Out of my Ocean - Poetry and Thoughts

Lost For Words

2012-01-12T09:49:00.000Z

When the words don't come
I look for them.

I shine a torch into dark corners,
- dig down into the silt.

Looking for letters that have fallen
from my mouth as I was speaking.

And there, half buried in the sludge
I find them.

Carefully I dig out each one.

Only to discover that they
spell out one word. . .

W R I T E

I am life moving

2012-01-07T20:04:00.003Z

I am life, moving
flowing
like breath
like rivers
like rain

I am life, moving
In my perceptions
my feelings
my thoughts

I am life, moving
growing
like a tree
a wild love
a child

I am life, moving
in tender moments
in grief
and
in joy

I am life, moving

Trying not to move

2011-12-10T11:16:00.001Z

It was a shallow hollow
in which she kept
her misery.

No depth at all.

In fact
the slightest motion
would set it moving.

Like a mini tidal wave.

Back and forth,
gaining momentum.

Until it would slosh
over the edges
and run
d
o
w
n
her pensive face

following
the limescale trails
of its watercourse.

And then
splish, splash
d
o
w
n
onto the ground.

Spoiling
the shiny shoes
and cheerful gait
of those who were passing.

She tried to keep it inside,
she really did.

But she found
the constant stillness
so very very hard to bear.

Written for Three Word Wednesday

Staying Centered

2011-12-01T05:09:00.004Z

I am the fulcrum around which my life rotates,

I hear the rush and shudder as the cogs turn.

Ruddy and metallic, this movement is vital.

Freed limbs rotate, idle thoughts rustle.

It is not easy to be mellow and mindful,

in this untidy world of man and machine.

I may sound smug, but I am no longer gullible.

I will continue to ignore the subliminal messages,

pasted onto the detritus and divinity of my life.

And let the spinning wheels slice the sunshine,

into bite size pieces that I can eat.

Written for Wordle 32 at The Sunday Whirl -

Personal Evolution

2011-11-21T14:02:00.001Z

She'd been trapped,
drowned in silence.
Oblivious to the planet
and its clockwork motion.

She had skated on thin ice,
started fires and left them to smolder.
She was a maverick, a firebrand,
she walked on a knife edge.

She was mindless, oblivious.
Unaware of the great universe,
and the fleeting spark
that was her life.

Until the diamond
of her consciousness,
was honed and polished.
Rough edges smoothed.

Then all of her facets
began to reflect the light.
And her clear eyes shone
with everything she was.

And in the vast blue sky
of her now peaceful mind.
She watched as her thoughts
went floating by like clouds.

This was written for this weeks Sunday Whirl.

No More Bridges

2011-11-16T10:13:00.011Z

You take out your blade
and cut down the clouds.
Their softness a blight
in your hard edged world.

You collate all the bridges
and you set them a burning.
Until everything's destroyed
but their rusted-out bones.

You drag the singing bird
down from the cloudless sky.
Its feathered beauty, stretched
and ragged in your idle hands.

You judge the nods and winks
as evidence of your belonging.
A cracked glaze on a broken pot
that leaks, and spills, and stains.

You think it is just beginning,
the tide rolling in and carrying
your long awaited ship in its swell.
You do not see the rocks you made.

And you can straighten the cushions,
put on the kettle, and bake a fine cake.
But your house is barren, and the path
to your doorway is covered in thorns.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl 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!

The Missing Light

2011-10-26T11:25:00.014+01:00

Bring that great storm of you

and drive away these bats of melancholy

that swoop and flutter around

my lonely head.

For I have found

that spun gold hair

is no deterrent to darkness.

Pruning

2011-10-13T20:40:00.003+01:00

I have been cutting out dead wood,
pulling out all that is dry and rotten.

Some pieces crumble in my hand,
some need a sharp blade, to cut
through wiry sinews.

I am letting in air and light,
penetrating the dark centre.

Branches, weaved and twisted.
They've been cocooned that long
they have forgotten how to breathe.

My fingers are creating space,
leaving only what is good wood.

Hands cut and scraped,
I step back and observe
the transformation.

A deep breath.
My work is done.

Love All . . .

2011-10-04T14:06:00.007+01:00

(Another one written for The Sunday Whirl 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. . . )

The shaft of light was no accident.
The shimmering halo
it cast around your
beautiful head,
was fitting.

We would chat.
Volleys of tumbling words,
batted carefully back and forth
over the cumbersome net
of our politeness.

Occasionally the motion slowed.
We would shift uncomfortably
in our seats, eyes averted.
And you would look outside,
at the faceless passers-by.

Watch them,
strolling from shop to shop.
Arms full of their baggage,
that was always so much
smaller than ours.

A strange silence
would descend over us,
like a great blanket woven
with longing, and all that we
couldn't, shouldn't, say.

Then I would jostle my papers,
move my chair, clutch at straws.
Until, like a great white bird
taking flight in a black sky,
your gaze would return to me.

And the dangerous dance
we were participating in,
would continue. While we
pretended that it really
didn't mean a thing.

Knowing When to Speak. . .

2011-09-27T19:42:00.002+01:00

You speak of sheep,
the modern man asleep at the wheel.

While you, with your vigor and verve,
have your ready muse, pouring forth
from your elegant and tapered fingertips.

You do not see yourself, in the mirror of the parry
and thrust that you use to strengthen your ego
and reinforce the satin thread of your diatribe.

And as I walk your book lined corridor,
to the green walled den, that has your smell
and your superiority stamped onto its silk lined walls.

I yearn to tell you that an opal does not get its fire by learning,
that some things intrinsic and raw, have a power
that intellect has long forgotten.

But my eye is caught by a moth, fluttering,
blustering against the cold hard glass. Shut off
from the majestic trees and the moon, rising
like a great silver disk in the violet sky.

And I see it as an omen,
an oracle speaking in hushed tones,
talking of a deeper truth.

And it cuts so deep, that when
I open your slow and creaking door
and see that there is no light.

And that your studious eyes
are roaming my face like a map.
Looking for my lips. Searching
for the x that marks the spot
where the treasure is buried.

I swallow my tongue, smile,
and don't say a single word.

Written for The Sunday Whirl

Exposed. . .

2011-09-20T09:59:00.002+01:00

I pace the perimeter.

With measured steps
my stride is fast, my gait even.

I do not falter.

Even when you throw lines
laced with your charm.

Designed to trip me.

To halt my progress,
force me back to the centre.

So you can see my eyes.

In this glass house,
I long for walls.

Written for this prompt.

Love or Something Like it . . .

2011-08-23T19:23:00.007+01:00

Graffiti stained granite,

daubed with the markings of life.

Incendiary slogans shout for freedom,

there's a revolution in the making.

The too handsome stranger

has words that spin like plates,

and sparkle like screw top bottles,

all fizz and wasted glass.

Straight backed, he will not slouch,

though fervant desperation

spills from the cracked

cheap vessel of him.

She sweeps up the cold ash

as it falls from his burnt out life.

Cleansed of all her preconceptions,

she is taken by his strange beauty,

enchanted by the wild shine of his eyes,

and the way that the afternoon light

falls gently around his shoulders,

like a cloak.

written for this prompt

to fill a space . . .

2011-08-21T08:59:00.032+01:00

THE GRASS IS GREENER
ON THE OTHER SIDE

He meticulously bought the cigarette paper up to his lips

with deft and artful tongue he licked the exposed edge.

Flicking at the lighter until the flame leapt

. . . he inhaled . . .

eyes tight closed

as he took that ritual long slow breath.

