Strokes of moonlight smother the inflorescent whispers of the smoke bush –
fighting, but wavering against twilight’s ghostly dreams, it drapes the water, pondering depth and death,
and, whereupon streaks of my childhood run wildly ‘til they bleed into the perfect pink wash – disrupted only briefly by daubs of my more morbid notions –
a thousand indigo butterflies dotted like inky death become pinned to the eerie flatness of still water and life –
finally, my drowning memories are absorbed by stagnant fluid – the whispers are hushed in the black, dead air where mosquitoes live instead, and for the first time, I begin to thrive.
Rejigged this a bit. Hope you are all well and coping.
unknown source
We are more than breath and bones, or the dust of a soul’s divide that gilds our pale faces with heavenly alchemy; we are combined essences swirling underneath complex skin with all of love’s triumphant splendour placed on our brows.
We are more than breath and bones with no more taught sinew to soothe since all mapped outreaches tethered by distance and timid pasts have been conquered, and before intruders, unseen, steal west with their disgrace. We stay low and soft within this warm, diaphanous wrap; it is no fair costume this skin of faux silk.
We are more than breath and bones, as within each of us lies such vast continents yet to be stroked, to align with us under our blue skies. Synapses crawl to make us, messaged and volatile, their eager grip might conquer us still… we are more than breath and bones, and we will not be torn asunder.
We are more than breath and bones, or the thousands of strange shadows that tend us; each have all but one shade, and poor imitations lend counterfeit images, all of you. But, the truth lies in a kiss of your cheek, and there I see us in every shape and shadow we know.
Majestically, she strode to the edge of sun baked sand, like an hourglass held up by time, before she became still; her long legs equidistant
man lay heel to toe with a savage sun – humanity encrusted with parched earth, it had partially eaten him –
a dried out white dove clung to an exposed ribcage; a much needed perch for a wasted observer tired of flying, tired of singing, lost in his search for peace. Its feathers, etched from fine, dried clay – were fissure like veins devoid of faith – baked outside of death, badly in need of rest.
Her elongated shadow buried them both before she knelt on the earth for water to pour from dainty, silver rivulets that ran her body, which was smooth and flowing sand
he watched her rise, striking the sky with her cool, black silhouette but on the floor it lay outstretched – as an amber pool of honey; he placed in it his hand to taste her
immediately, he was quenched, fed. Arid skin of dust and clay fell away, as did the shell of the dove, which had replaced his heart – its wings shattered into a thousand pieces like baby soft powder dusting the gritty, sparkling floor
in the breeze, billowing white clouds conjured a magnificent topaz bird; its plumage was a thousand lights of peaceful nights held in its tail eyes of beautiful iridescence – tail eyes that had once glimpsed peace in a thousand colours: turquoise, ocean green and gold …
quill feathers wafted the zircon grains of the sand, writing new rules, posturing and reshaping –
beautiful but cruel foundations of peacock ore too brittle to walk on, created swank waves of peacock blues,
and it strutted till a thousand feathers fell on the sand rising once more as blood red poppies that poured in an avalanche from the gaping mouths of soldiers still inside tin helmets – grown men like babes still fighting inside their dreams
he tried to pick the wild flowers for her but barbed, razor wire snagged his crumbling fingers, and hidden behind those were children’s faces pressed against wire mesh on the shores of green, unpleasant lands lapped by oceans that gulped and gagged; force fed a rigorous diet of helplessness and hope each time sand was flipped inside the hourglass
he gripped her waist, but, his reflection caught on her glass bosom, it shattered her hourglass frame
she was released
a thousand more grains of sand flowed like the salt of his tears – sprinkling gently from a watering can’s wise rose to try to feed the presumption of green leaves between his toes
his flaking sinews were pulled to his chest; he wore a crude hole where the dove had nestled – dust stung his eyes and, his tattered hands rose, forming a bridge that the sun rode across to join him at his journey’s end
red jewel fish swam ahead of her in shoals of beating hearts – riders corralled the sand storm’s cloth approaching like a whirling dervish; her titian hair draped those black, almond desert eyes,
and their glinting sunlit flecks consumed time in their frenzy – she placed the convergence of jewel fish; a plump, red heart, within his rib cage,
she was a belly dancer for a while on the sand’s hypnotic gyrations prompting creatures with a spin of time to play music inside of their shells
her lips were kissed by one thousand butterflies, and her open palms let loose a chorus of titanium white doves; all of the notes to harmonise with man’s discord – all willing one more time to fly away in a relentless search for peace and to sing for another one thousand years –
time enough, she thought, before they’d need a place to rest
A flicker, a stare, fires the column, bled bare, by the pale yellow, violet flame as
its gliding wax grips and its rhythmic drip sets fast, and not unlike our game. The Slowness of time runs with our thoughts down this vine as I tease the quick with scorched fingers. And, as is your want, you navigate me, and like moths, we self destruct when we linger. A stolid breath of air soon releases our stares, and we flinch in the flame’s parting sigh; its sulphuric stench from the quickening wrench, reminds me of that stark light – as sleeping birds hum and a candlelit morn draws nigh.
