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.