Pulling the sacred smoke down

deep into his lungs.

Silence fell as he held it there.

Moments passed - like shooting stars.

. . . until he exhaled clouds . . .

Sweetly scented blue grey smoke

curling and climbing the expectant air.

He smiled as peace descended.

He was home.

GIRL IN EXILE

Sidestepping the arid thoughts

of these, her every day torments,

she swept the kitchen.

Blue broom pushing yesterdays crumbs

over her threshold, and out onto

the cold cement of another day.

The egg yellow sun crawling

over bland suburban rooftops,

scars her morning with its slanted light.

Its luke warm fingers roaming

her upturned face, exploring the weight

of her world on her shoulders, her slow walk

tender footfalls on unforgiving concrete.

In her head she sees the grasses of a distant plain,

and hears the plaintive notes that have become

her internal soundtrack. Playing on repeat,

looping over and over. An accompaniment

to her search for those rusty keys,

and lost prophets,

of home.

I have another blog 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. 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! 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 ;-)

Too Long In The Dark

2011-08-13T06:46:00.001+01:00

Drench me with your summer love,
for I am not immune to darkness.

Smother me, until I radiate light
and pulse with all I have
left unspoken. . .

for I have been alone here,
and you are sunlight
knocking
at my
door.

Watching Them Swim

2011-07-17T13:27:00.008+01:00

There. . .
just beneath the surface,
swims a tiny shoal of fear.

I watch them
in the clear glass water.

They are moving as one,
darting this way and that.

Sunlight glinting on their agile bodies.

It is only when they break the mirror like surface,
causing a cascade of spreading ripples,

that I can feel them. . .

like an ice cold trickle of water
down my back bone.

© Susannah Bec 2011

This is the second post here today - please scroll down for - Not Lonely - Just alone. Thanks. x

Not Lonely - Just Alone

2011-07-17T13:22:00.004+01:00

Upon the plain walls of my life,
there hangs a portrait. It is a good likeness.

And behind it, set into the discoloured patch
on the wall. Is a blank space.

And set within that blank space, is a secret safe.
Where I, have locked myself away.

And no one, would even begin to suspect,
that the portrait may not be me.

And that I, may be hidden behind it.
Sitting quietly alone, inside the safe.

© Susannah Bec 2011

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.
Please forgive me if you have already read it.

when head battled heart

2011-07-13T18:00:00.006+01:00

On a whim, I followed the twisted river.
Instinct galloping on up ahead,
astride the sparkling moment.

Effervescent and soft saddled,
my sleek and sturdy steed
ran like the wind.

Blustered and blown, I felt that sharp sting,
that biting buzz of conscience,
twinged.

Reason and his long loyal henchman,
had joined forces, collaborated
to stop my errant flight.

The strong arms of thought and logic
those powerful twin adversaries,
clung around my ankles.

But my wily and wise earthbound feet
had grown swift, with wings
upon their willing heels.

For that bright and glorious butterfly
that had formed, and fluttered
from my ever open heart...

was far too full of joy, for me to ever resist,
and I, its guardian and willing cohort
had no more doubt.

I gathered myself up, and swirling light
and scattering colour, I danced
out into the waiting world.

Where my life became a painting,
and my every footstep
became a poem.

© Susannah Bec 2011

This was originally posted over at my prompt writing blog - Panopticulated.
It was written in response to a wordle prompt and all 12 words are in there. :-)

and the endless now keeps moving

2011-07-09T13:32:00.012+01:00

(1)

The gentle yellow day
with its smoke smudged clouds
curls around the hours
like a sleeping cat

and still the time passes
ticking gently into forever
while I surf this great wave
that is my part of the ride

and the endless now keeps moving. . .

moment upon moment
thought upon thought
life upon life

(2)

I do not want to be a lake. . .
even a calm one, with endless depths
and mirror flat surface that reflects the sky.
I do not want to be contained within boundaries
slapping up against the confines of the earth.

I want to be a waterfall. . .
so the rushing, gushing, river of me
can run off the edge of a cliff
and fall endlessly, joyously
down through the sparkling air.

I want to be a fast flowing river
on its way back to the ocean.

© Susannah Bec 2011

Do you remember. . .

2011-06-30T11:24:00.007+01:00

.
That yellow headed summer

when we drank time like coffee.

Wired and reckless, we abandoned

what was known, for what was not.

We peeled back layers and tore down veils.

Hidden in plain sight. . . we were illuminated.

.

Linked to Poets United poetry pantry for the prompt Freedom

© Susannah Bec 2011

The Missing Sky. . .

2011-06-23T09:54:00.004+01:00

one moment
and all its nuances
fell from the long gone hour

like an edge dweller, a maverick
a loner screaming at the wind

and in its outstretched hand
layed the silent moon

like a peach
like a pebble
like an untold story

it knocked me over with its silent glare
with its unspoken prayer, with its modesty

and it stung like a nettle
a barb wrought from metal

jagged and potent
it burrowed like shrapnel
stinging and singing under my skin

.
© Susannah Bec 2011

So that birds may drink from me. . .

2011-06-23T09:50:00.020+01:00

I am a bowl
a useful vessel

an empty space
waiting to be filled

I am clean and shiny
hollow and expectant

I wait for your need

but I dream of the day
that I may enter the garden

and catch the sweet raindrops
so that birds may drink from me

and when the velvet night gallops
sweeping fleet across the sleeping land

I will hold my circle up to the sky

and capture the silver moon
and all the million stars

dancing and shimmering
on my dark water surface

no longer an empty receptacle
but fulfilling my purpose

gathering starlight and tending to birds

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? ;-)

Inspired by the thursday think tank prompt
- to write from the perspective of an inanimate object

© Susannah Bec 2011

Afterwards. . .

2011-06-14T10:58:00.009+01:00

You stretched the sky
with your poets hands
trailing feather fingers
across my acres of blue

Windspun and wanton
the high flying bird of me
cartwheeled and blustered
on the thermals of your breath

After you had gone...
becalmed and bewildered
I fluttered down to earth
my soaring song, silent

© Susannah Bec 2011.

tiger tiger burning bright . . .

2011-06-10T10:22:00.005+01:00

My love was a tiger
it chased you down
and ate you, raw

It consumed you, limb by limb
lingering over your eyes
relishing your beating heart

You became part of my body
ingested and nutritious
you fed my desire

Striped and sated, I slept
your sweet life still pulsing
inside my belly . . .

A Nice Neat Layer

2011-05-31T11:46:00.003+01:00

I shake my life out onto a thin tray
and lift the edges and tap gently
so that the contents disperse
into a nice neat layer of me

there among the ingredients
I see things I have forgotten
things that must have slipped
right to the bottom of the mix

it really does pay occasionally
to empty your life out like that
so you can see all of the pieces
you'd been so sure were missing

© Susannah Bec 2011.

Age Comes

2011-05-17T09:25:00.002+01:00

Age comes
and with silver paintbrush
it frosts my hair, dulls my vision
and steals the elasticity from my skin
like a thief in the night

I feel the disintegration

like salt falling

white grains

bouncing

from the polished surface

of my life

It brings gifts they say
and I await them with eager and open arms
cynicism silenced by the Pollyanna of me

And meanwhile I wipe up the spills
and remind myself to stop holding my breath
as I watch age creeping across my face like a vine

.
© Susannah Bec 2011

A Page Turned . . .

