Reverie

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . . . . . . . . .
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.