searching<br />for the x that marks the spot<br />where the treasure is buried.<br /><br />I swallow my tongue, smile,<br />and don't say a single word.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Written for <a href="http://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/2011/09/18/wordle-22-bakers-dozen/">The Sunday Whirl</a></span><div class="blogger-post-footer">Images, poetry and thoughts that emerge from the depths and are washed up on the shoreline of this blogging girl.</div>Susannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09581993763700327953noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8588401421725359772.post-72277161173004684672011-09-20T09:59:00.002+01:002011-09-20T10:14:11.330+01:00Exposed. . .I pace the perimeter.<br /><br />With measured steps<br />my stride is fast, my gait even.<br /><br />I do not falter.<br /><br />Even when you throw lines<br />laced with your charm.<br /><br />Designed to trip me.<br /><br />To halt my progress,<br />force me back to the centre.<br /><br />So you can see my eyes.<br /><br />In this glass house,<br />I long for walls.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Written for <a href="http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2011/09/thursday-think-tank-66-glass-houses.html#more">this</a> prompt.<span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span></span><a href="http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2011/09/thursday-think-tank-66-glass-houses.html#more"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></a><div class="blogger-post-footer">Images, poetry and thoughts that emerge from the depths and are washed up on the shoreline of this blogging girl.</div>Susannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09581993763700327953noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8588401421725359772.post-52351419503318742842011-08-23T19:23:00.007+01:002011-10-04T14:16:39.962+01:00Love or Something Like it . . .Graffiti stained granite,<br /><br />daubed with the markings of life.<br /><br />Incendiary slogans shout for freedom,<br /><br />there's a revolution in the making.<br /><br />The too handsome stranger<br /><br />has words that spin like plates,<br /><br />and sparkle like screw top bottles,<br /><br />all fizz and wasted glass.<br /><br />Straight backed, he will not slouch,<br /><br />though fervant desperation<br /><br />spills from the cracked<br /><br />cheap vessel of him.<br /><br />She sweeps up the cold ash<br /><br />as it falls from his burnt out life.<br /><br />Cleansed of all her preconceptions,<br /><br />she is taken by his strange beauty,<br /><br />enchanted by the wild shine of his eyes,<br /><br />and the way that the afternoon light<br /><br />falls gently around his shoulders,<br /><br />like a cloak.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">written for this <a href="http://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/2011/08/21/wordle-18-bakers-dozen/">prompt</a></span><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></span><div class="blogger-post-footer">Images, poetry and thoughts that emerge from the depths and are washed up on the shoreline of this blogging girl.</div>Susannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09581993763700327953noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8588401421725359772.post-56877702571436188652011-08-21T08:59:00.032+01:002011-10-04T14:17:10.327+01:00to fill a space . . .<div style="text-align: center;"><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204); font-family: verdana; font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;font-size:180%;" ><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">THE GRASS IS GREENER<br />ON THE OTHER SIDE</span></span><br /><br /></div> <div style="text-align: center;">He meticulously bought the cigarette paper up to his lips<br /><br />with deft and artful tongue he licked the exposed edge.<br /><br />Flicking at the lighter until the flame leapt<br /><br />. . . he inhaled . . .<br /><br />eyes tight closed<br /><br />as he took that ritual long slow breath.<br /><br />Pulling the sacred smoke down<br /><br />deep into his lungs.<br /><br />Silence fell as he held it there.<br /><br />Moments passed - like shooting stars.<br /><br />. . . until he exhaled clouds . . .<br /><br />Sweetly scented blue grey smoke<br /><br />curling and climbing the expectant air.<br /><br />He smiled as peace descended.<br /><br />He was home.<br /><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204); font-family: verdana; font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;font-size:180%;" >GIRL IN EXILE</span><br /><br />Sidestepping the arid thoughts<br /><br />of these, her every day torments,<br /><br />she swept the kitchen.<br /><br />Blue broom pushing yesterdays crumbs<br /><br />over her threshold, and out onto<br /><br />the cold cement of another day.<br /><br />The egg yellow sun crawling<br /><br />over bland suburban rooftops,<br /><br />scars her morning with its slanted light.<br /><br />Its luke warm fingers roaming<br /><br />her upturned face, exploring the weight<br /><br />of her world on her shoulders, her slow walk<br /><br />tender footfalls on unforgiving concrete.<br /><br />In her head she sees the grasses of a distant plain,<br /><br />and hears the plaintive notes that have become<br /><br />her internal soundtrack. Playing on repeat,<br /><br />looping over and over. An accompaniment<br /><br />to her search for those rusty keys,<br /><br />and lost prophets,<br /><br />of home.<br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 0);font-size:85%;" >I have <a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://panopticulated.blogspot.com/">another blog</a> where I post things written in response to prompts given by the many sites out there that are helping to keep the muse alive and well. They are good fun and help to create pieces outside of my usual style and subject matter. </span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 0);font-size:85%;" >Occasionally if I really like something, (or as in this case haven't written anything un-prompt related for a while!) I will move writing from there to here. This is one of those times! </span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 0);font-size:85%;" >Here are two 'prompted' pieces. Please forgive me if you have already read them and please pop back again soon for some new un-prompted words. - Susannah ;-)</span><br /></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Images, poetry and thoughts that emerge from the depths and are washed up on the shoreline of this blogging girl.</div>Susannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09581993763700327953noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8588401421725359772.post-25290166959702010402011-08-13T06:46:00.001+01:002011-08-13T06:49:36.579+01:00Too Long In The DarkDrench me with your summer love,
<br />for I am not immune to darkness.