2011-05-09T08:54:00.010+01:00

The orange day slips back into the purple night
and all is as it was before

but not me

The passing of the hours, the changing hues
have altered something

I have changed

Though all appears to be the same
when viewed from the surface

It is not

.
© Susannah Bec 2011

As Day Turns To Night . . .

2011-05-06T21:47:00.004+01:00

Darkness wraps around me like a cloak
as I sit before my open window
and watch the day leave

Silhouetted against the twilight
my guardian trees dance
fluid in the fading light

Trunks meander into branches
that twist and turn upward
toward the waiting moon

Until finally blackness reigns
and I am left to close the window
and turn on the light

.
© Susannah Bec 2011

Do not attempt to hold on. . .

2011-04-27T21:14:00.005+01:00

Keep letting go
allow it to pass through you
do not attempt to hold on
to keep, to own
let it blow through you
like a breeze
smell the scent
on the wind
feel it touch you
and allow it to go
on its way

© Susannah Bec 2011

Time to take a breath

2011-04-21T10:07:00.008+01:00

There is a time
for spiralling outward

Spreading your petals
into the sunshine

Floating your fragrance
on the breeze

A time for exhaling.

But . . .

It is also wise to recognise when
you are running out of breath

When it is time once again
- to inhale

The in breath brings nutrients
infuses us with fresh energy

Fills the empty spaces
created by the out breath

In and out
In and out

The endless rhythm
sustains life

It is so important
to know how

to breathe. . .

© Susannah Bec 2011

Though You Are A Stranger

2011-04-11T21:17:00.011+01:00

You, who speak of trees
and wild things,

who spills poetry
into each word.

Though you are a stranger,
I feel your every move.

You appear on screen. . .

flickering pixels
hold your words.

All I know of you. . .

letters made into words
into poetry.

You have no body. . .

but your words
contain your soul.

(For a wonderful poet whose writing moves and inspires me.)

© Susannah Bec 2011

No Ink These Days

2011-03-24T11:15:00.005Z

It waxes and wanes, this feeling.
Caught in the quicksand of the moment

I am without roots, sucked under,
waving goodbye to all of the comfort
that stifles, and stills.

I long to flow, but safety
cocoons, with all that is known.

It makes placid the wandering spirit,
and adventure is lost, replaced
by a half life, well lived but static.

My wandering, relegated to words,
stiff and black upon the screen.

No ink these days,
for it pours and oozes.
Spontaneous, dangerous.

Much better, a stilted black keyboard,
to contain the tapping of my frantic fingers

that are trying to dream, and forget
that my world is only as small
as I have allowed it to be.

In The Dead of Night

2011-03-17T09:56:00.005Z

Running softly, soundlessly
across the midnight rooftops
a dozen factory chimneys etched in black

Through the silhouettes of night
my soul goes running
silence masking its footfalls

Far away a ship calls home
its cry echoing
in the murky blackness

A pigeon roosts
on a factory windowsill
its glass reflecting the moon

As my soul goes running
no shadows does it cast
nor reflections are seen

For who will take the time
in the dead of night
to look at midnight rooftops

and notice as my soul goes running

© Susannah Bec 2011

Throw me down

2011-03-13T10:21:00.003Z

Throw me down
on soft warm earth
for I contain seed
I am seeking birth

shell that encases
is starting to crack
husk blown away
No going back

Throw me down
on soft warm earth
for I contain seed
I am seeking birth

© Susannah Bec 2011
.

Struck by The Moment. . .

2011-03-08T19:08:00.004Z

I sit silently within my universe
and my universe
sits silently
within me.

I am bathed in golden light
passing, as moments do
a thread in the garment of my life
woven with sound, and with meaning.

Strengthened by my beating heart
Strengthened by the ticking clock
Strengthened by my realisation
of my place in it all.

I am everything
I am nothing.

I am bathed in golden light
. . . struck by the moment.

I am looking through some of my oldest writing and decided to revisit a few pieces.

Here Again

2011-03-05T19:01:00.002Z

I walk in dappled shade,
bird song, my breath, a gentle breeze.
Leaf green and luscious, new life springs.
Wings swoop and swirl in playground sky,
veins flood with movement, joy at life
in its unfolding and perfect pleasure.
Singing flowers, a serenade in yellow,
daffodils salute, sun light paints
pavements and pale winter skin.
I rejoice in the great wheel turning,
Spring is here again...

,

The Courage of Seeds

2011-03-03T18:49:00.006Z

Deep seeds, dark and cosseted
down in the black and fertile earth.
Pregnant with potential, pale green life
slumbers, awaiting the moment that
calls forth roots and surging life.
Seeking transformation, the
slender white shoots, climb.
Pallid and potent, imbued
with an urge to become,
they emerge into the light.

.

Crimson Lips

2011-03-01T11:34:00.008Z

My chalk crumbled
as I was trying to sketch your face
with your crimson lips and measured gaze.
Your soft peppermint eyes were laced with black
treacherous arrows, ancient and tipped with poison
you used them to stalk me, avid with your wordless glare.
It burns you know, as they hit my flesh, they sting and smart.
I know full well that when the bleeding wounds have healed,
new skin will grow, it will be thicker and less sensitive
it will be immune to the darts your eyes dispatch
when your mouth is pursed and silent.

Soft Spots

2011-02-25T11:42:00.004Z

We all carry a wound,
some carry many.
Healed, or still raw,
they are our soft spots.
We shield those places,
that are delicate, fragile.
We build walls around them
to protect them, and prevent
them from being knocked.
For although old wounds
mend and leave their scars,
Sometimes just the tiniest touch,
can open them up again.
And all the pain,
can come flooding back.
As if it had never been gone.

Recalled To Life

2011-02-24T10:15:00.002Z

S O L U T I O

The constant drip, drip, drip,
slowly dissolved the rock of me.
Diluting my essence homeopathically
until I swam, one part me, a thousand water.

Sweat, saliva, tears, still aware, still me, still there.

Sun, burned light, ferocious and questing,
lit the miasma I had become,
not content with my fluid end, it condensed,
evaporated the amniotic sea,
wanting to understand dissolution
its probing light sought what was left,
when shape and structure were removed.

Would the I of my identity survive intact?

The water vapour of me rose in the heat,
steaming spirals, swirling ever upward
dross gone, I had been reduced
to the very nugget of me,
distilled and potent.

Recalled to life.

Written for the prompt Recalled to Life
Linked to One Shot Wednesday and The Poetry Pantry

Solutio is the second order of alchemical practices. It is considered one of the major procedures in alchemy. Having to do with water and with its purifying and dissolving properties, solutio is the process by which the prima material or matter is returned to its most basic, undifferentiated state. . . read more - Solutio

Image and Words - Susannah Bec

Found

2011-02-20T09:48:00.002Z

It was just laying there
down amongst the grass
and the unblown dandelions.

Just the smallest glint of light,
catching hold of the sunshine and
reflecting it up into my downcast eyes.
.
.
.
If the sun
really wants to find you,
it will find a way.

On This Occasion

2011-02-18T10:54:00.009Z

It was the kind of occasion

that called for handshakes.

The smile you pasted upon

your perfectly powdered,

rouged and lipsticked face,

made me blink in disbelief.

Why would you pretend?

When your soul was melting

and dripping through the gaps

in your tightly woven fingers.

Some things are best left unsaid,

but not this, no, please, not this.

Petals, perfume, claustrophobia,

no space, the elephant in the room

is using up all of the oxygen.

Polite chatter covers the fissures

opening up in the solid ground

beneath our slick stilettoed heels.

You just make it to the exit door,

moments before your slipping mask

says everything that you won't.

