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.

Pruning

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 . . .

(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. . .

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. . .

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 . . .

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 . . .

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

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

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

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

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

(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. . .

.
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. . .

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. . .

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. . .

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 . . .

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 . . .

© Susannah Bec 2011

A Nice Neat Layer

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

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 . . .

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 . . .

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. . .

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

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

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

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.

© Susannah Bec 2011

In The Dead of Night

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

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. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good Reflexes

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

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. . .

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

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

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