Enough of snow foxes and cute birds… especially after a rich thick slice of a Christmas cake disaster. It’s time for a rich thick slice from the other side with this old chestnut of mine. For children young and old. A very happy holiday celebration/Merry Christmas to all of you lovely, WordPress people and readers everywhere.
Charlie touched his brown-rimmed glasses knowingly, and his freckles crinkled as he marched down to the garden’s borders. He loved how delicate and austere it all looked at this time of year, but he remembered from school how birds and other small creatures found it difficult to find food – he contemplated eking out worms and other treasures just for them. His smiling eyes were soon agape when he reached the hole in the deep, green hedge his father took pride in. Charlie decided to follow a walk of unusual footprints leading off to the street, which was paved with gold – Christmas gold.
The huge, black-lead street lamp shined golden yellow onto a neighbour’s decorative efforts. They had gone to town with sled, reindeer, Santas and lots of glittering sights and sounds. His mind was still on the tracks and the puzzle they presented. Charlie’s jaw dropped at the magnificence of next door’s sled where he noticed similar sized prints, and more right beside a giant Santa with glowing red and white smile, and which had a pneumatic wave for everyone.
Charlie knelt down and checked under the sled and inside of it whilst holding onto his specs; moving them up and down in inspection mode whilst murmuring the occasional ‘aha’. Charlie could see nothing really. He scratched his head with stiff cold fingers and rubbed his cold red nose, wiping the drips on his new scarf, saying an apology to Aunt Mildred for the mess. He clapped his padded hands together before they clasped behind his back and a shudder took him into high-speed detective work.
He decided to sit on its large leather seat to shelter from the snow falling once again. The sled began to move slightly, making Charlie feel a bit uneasy, but that soon went as he soon became enamoured of the blue-black sky and the twinkling stars above the white dots of snow. The gentle snowdrops became a whirr. From out of nowhere, a booming laugh and bells shrilly rang out behind him before sounding all around. Charlie’s short-lived, nervous excitement was tinged with longings of the warmth of home, his mum, the Christmas tree and just about any familiar things. But, on the other hand, Charlie thought, maybe that was Santa. Was it Santa?
Charlie’s eyes were drawn to the sled floor and the tiny prints, which had reappeared. He pushed his glasses onto his nose, pulling back fast when he noticed a small creature on the seat beside him. Charlie smiled at its furry paws though they were dirty and wet with very ragged nails – he was anything but cute. Charlie’s smile was met with a scraggy, dark face and crooked, menacing teeth that dripped saliva, and which had turned the sled floor, a greenish yellow. Charlie’s heart sank, together with the thoughts that his companion might be a Christmas elf. He held onto his red scarf from aunt Mildred and smelled his mum’s mince pies on his glove, which also bore some squished crumbs.
He was pulled out of regret, near tears, with the roar of ‘Santa’s’ instructions to the hideous 6 beasts pulling the sled. It jolted Charlie. The horrible goblin like creature that now terrified Charlie, turned to ‘Santa’, and with a hyena’s laugh, and to Charlie’s disbelief, it shrieked the words, ‘One more, Master, and we will be done for this evening!’
Charlie, the grotesque elf and ‘Santa’ were carried into the freezing night’s blizzard – bells ringing and gruesome laughter abound. And Charlie, at least, was never seen again.