<br />
<br />Smother me, until I radiate light
<br />and pulse with all I have
<br />left unspoken. . .
<br />
<br />for I have been alone here,
<br />and you are sunlight
<br />knocking
<br />at my
<br />door.
<br />
<br />
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">Images, poetry and thoughts that emerge from the depths and are washed up on the shoreline of this blogging girl.</div>Susannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09581993763700327953noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8588401421725359772.post-78697915166610975702011-07-17T13:27:00.008+01:002011-07-17T13:40:57.537+01:00Watching Them SwimThere. . .<br />just beneath the surface,<br />swims a tiny shoal of fear.<br /><br />I watch them<br />in the clear glass water.<br /><br />They are moving as one,<br />darting this way and that.<br /><br />Sunlight glinting on their agile bodies.<br /><br />It is only when they break the mirror like surface,<br />causing a cascade of spreading ripples,<br /><br />that I can feel them. . .<br /><br />like an ice cold trickle of water<br />down my back bone.<br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" >© Susannah Bec 2011<br /><br />This is the second post here today - please scroll down for - Not Lonely - Just alone. Thanks. x<br /></span><div class="blogger-post-footer">Images, poetry and thoughts that emerge from the depths and are washed up on the shoreline of this blogging girl.</div>Susannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09581993763700327953noreply@blogger.com33tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8588401421725359772.post-35415553813697950292011-07-17T13:22:00.004+01:002011-07-17T13:29:47.558+01:00Not Lonely - Just AloneUpon the plain walls of my life,<br />there hangs a portrait. It is a good likeness.<br /><br />And behind it, set into the discoloured patch<br />on the wall. Is a blank space.<br /><br />And set within that blank space, is a secret safe.<br />Where I, have locked myself away.<br /><br />And no one, would even begin to suspect,<br />that the portrait may not be me.<br /><br />And that I, may be hidden behind it.<br />Sitting quietly alone, inside the safe.<br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" >© Susannah Bec 2011<br /><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">This was written for the thursday think tank prompt and originally posted on my blog Panopticulated. I liked it, so moved it over here to keep it with my other writing. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 51, 51);"><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Please forgive me if you have already read i</span>t.</span></span><div class="blogger-post-footer">Images, poetry and thoughts that emerge from the depths and are washed up on the shoreline of this blogging girl.</div>Susannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09581993763700327953noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8588401421725359772.post-40934337329150863542011-07-13T18:00:00.006+01:002011-07-13T18:21:33.302+01:00when head battled heartOn a whim, I followed the twisted river.<br />Instinct galloping on up ahead,<br />astride the sparkling moment.<br /><br />Effervescent and soft saddled,<br />my sleek and sturdy steed<br />ran like the wind.<br /><br />Blustered and blown, I felt that sharp sting,<br />that biting buzz of conscience,<br />twinged.<br /><br />Reason and his long loyal henchman,<br />had joined forces, collaborated<br />to stop my errant flight.<br /><br />The strong arms of thought and logic<br />those powerful twin adversaries,<br />clung around my ankles.<br /><br />But my wily and wise earthbound feet<br />had grown swift, with wings<br />upon their willing heels.<br /><br />For that bright and glorious butterfly<br />that had formed, and fluttered<br />from my ever open heart...<br /><br />was far too full of joy, for me to ever resist,<br />and I, its guardian and willing cohort<br />had no more doubt.<br /><br />I gathered myself up, and swirling light<br />and scattering colour, I danced<br />out into the waiting world.<br /><br />Where my life became a painting,<br />and my every footstep<br />became a poem.<br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" >© Susannah Bec 2011</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">This was originally posted over at my prompt writing blog - <a href="http://panopticulated.blogspot.com/">Panopticulated</a>.<br /></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:85%;">It was written in response to<a href="http://panopticulated.blogspot.com/2011/07/head-versus-heart.html"> a wordle prompt</a> and all 12 words are in there. :-)</span> </span><div class="blogger-post-footer">Images, poetry and thoughts that emerge from the depths and are washed up on the shoreline of this blogging girl.</div>Susannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09581993763700327953noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8588401421725359772.post-24311650976573198652011-07-09T13:32:00.012+01:002011-08-13T07:02:34.928+01:00and the endless now keeps moving<span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-size:85%;" >(1)</span>
<br />
<br />The gentle yellow day
<br />with its smoke smudged clouds
<br />curls around the hours
<br />like a sleeping cat
<br />
<br />and still the time passes
<br />ticking gently into forever
<br />while I surf this great wave
<br />that is my part of the ride
<br />
<br />and the endless now keeps moving. . .
