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.