I have transferred this over from my Panopticulated blog.
It was written using the prompt words - Blink, Kind, Occasion.

Shared with The Poetry Pantry

A Single Moment

2011-02-15T22:34:00.014Z

His gentle hands land on my shoulders like doves,

I feel their warm weight seep down into my muscles,

imagined sky and soft grey feathers bring comfort.

My eyelids fall, slowly shutting out the untidy world.

The patterned crowds and tangled electric wires, gone.

High speeds trains departed, slamming doors erased.

Unblown dandelions awaiting the puff of my cheeks,

sky whirled and ready, floating aloft as my thoughts

tumble and roll, down the steep daisy flecked bank,

splashing and sinking into the wet giggling brook below.

A single moment explodes into tangents, fracturing light,

the kaleidoscope turns, one eye closed, another scene

Illuminates, inspires, exists for one precious instant.

The doves take flight, I am left, calm, unassuming, yet

stained and imbued with a strange and ferocious beauty.

Shared with One Shot Wednesday and The Poetry Pantry
.

A Confession

2011-02-13T22:10:00.036Z

I don't admire those with status and money, those big cars and symbols of power don't do it for me. Those who climb huge mountains, or run marathons, I'm afraid that their feats of endurance don't do it for me either.

But those that step outside of society's molds, that dare to colour outside the lines. Who take their originality and run with it, carrying their freedom within them. Those that wear no shackles, that walk their own path, not rebelling, not trying to prove anything. . . they make me smile.

The ones who are connected to their soul, to the earth, to what is important. The outsiders. The free ones. The ones who let their light shine out through their eyes and their words. They are the ones. . . they make me smile.

Up In The Air

2011-02-11T19:57:00.000Z

I am
a flock
of birds
scattered by
a sudden noise.

Good Reflexes

2011-02-07T12:44:00.004Z

It was jagged you know, that tiny rock you gave me
it ripped a hole in the corner of my coat pocket
and when I held it in my palm, turning it over
and over, to look for colour in amongst the grey
it cut me, a single gash right across my heart line
on reflex, I dropped it, into the quicksand at my feet
and watched as it sank, quickly and without a trace.

Linking this to One Shot Wednesday
.

Thank You

2011-02-04T19:50:00.003Z

You made the dreams
of great escapes and
daring adventures
seem plausable.

You willingly gave
your attention
to my outlandish plans
and hare brained schemes.

You never once tried
to taint my enthusiasm
with the stinging sense
of what life held in store.

You believed in me
and let me run wild
clutching the ideas
that would save me.

You kept me from
being buried alive
under a reality that
was too heavy to bear.

I thank you for that.

.

When I am gone. . .

2011-02-03T20:37:00.015Z

When I am gone, I leave to you

the sunlight that sparkles on the lake

the fresh green grass and the scent of lilacs.

You may have all birdsong and a billion stars

and a soft warm breeze to touch you in my stead.

I leave you the seasons and their unending procession

deep roots and swallows swooping in summer blue sky.

White fluffy clouds and sunsets, you may have those too.

Fresh green leaves, ancient woodlands and gnarled bark,

the first crocus as it peeps through springs dark damp earth

and every russet coloured leaf that swirls in autumn is yours.

Ocean waves and soft sand, shells and driftwood, as much as you can carry.

Every friendly dog you pass in the street, the wag of their tails is just for you.

And when snow falls as it invariably will, its deep silence belong to you, just you.

The sound of every bell, the tinkle of every windchime, all yours.

Dappled sunlight dancing through deep shade is yours.

Clifftop walks and soaring gulls, they too are yours.

Filtered light and darkest night, all yours.

Rustling leaves, humming bees, yours.

Galloping horses and sleeping cats,

pale pink roses, and all my love,

are yours . . . all yours.

Inspired by the Thursday Think Tank prompt that challenged us to write a poem as if it were our last will and testament.

Once Discovered

2011-01-29T10:51:00.018Z

When everything had gone

I found I still had myself

the grand continent of me

still existed inside my skin.

I took freedom
in exchange
for possessions

I filled the space

with trees.

I quickly discovered other truths

the infinite possibilities of darkness

that sunlight glinting has its own rewards

and that things remain lost until they are found.

- Susannah Bec 2010

Linked to One Shot Wednesday at One Stop Poetry

Writers Block

2011-01-18T11:20:00.006Z

The words still refuse to come.

Sitting stout and rigid they wait

gloating, their flexibility forsaken

poetry put to bed and forgotten.

Do words get old? stiff and arthritic

afraid to move for fear of falling

and fracturing the fragile bones

that once allowed them to dance.

- Susannah Bec 2010

Seven Come To Stay

2010-12-29T09:54:00.029Z

Hello everyone, as those of you who visit here regularly know, I periodically move things over here from my blog Panopticulated. Here's the latest batch.

A Trick of The Light

The early November sunshine cast golden rays
liquid yellow, pooling on the ruffled white sheets
white mountain tops of my memories, illuminated
I am caught in the moment, tangled in the threads
of another autumn, and ghosts of then burst forth
like maple leaves, red, orange, yellow and beautiful
I watch as the light shifts, and the spell, it is broken
the long gone days, retreating, as if blown by the wind
leaves are falling again, the unsought magic is dissolving
and I am here, and it is now, and the snow covered peaks
are once again, just sheets on the bed that I'm about to make

Saturday Centus the prompt was to use up to 100 words (not including the prompt) using the line - "The early November sunshine cast golden rays..."

W H E N D A R K N E S S F A L L S

Who am I to judge the safety of nightfall

with its yawning mouth and abrupt silence.
Do I not see myself reflected?
with my inner corridors chock full
of absolutes and things that lurk.
Ecstasy too is a possibility
pleasing and assured
the knife edges and all
the forgotten adventures
kaleidoscopes that dazzle
with their fearless symmetry.
Nightfall holds promises that the day could not conceive,
for that is when the things dare to show their true face.
Where illumination is not the reason nor the rhyme,
it is just the gentle breathing of the darkness
and the inevitable quieting of my mind.

Inspired by Three Word Wednesday
prompt words were judge, nightfall, safety.

3.

J U M P

Was it such an effort
such a monumental leap
to jump from the mountain of you
to those low flat plains of me
did you fear your demise
or was the instant revival
of your once flagging spirits
all the reward you needed

Inspired by Three Word Wednesday
prompt words were demise, effort, revival

4.

C H O I C E

She could no longer bring herself
to utter his name
or let the galloping wild horses
of her impatience
continue to assign the blame
for it was she
who chose
to dabble
with glass
and with darkness
and the cracks in the curtains
just made her lean further
away from
the light

Inspired by Three Word Wednesday
prompt words were dabble, lean, utter.

5.

Sunday

Another sunday
sprinkled
with the
stardust
of silence
a vast
empty hall
echoing
just waiting
for me to break
this quietness
with the sound
of my voice

Written for - Monkey Mans - Sunday 160
where you must use only 160 characters
(including spaces) and post on Sunday.

6.

Lessons to be Learned

The tree and its arthritic branches
clawed at the thick white sky
hoping to educate the
young and foolish,
teach them of winter
and her hard fingers.

And they who were dreaming
of snows soft blankets
to swaddle them
and make them beautiful,
had not yet heard the silence.

Towering evergreens protecting
the feathered flying ones,
they knew the secrets.

And those who had been blessed
to bear the blood red berries,
must learn to never object
to the pecking of the
sharp yellow beak
of the blackbird,
as he swallows
their fruits
whole.