<br />
<br />moment upon moment
<br />thought upon thought
<br />life upon life
<br />
<br />
<br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-size:85%;" >(2)</span>
<br />
<br />I do not want to be a lake. . .
<br />even a calm one, with endless depths
<br />and mirror flat surface that reflects the sky.
<br />I do not want to be contained within boundaries
<br />slapping up against the confines of the earth.
<br />
<br />I want to be a waterfall. . .
<br />so the rushing, gushing, river of me
<br />can run off the edge of a cliff
<br />and fall endlessly, joyously
<br />down through the sparkling air.
<br />
<br />I want to be a fast flowing river
<br />on its way back to the ocean.
<br />
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<br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" >© Susannah Bec 2011</span><div class="blogger-post-footer">Images, poetry and thoughts that emerge from the depths and are washed up on the shoreline of this blogging girl.</div>Susannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09581993763700327953noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8588401421725359772.post-10135605884492518262011-06-30T11:24:00.007+01:002011-07-09T14:14:50.456+01:00Do you remember. . .<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br />That yellow headed summer<br /><br />when we drank time like coffee.<br /><br />Wired and reckless, we abandoned<br /><br />what was known, for what was not.<br /><br />We peeled back layers and tore down veils.<br /><br />Hidden in plain sight. . . we were illuminated.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Linked to Poets United <a href="http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2011/06/thursday-think-tank-55-freedom.html#comments">poetry pantry</a> for the prompt </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Freedom<br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);font-size:85%;" >© Susannah Bec 2011</span><div class="blogger-post-footer">Images, poetry and thoughts that emerge from the depths and are washed up on the shoreline of this blogging girl.</div>Susannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09581993763700327953noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8588401421725359772.post-70457355268421218122011-06-23T09:54:00.004+01:002011-07-09T14:15:31.318+01:00The Missing Sky. . .one moment<br />and all its nuances<br />fell from the long gone hour<br /><br />like an edge dweller, a maverick<br />a loner screaming at the wind<br /><br />and in its outstretched hand<br />layed the silent moon<br /><br />like a peach<br />like a pebble<br />like an untold story<br /><br />it knocked me over with its silent glare<br />with its unspoken prayer, with its modesty<br /><br />and it stung like a nettle<br />a barb wrought from metal<br /><br />jagged and potent<br />it burrowed like shrapnel<br />stinging and singing under my skin<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);font-size:85%;" ><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">© Susannah Bec 2011</span></span><div class="blogger-post-footer">Images, poetry and thoughts that emerge from the depths and are washed up on the shoreline of this blogging girl.</div>Susannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09581993763700327953noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8588401421725359772.post-8508469724201972062011-06-23T09:50:00.020+01:002011-07-09T14:15:46.092+01:00So that birds may drink from me. . .<div style="text-align: center;"><br />I am a bowl<br />a useful vessel<br /><br />an empty space<br />waiting to be filled<br /><br />I am clean and shiny<br />hollow and expectant<br /><br />I wait for your need<br /><br />but I dream of the day<br />that I may enter the garden<br /><br />and catch the sweet raindrops<br />so that birds may drink from me<br /><br />and when the velvet night gallops<br />sweeping fleet across the sleeping land<br /><br />I will hold my circle up to the sky<br /><br />and capture the silver moon<br />and all the million stars<br /><br />dancing and shimmering<br />on my dark water surface<br /><br />no longer an empty receptacle<br />but fulfilling my purpose<br /><br />gathering starlight and tending to birds<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 102, 102);font-size:85%;" ><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 102);font-size:85%;" >The last line keeps changing, this is third one that has been published! Not to mention the two that weren't. It may well change again. . . I am having trouble settling on one purpose - but then again, perhaps that is the nature of bowls? ;-)</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Inspired by the <a href="http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2011/06/thursday-think-tank-55-inanimate.html">thursday think tank</a> prompt<br />- to write from the perspective of an inanimate object</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);font-size:85%;" ><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">© Susannah Bec 2011</span></span><br /></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Images, poetry and thoughts that emerge from the depths and are washed up on the shoreline of this blogging girl.</div>Susannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09581993763700327953noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8588401421725359772.post-1642471411960851182011-06-14T10:58:00.009+01:002011-07-09T14:16:08.087+01:00Afterwards. . .You stretched the sky<br />with your poets hands<br />trailing feather fingers<br />across my acres of blue<br /><br />Windspun and wanton<br />the high flying bird of me<br />cartwheeled and blustered<br />on the thermals of your breath<br /><br />After you had gone...<br />becalmed and bewildered<br />I fluttered down to earth<br />my soaring song, silent<br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);font-size:85%;" ><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">© Susannah Bec 2011</span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><div class="blogger-post-footer">Images, poetry and thoughts that emerge from the depths and are washed up on the shoreline of this blogging girl.</div>Susannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09581993763700327953noreply@blogger.com29