Aria

The sadness,
goes down as deep as her bones.
Oh, she clothes it well, with optimistic flesh,
joyful tendons and beautiful skin.
But in the quiet times,
she hears it singing.

When Darkness Come Again . . .

Spread your whispering story.

Those glittering shards that sing
of instinct and fine urges.

Scatter some of your charm
upon this ashen soul.

Scald me with your joy.

Let me steal from you
the knack of carrying light.

So that when the darkness comes again,
to pour its inky stains and crush my violet hope.

I can shout out to my sisters

and with their hair streaming
and wild voices splitting the air.

They will coming running.

Whooping and hollering
and dancing in circles.

Until all of the shadows are gone.

These Broken Words

With these broken words,
I try to cobble together
a structure. - A bridge
that is strong enough
to hold the weight
of all the beauty
that I see.

In the open spaces
between what is known,
and what is not.
I wander.
And like a sponge,
I soak in the essence
- absorb the goodness.

But when I try to tell.
To share the contents
of this overflowing cup.
The words cannot hold it.
They lay in silent shards,
scattered and broken
about my feet.

Lost For Words

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.