Inspired by Three Word Wednesday
prompt words were educate, object, silence

7.

Just a Matter of Time

He tightened his buckle

trying to evade my gaze

eyes anywhere but me

the big clock was ticking

time dripping, eroding

the soft swaddling fabric

that we had used to disguise

the huge wedge, driven deep

into the tiny hairline cracks

that had now opened up

wider than a chasm

Inspired by Three Word Wednesday
prompt words are buckle, evade, wedge

Hunted

2010-12-18T11:06:00.003Z

the grey wind stalks me
shadowing my moves
with endless grace

my pack is empty
I've nothing left
but turquoise

and there are
nine black dogs
trailing my scent

- Susannah Bec 2010

Punctured

2010-11-30T20:35:00.017Z

Punctured by the broken promises
and ferocious regrets of yesterday
I hurl my words at the darkness
a never ending stream of verbs
juggling the intricate moments
I am no longer bent double
with some perceived modesty
I am lithe and dangerous
loping along on wolves feet
filled with a shapeless longing
No longer content to sit up there
on that warped and crooked pedestal
that you placed me on, way back
long before I learned
how to scream

- Susannah Bec 2010

Linked to One Shot Wednesday

Winter

2010-11-22T23:23:00.003Z

I will not speak of winter this year
for it will come silver footed
and bare knuckled
without any mention
of its name

And it will use its tricks
to make visible
my breath
my veins
and the red
that hides
beneath the surface
of my December
skin

And it will be silent
that edgy pen
that traces feathers
on cold glass
an artisan
working in
beauty
and in
ice

- Susannah Bec 2010

I am linking this poem to One Shot Wednesday

All I Need

2010-11-15T10:38:00.003Z

The soft
blue green
ocean waves
of your eyes
are all the
colour I need
on this stark
greyscale
morning
....

- Susannah Bec 2010

Reflections

2010-11-06T15:22:00.005Z

Those silvered reflections of you

still exist, strands of spidered silk

woven and so delicately knotted

tracing my veins, footpaths edged

beside the crimson rivers, blood

bound and fluid, still guided

by the high wire touch of you

imperceptable tightropes

where once you walked

- Susannah Bec 2010

Peace

2010-11-01T19:03:00.002Z

P
E
A
C
E
peace
so fragile
has escaped me
it spills through my fingers
rampant, no longer contained
it is free running
and it pours
.
.
.

tiny
pyramids
mounding like
molehills at my feet

I tremor at the thought
of the mountains they will bring

then I put a halt to the rushing tide
I create barriers with my breath
and with the soft brush
of my attention
I sweep and
I gather
until
all the
peace is
once again
contained inside.

- Susannah Bec 2010

Reverie

2010-10-30T20:52:00.002+01:00

R E V E R I E
Beneath the fluttering wings
of this red gold leaf blown afternoon
lie the soft white feathers of memory
drifting down on the breeze like seeds
looking for fertile ground to take root
and they find it in my willing earth
and all at once it is another time
and that eager upturned face
and those sparkling eyes
belong once again to me
and I am back home
and you are there
. . . . .

- Susannah Bec 2010

Lightcatcher

2010-10-29T20:52:00.008+01:00

L I G H T C A T C H E R

Impetuous now
trying to catch the light
audacious arms
outstretched
like
barren branches
coveting
those yellow strands
aching to feel
those
soft ribbons
of warmth
draping
like
Summer

- Susannah Bec 2010

Long Shadows

2010-10-19T22:36:00.010+01:00

Long shadows, lick
the cold grey of the building
climbing its sides
as the paint yellow sun
sinks low
behind the factory units
with their
gaping mouths
and bland exteriors
and...
just for a brief moment
in that particular slant of light
the reflection
cast in the smeared
and dirty window panes
takes my breath away
with its squalor and its
strange illuminated beauty

Written today as I sat in the car park of an industrial estate.
Posted here for week 16 of One Shot Wednesday at One Stop Poetry - My first time. :-)

All at Sea

2010-10-18T09:02:00.003+01:00

My internal boat has been rocked,
it rolls unsteady on unseen waves
as tempestuous feelings churn up
that black ocean, salt water, deep
and choppy and my fragile boat
feels like paper, as it is tossed and
buffeted like flotsam in the swell.
Acutely aware that I have no life
jacket, I cling on to this fragile vessel,
never built for storms such as these,
it crumbles and splinters in my hands.
I lay low in the hull, sea blind eyes closed,
howling with the wind, surfing the surges and
as the storm rages on, I drop anchor and I wait.

- Susannah Bec 2010

Porous

2010-10-11T09:40:00.002+01:00

I brush off the past as soon as it lands
a quick sweep of the hand,
a sharp flick of the wrist
and it has gone.
I don't let it settle, I don't give it time
I keep my eyes turned forward
I don't look back.

It is only later
in the quiet times
that I realise
that it has been
seeping unnoticed
in through
my skin.

- Susannah Bec 2010

four thoughts

2010-10-08T21:11:00.001+01:00

1.
nine
white doves
above the steeple,
imploring bells not to chime.
such stark empty rooms
there are no curtains
at the windows
and everyone
can see
inside

2.
Silence settles on me like snowfall
I feel the heft of its weight subdue me
its heavy patchwork shawl, thrown
a blanket, intricately woven with beads

3.
Tucked into my pocket
lies the letter you wrote
fumbling words and good intentions
moulded you, an inadvertent poet
the simplicity of your words shone
every sentence brimming
with the essence of you

4.
Life is a bowl, swirling with water, never touching the sides,
cold hard porcelain reflecting light, absorbing life, it lets me go...
and the yellow lined path, does not lead to the mountain top, but to
blind alleys, back streets and a cold grey house with a faded blue door.
The dug hole, deeper than before, nearer than the ticking clock that waits.
and the mornings come, and the mornings go, and the phone refuses to ring.

- Susannah Bec 2010

A Time to Soar

2010-10-04T09:23:00.004+01:00

. . . . . . . . . .
We walk a path for so long
it becomes deep and worn
familiar and comfortable
our feet step into moulds
made by all the yesterdays
and the scenery is forgotten
it has become routine, known
we begin to forgot how to see
for we know our route so well
that we could walk it blindfold
and being unaware, we often do
the towering sky and soft birdsong
become background, wallpaper
and the well trodden path
becomes a rut
deep sided
stifling
but
climbing
up and out
seems daunting
we are so sure of this path
we know it like the back of our hand
how will we know where to put our feet
when we are not following the others
when the route is not marked out
this rut is feeling like a grave
so we clamber up and out
and realise that things
look different here
unfamilar and new
we can feel energy
bubbling to the surface
fear and excitement mixed
and we look around and understand
that any direction would be a good one
that there are no pre-plotted right paths
that all the paths are made by walking
our mind throws off its shackles
and now no longer tethered
our spirit begins to rise
full of possibilities
and finally free
we take flight
and we soar
. . . .

- Susannah Bec 2010

Inspired by the prompt word - soar.
Taken from my prompt writing blog - Panopticulated.

Less Is More

2010-09-24T12:17:00.005+01:00

I spread myself too thin
put too many ingredients in the pot
forget to remember that less is more

I get caught up in quantity
when quality shines so much brighter
by nature, I amass rather than discern

A single rose can be studied
seen for its individual perfection
twenty is just a bouquet of flowers

My thoughts say why write one
when ten are flowing from your fingers
but who will listen to ten, when one would do . . .

There is stillness . . .

2010-09-21T23:40:00.002+01:00

. . There is stillness on the banks

. . . . . . ..... . ..... . .of the flat shallow lake

. . . . . . ..... . beneath the towering branches
. . . . . . ..... . under the wide open skies
. . . . . .with the sun beating down
. . . and the gentle rain falling
and the birds singing

he sits and whistles
. . . . . . and he watches
. . . . . . ..... . and he waits

and the watching sky is full of silk
. . . and the spinning threads reach down
. . . . . . . . . . ..... . .and wind him round, binding him
. . . . . . . . . . . ...weaving him into the tapestry
. . . . . . ..... . in readiness for the cocoon
. . . . that will give him back
when the day is done

- Susannah Bec 2010

This was written for the prompt - Fisherman
Taken from my prompt writing blog - Panopticulated

Individual

2010-09-16T19:21:00.005+01:00

She was never one for pastels, her colours were bold
too volatile to have ever been considered demure
she screamed when others merely whispered
it was not her intention to offend, it was just her way

August bought forth a fiercely individual spirit
she couldn't, wouldn't, dull her shine for anyone
her voltage was high, she contained the electricity
but you could still hear it, popping and crackling

Under the shiny surface a golden heart was beating
as it pumped the ruby red lifeblood through her veins
Dancing flames licked around her head, a fiery halo
while all around her ankles the angry ocean roared

She walked the winding road, with bells on her fingers
and rings on her toes, painted toenails gleaming against
the rich dark earth, a carefully thought out disguise
that fluttered through the blank pages awaiting her pen

She came alive when poured into words, she breathed...
sentences became her tree lined avenues of expression
and houses filled with buddhas and peacock feathers
sprung fully formed from her swift and elegant fingers

- Susannah Bec 2010

Written for a prompt, the task - use the words - demure, offend, volatile
Taken from my prompt writing blog - Panopticulated

Handle With Care

2010-09-10T09:31:00.014+01:00

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I am bound around with sticky tape marking me fragile

this sturdy parcel of me is not robust, It bends and tears

If I am handled roughly, little things inside me shatter

I'm swaddled in wadding. . . the extra padding helps

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

If I am handled with care, moved gently, not jolted

my tune plays, the ringing charm of me begins to sing

the air becomes light and sparkles, fractured with laughter

the peaceful gliding doves land and feed without danger

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Scattered seed, strewn like confetti a feast on the dark earth

the soft grey feathers of them, a balm that dresses all wounds

dark night swooping, falling in graceful folds around my neck

the tattered, battered, packaging of me falls gentle at my feet

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

- Susannah Bec 2010

This was another written for a prompt, where the aim was to use the words - charm, feast, robust
Taken from my prompt writing blog - Panopticulated

Them

2010-09-07T22:56:00.025+01:00

She was
luminous, lit up
she bent like a willow
so that she wouldn't break
touching the ground
with green fingers
she was reaching
down into the
earth

he
studied
the negative
stroking the surface
polishing the reflections
and making them
shine

Between them
the electrons flowed
completing a circuit
so much electricity
you could feel it
crackling
in the
air

*

- Susannah Bec 2010

This was written for a prompt - the three prompt words to be used were - break, negative, surface
Taken from my prompt writing blog - Panopticulated

Reconnecting

2010-09-07T11:28:00.035+01:00

*
If we become
disconnected and
separated from nature
then we step out of alignment
and we start to entangle ourselves
in the wrappers of the man made world.
We start to believe that that's all there is
the cities, concrete, cars, and the 'things'
(there are always SO many 'things')
and all of the unimportant things
wrap around us...like vines
creeping and covering us
until we can not breathe
until our connection
has been cut.

So we wander alone
through those city streets
and turn on a television to see
what todays weather is going to be
and we forget to look at the sky
and walk on the green grass
springy under our feet.
We begin to believe
that the world
is cold, hard
artificial.

but

if we step out
into the wild places,
the forests, the fields,
the mountains, the oceans,
places beating with the pulse,
the heartbeat of life itself, and
we attune again to natures voice
begin to dance those rhythms
then all of the life force
laying subdued
within us...
will come
alive

*

"As you sit on the hillside, or lie prone under the trees of the forest,
or sprawl wet-legged by a mountain stream, the great door,
that does not look like a door, opens." - Stephen Graham

- Susannah Bec 2010

C I R C L E S

2010-08-31T12:21:00.000+01:00

Back here again - same spot different day

no breeze this time and the sunshine has gone

It is quieter, stiller, more subdued somehow

why is it, that whatever road I take

it always leads me right back here

So little done, so much to do

I think that I may just be

walking in circles

a g a i n

to feel the storm building. . .

2010-08-30T12:20:00.010+01:00

The wind whipped her hair
wrapping it around her face

she reached up and pushed it
back behind her ears

She was too close to the edge
she knew it but didn't care

It was exhilarating

to feel the spray from the crashing waves

to feel the storm building

She squinted her eyes
against the rushing wind

licking her lips
tasting the salt
tasting the ocean

Towering clouds raced across the bruised sky
grey and purple, like a vast mountain range

Her heart was racing

low rumbles of thunder moved closer
the air crackled with electricity

The silver black ocean
hurled itself at the shore
crashing over the slippery rocks

She was soaked to the skin
wet strands of hair
wound around her neck

her eyes stinging
and streaming with tears

Streaks of lightning
turned the sky into a lightbox

and the waves roared
the thunder crashed

and she could no longer hear herself think

She screamed into the sound

joining it

adding her energy

She felt passion run through her like a storm
and she was the waves crashing
and the arcing lights
in the electric sky

She felt the thunder
like a force within

. . . and the wind just kept on howling

She fell to her knees
clinging on to the slippery black slate

she was spent

charged

alive

One thought repeating
over and over in her ocean filled mind

If only I could stay here

forever. . .

This is an older piece that I have altered and partially rewritten
for the Thursday Think Tank prompt - Beach/Ocean

Time Travel

2010-08-29T17:37:00.017+01:00

T I M E T R A V E L

I opened the door and there you were
Just as I had left you so long ago

The frozen moment immortalised
still replaying. . . over and over

But, now I am here again
to tell you I am sorry

to ask you to
forgive
me

Shall we. . .

2010-08-20T21:13:00.001+01:00

Shall we sing a different song this time
one that makes the leaves quiver like
a gentle breeze is passing by

Shall we take a different route this time
one that leads through wooded valleys
and meanders beside a tiny stream

Shall we try to understand this time
that we are two separate people
who are walking the same road

- Susannah Bec 2010

Sanctuary - poetry prompt #9

2010-08-06T09:58:00.005+01:00

This was written for -
the Poetry Blogroll - Poets United
The Thursday Think Tank - Prompt #9
S A N C T U A R Y

My first time writing from a poetry prompt, but the title of this one spoke to me. :-)

*

Behind the facade
the kerb appeal
of outer skin
are many rooms

each has a
wooden door

some lead
to tiny spaces
filled with books

another to a vast hall
where there is dancing

from some
you can hear
the strains
of distant music

or bird song,
or the gentle lapping of waves

some doors are ajar
shedding spangles of light

some are tightly closed
but their handles are
bright and shiny
from use

but, there is one special door

It is painted turquoise
richly decorated with birds
and seashells and sparkling with
pieces of sea tumbled glass

it has a perfect heart shaped keyhole
opened by the little gold key
that hangs from the ribbon
around my neck

it is the door
to the sanctuary

the one
that exists

inside
me

*

- Susannah Bec 2010

Fragile

2010-08-04T19:05:00.011+01:00

I am paper thin

the fragile membrane

protecting my wound

a sham

a trick of the eye

*

a raw spot

a gossamer wing

an eggshell

the truth

disguised

*

facade in place

the parade

continues

This was written at the beginning of the year but has not been posted here before.
I was empathising with a friend who had suffered a loss and within moments an almost forgotton wound opened up before me, fresh and raw. . .

- Susannah Bec 2010

An interview with me at Poets United

2010-07-29T21:56:00.012+01:00

Do you write poetry or do you enjoy reading it?
If so please consider checking out -
Poets United
A community & Blogroll for poets who blog

It is a newish but very friendly community set up with lots of energy and enthusiasm by Robert Lloyd. It is quickly growing in size and has introduced new features such as weekly poetry prompts, a poem of the week and poetry blog of the week too.

I was lucky enough to be invited by Robert to join at the very beginning and have enjoyed seeing it quickly becoming a great hub for people who enjoy writing.

This week I was featured in their ongoing Life of a Poet Series

You can read the interview with me, here . . .

The Life Of A Poet - Susannah Bec.

Check it out and why not join up too!

I am sure Robert would make you very welcome. :-)

Inside My Skin

2010-07-19T19:22:00.002+01:00

Defined by my own borders, I exist within.

My emotions are vast oceans, rushing rivers, trickling streams, irrigating my being with their cold wet life.

I cross continents with my thoughts, huge landscapes sculpted by my inner nature. The rocks and crevices erupt from my centre, fashioned by tears, carved by the movement of my breath.

These fertile plains were once barren, dry dust bowls devoid of life. The only world I knew existed outside of my skin, these inner lands lay forgotten, unexplored.

Now flower filled meadows are created by my laughter, trees spring up from verdant valleys seeded by hope. My joy is bird song filling the air.

. . . and when night falls and the sky is black as velvet, the stars are my dreams, waiting for me to join them in their dance of becoming.

- Susannah Bec 2010

Pale Blue Buckets

2010-06-18T10:42:00.008+01:00

I leave the pale blue buckets filled with fear
lined up outside my bedroom door.
When they are full right up to the brim
I grab the thin metal handles
and carry them ever so slowly
with tiny shuffling fairy steps
sloshing and dripping
through the kitchen, down the stairs
all the way out into the garden
where I empty them carefully onto the Roses

- Susannah Bec 2010

This Silence

2010-06-09T23:09:00.011+01:00

It drips on me

this silence

through the cracks

in my solid ceiling

it seeps

leaving patterns

a tiny tracery

of unspoken words

like delicate fronds

on the cold hard concrete

of today

Time silvered dominos

topple, a tidal wave

of tiny dots

falling

and falling

and falling

until

once again

the empty room

the silence

me

Silence seems to have been the theme for today as I also wrote this - Silence

- Susannah Bec 2010

Shining from the Inside

2010-06-01T10:26:00.023+01:00

I think I swallowed the sun today
one gulp and it had gone
burning . . . fiery
all the way down
to my belly
and there
it sits
shining

*

This is about owning your own creativity, the Sun is symbolic of the creative force, it gives warmth, light and life to all things of nature. The symbolism of swallowing the Sun is to bring all of those things into our inner nature - to let it light up our inner world. To shine from the inside.

Image and words - Susannah Bec 2010

Above Duality

2010-05-20T17:18:00.018+01:00

I found tiny shards of sparkling joy
embedded in the dark earth of my sorrow
there is always a balance on this seesaw ride
life contains the seeds of its opposite in each atom
one can not exist independently of the other

yin and yang
seems to be the rules
in this realm of duality
it's how to grow
it's how we know
Its how we appreciate
the differences

but outside of the contrasts,
outside of the either, or
the this and that
above it all

there is only one thing
and it is complete

a realm of infinite possibilities
expanding through the duality
all the fragments fit together
like a perfect jigsaw
it is growing
evolving
alive

*

- Susannah Bec 2010

In Search of a Spark

2010-05-11T18:27:00.014+01:00

Hello, if you are a regular reader of this blog you will notice that I have designed some new graphics and given the blog a makeover! - I hope you like the changes! - Susannah x

I wander through the corridors of me,
in search of that tiny room
that contains
all I have forgotton.

The dark holds such memories,
it is taut with unspoken things.

Things that lay just below the surface,
unseen, but dangerous, even to the sure footed.

Those small wrinkles in our bedrock become molehills,
that can be magnified into mountains,
in those inner cinemas
of the unconscious.

I need to find the very darkest corner of me

and there, behind the fears
and the debris,

of a life,

half lived

I know I will find the spark.

That pinprick of startling light. . .
just awaiting the breath of my awareness
to fan it into a fire, that will flood the shadows
illuminating those inner rooms with the brightest light.

I reach out with eager hands and pick up that burning torch,
I hold it aloft, until all the dark internal places
have seen the light that I carry

Lit up from within

I remember

myself

Image and words - Susannah Bec

A Time For Quiet

2010-05-01T11:23:00.018+01:00

There are times when we are yearning for quietness
where words are too loud to be spoken
a time for retreat,
for solitude
a time
to mend
what is broken

Sometimes fragility descends on gossamer wings
and spreads its essence on the ordinary things

There are times that cry out for the darkness
There are times when that's all you need
for you know that in those dark places
there are things
that nurture
a seed

*

- Susannah Bec 2010

Dealing With The Past

2010-04-21T09:23:00.007+01:00

I was just going through things on another of my blogs when I found this - and searching through past posts I found I had never posted it here before, so . . .

Tentatively

I scrape away at the surface.

Little by little the top layer is removed

exposing the rich, brown soil.

Hidden from the light, it has been concealed,

moist, damp, dark and fertile.

I make a hollow

and feel the crumbly earth

packed under my fingernails,

as I start to dig.

Bare hands

excavating,

deeper, deeper

as a hole is pulled

from inside myself

and transplanted in the ground

beneath my dirty hands.

This deep dark cavern is potent,

receptive and waiting

as I drop my past into the bottom,

and feel it spread and ooze

down into the expectant earth.

From deep within me

I release my unspent tears,

they surge upward, irrigating me

loosening the tiny rocks

and pebbles

of hurt

Gushing out and into the hole,

shiny and wet against the black earth.

Washed clean

I feel bubbles of joy rising from my core,

I drop to my knees as I begin to smile

and then with my body shaking

I laugh into that deep dark hole.

From out of my mouth

like shining stars,

seeds S C A T T E R

on the newly fertilised soil

and begin to germinate as soon

as they touch the ground.

The joy thunders through my body

as I gently cup the mounded soil

and begin to fill the hole.

*

- Susannah Bec 2010

A Container For The Flow

2010-04-09T12:26:00.015+01:00

I give thanks for these pages
somewhere to pour my words
a container for the flow

they drip from my fingers
touching the keyboard
letters become words

building structures
sentences for my thoughts
to inhabit

dark intricate stairways forged
by the words that trickle
in well worn grooves

Blank pages that have function
enabling me to float
saving me

from

drowning

*

- Susannah Bec 2010

At The Bottom Of My Psyche

2010-03-29T20:43:00.018+01:00

*
There are moments
where I feel that I have
tapped into something bigger
something more than just
my personal feelings

As though
at the bottom of my own emotions
exists a door

I swim right down to the bottom of my psyche
down into the universal ocean of emotion
that is surging beneath.

Everything ever felt
exists here

and it pours through me
I am its conduit
aware and
empty
I feel
it all

I thrash my way to the surface
up away from that huge
encompassing ocean

breathless and overwhelmed
I emerge to float upon the surface

staring up with gratitude
at the light
above

- Susannah Bec 2010

A Hole In my Persona

2010-03-17T20:49:00.012Z

You poked a hole in my persona

fragile and brittle it disintegrated

into your careless hands and fell

in tattered threads to the floor

You swept up the little tiny pieces

with your big hard bristled brush

collecting each and every fragment

that had hidden my true identity

I stood there, vulnerable and exposed

I was shining, bare faced and naked

With no mask to shield you from my light

you covered your eyes and looked away

- Susannah Bec 2010

Revisited - Tiny Green Shoots

2010-03-14T12:54:00.016Z

Waking dreams
t r i c k l e
down my spine
I shiver in anticipation
as the light grows around me

It makes no sense
my intellect can not hold
this slippery thing that slides
away from my grasping mind.

My heart welcomes the onslaught
open - willing - filled to the brim

my cup
o v e r f l o w s

and I spill myself

soaking into the rich red earth

I water the seeds
scattered so long ago.

One by one
tiny green shoots
break the ground around my feet
quickly spiralling upward toward the encompassing light.

- Susannah Bec 2010

A Thousand and One Places

2010-03-08T20:58:00.000Z

It slides from my hands this slippery thing called now

my attention a thousand and one places but here

the moment, so easily missed

*

Rein in those horses of thought

galloping free over the vast open plains of my mind

Let me mount just one sturdy steed to lead the herd

steady, strong and responsive

every nuance felt

*

We breathe in time and move as one

toward the watering hole

where we will drink

*

Dragging Shadows

2010-02-11T21:15:00.019Z

We are dragging shadows,
connected
with delicate threads,
as strong as wire.
Remnants of
unfinished business,
things we walked away from.
ties we did not cut.
We turn a blind eye,
we do not notice the
weight we are carrying.
Dragging our shadows
as we walk,
we wade forward,
as if through water.

Something Broken

2010-02-02T23:48:00.005Z

There is something broken, something fundamental to life itself. I can not see it, but I heard it shatter long ago and sometimes when a cold wind is blowing in from the past, I hear that painful echo riding on the breeze.

It stings and buzzes, hitting the walls in a locked room, somewhere dark, somewhere hidden.

I followed the river, floating downstream and dismounted on a distant shore. I found myself running, running, I looked down at the strong legs carrying me and they were not mine.

Fragments, shards of a story are all I have.

Fallow Ground

2010-01-09T18:58:00.006Z

It has been left unseeded for a season or more. Uncultivated - Inactive. Vast potential forgotten in the fallow ground. Motion stirs the quiet field. Under the surface, it is fertile and ready. Potent and willing, awaiting the warmth and sunlight of my attention. I can feel quiet rumblings as something deep within begins to surface.

Another New Year

2009-12-31T15:19:00.011Z

Tear the page from the calender
and throw it away.
Another year gone.

Twelve edible months, consumed by time.
That voracious predator that stalks the living,
while beating out the rhythms of this earthly realm.

The ticking seconds - a metronome.

Life marches onward, minute by racing minute,
it never ceases and we must walk apace.

There is no stopping.

We can only learn to dance with each fleeting moment.
A gentle tango, weaving through the speeding years.

Processing - Composting - Growing.

2009-12-22T19:27:00.018Z

Vibrating in my throat, the feeling sits, a coiled snake
- a reptile that my mind has spawned.

Yellow and black
foreward and back
its red eyes dart
. . . over my ammunition
. . . in this war of attrition

It wants control of my tongue, it needs my words

to vocalise its hiss and rattle
to bear its venom into battle
it tastes the air
. . . sensing with dissatisfaction
. . . my characteristic lack of action

We wait.

I swallow and gulp and down it goes
eating it, and its imaginary foes
it wriggles and writhes
. . . knowing I have found a cure
. . . tomorrow it will be manure

Knotted in my stomach, my digestion begins.

determined I will not be distracted
as all the nutrients are extracted
it softens and starts to dissolve
. . . slithering down with grunts and growls
. . . it enters the dark cave of my bowels

Its power is lost, it has been re absorbed

a dire situation has been elevated
the mind has lost what it created
I am retaining the power
. . . the waste is now expelled as shit
. . . to fertilise what I plant in it

Processing - Composting - Growing.

.

Great News - Trust

2009-12-10T10:28:00.012Z

My Poem TRUST is featured in this years Llewellyn's 2010 Witches' Companion.

TRUST

Navigate the darkness.

Edge your way forward

one sure foot

in front of the other.

Eyes closed

you trust your inner light.

Immersed in feelings,

you have no need of sight.

Your inner navigation

knows the route.

Intuition

the compass

of the soul.

Feel the direction

the magnetic pull

on your primal instincts.

Trust the path

Trust your gut

Trust your self

Keep walking.

*

About Your Life

2009-11-28T22:01:00.007Z

Sometimes you need to define what it is for you - what is the purpose of this wild and crazy life, where is your place in the scheme of things. Will you plod steady down the centre path of your life, or skirt the edges, dancing with shadows, listening to the music that is yours alone to hear. Will you sparkle and shine and burn with passing passions, reflecting the lights of the peripheral and almost unseen. Or do you want to sink roots deep into the black earth and remain steady, growing branches, sprouting leaves, reaching for the sky. Do you run, do you walk, or do you sit and wait for the sparkling moments to blow through your hair.

Tempory Blip in Gravity.

2009-11-13T23:15:00.015Z

Spinning like a top. My balance is lost, my axis tipped and I am scattered. Teetering on the edge looking for handholds. I am searching for solid ground in this miasma of confusion.

When did I lose myself? What knocked me out of orbit? What caused the tempory blip in gravity that sent me floating off into deep space like this?
Did I reach out so far that I forgot to return?

Climbing rock faces, wanting to see what is over the next ridge. Looking for you, I wandered too far from me.

Dancing With Infinity

2009-10-23T22:39:00.001+01:00

I just found some old notebooks with pages full of forgotten pieces of writing - I am posting some here, so that they don't get lost again.

Walking on the borderline

Standing on the edge

Dancing with infinity

at the thin edge of the wedge

The intellect's a master

that should become a slave

To participate in this great dance

To surf this quantum wave

If you're breathing with existance

tomorrow never comes

Be one with all the universe

You are the sacred Aum

*

We Are All Naked

2009-10-18T23:09:00.008+01:00

We are all naked

under our fashions

under our 'style'

We are all naked

under the layers

worn for warmth

worn to enhance

worn for modesty

We are all naked

we were born naked

that is how we were designed

no fur, no feathers, no scales

we chose to cover up

for a myriad of reasons

but we were born naked

we are all naked underneath

*

I can't understand the cry
"they are naked how disgusting,
what if the children see."

We are taught to be ashamed
of our natural state.

There is nothing more natural,
it is the mind that has a problem.

*

We are all naked

we were born naked

that is how we were designed

we are all naked underneath

Hormonal

2009-10-06T23:53:00.013+01:00

Another sift through some of my older writing turned up this astute observation of 'hormonal fluctuations'. . . better run for cover! :-)

HORMONAL
One wrong word is all it would take,
the downward glance, a big mistake
the tone of your voice was not quite right
your answer falsely, unnaturally bright
I'm hyperaware and looking for clues
something to ignite my very short fuse
my nerves have trouble handling the load
when I'm primed for action, ready to explode