I wanted to share. Please feel free to donate, or share, or just appreciate what you have right now. (Well maybe more so in 2021 with better weather on ALL fronts about to happen!)
I’m delighted to announce OUR WINNER OF OUR GROUP CRAFTS, ART, MAGIC AND SUPPLIES MEMBER OF THE WEEK IS ANITA LUBESH from CRAFTS BY ME BOUGHT BY YOUCongratulations!
This weeks winner has been chosen for 2 reasons: Anita is very creative, diverse with her makes and mediums and Anita has her own personal story.
Anita is a cancer survivor. All of her arts and crafts are designed and created to raise money for Cancer Research UK. Anita has been working hard trying to meet a target of £3000. I’m sure we can all help share this post and support Anita to reach her target.
Anita says:“I really enjoy experimenting with most kinds of art and crafts, mostly just to sell for CRUK. Normally, I write, and I have a blog. But, with these past 3 years of arting and fundraising, not so much! I love to try different techniques and mediums, and if they are close to any good, I sell them to raise vital funds.
Since my own battle with breast cancer and recovery, to years later helping to look after my mother then watch her die horribly from lung cancer, I have striven to fight in the hope we can eradicate all forms of cancer from our lives and make a better future possible.
I have sold my writing, glasswork, and last year, I experimented with acrylic paint pour jewellery, which I am selling now among many other things. Being chosen like this is thrilling, and it also raises awareness – thanks to your help.
Since CRUK does not receive any government funding, I see it as our mission or duty to support those where we can. Treatments have come a long way; one new treatment actually saved my life back then. It is vital that we support their research, and hopefully in the near future, a lot more people (women and men) will live longer and not have to suffer this at all.”
wrap me in strange arms
not sinew’s calm unity of muscle to bone
but like before when molten flesh
was writhing, malleable, lasting –
not like now with intangible flame
shot from an archer’s crossbow –
with quick precision
writhe with me in twisting turns,
not rolling ambiguity’s speech of tongues,
but like before when deception unraveled
to suffocate me with a slithering hiss –
do not place your wreath
in the space where the cobra stabs
with quick precision
I was inspired yet again by the fabulous, sock monkey.
for the Waxwing,
summer withers
sending the bare bones
of blooms to exit; their shift over
high up on defoliated twigs,
these sturdy spires become crows nests –
for one last look at sparse reminders
and stark remainders
and perched reverently
with subdued crest, rakish black mask
and brilliant-red wax
droplets fallen on tail feathers –
splashes of hot springs
long before flames burned out,
they are temporary beacons
for the Indian summer
as birds gradually disappear
like iron filings
falling from silky paper
soon they will fly south
for winter before shivers ruffle
silver grey feathers, autumnal
splendour from its box of tricks
is spilt and trickery dazzles us
with cooler combinations
of life clothed in warmer
costume
like petrified stone,
stygian contours champion the night sky;
dulled for now, but grey streaks charm
expectations sat on the horizon
(i)
It is fine to be in balance, to hear wistful
cries like invisible veins in the winds,
and see lucky, white strands among
the heather’s Scottish highlands’ type
of sobbing, and to listen as the wind speaks
in gusts; inhaling deeply as if sucking
up a thought before breathing it out
smoothly in a musical phrase.
(ii)
Our giggles are swept away instantly
as we try to stand with pale, bare,
chicken legs; goose pimples and heads
lift deliberately so that we may
be bludgeoned by the wind – our cheeks
are malleable like Playdoh as we turn
to face the brave. Lana’s spectacles
are nudged from their cosy space; nudged
all the while with nary a murmur or complaint
right up until she would trip – her straight
edged, rimmed nose would turn red
underneath freckles that are faint traces
of sunlit birds across a pale expanse
of water rippling.
(iii)
We chat to silver grey, wise, stone heads
happily serenaded by loose petals and grass
quills that are a cosy squire collar for the rugged,
Celtic boulders we sit on. Our nimble fingers
grazed with youth pull dandelions from the roots
amid awkward silences – our actions solicit
a cheeky shrug because we like to hear
them tear – it is a validation of their freedom
from the tough soil as they relinquish
mystery and ghostly Celtic charm,
which is the flesh of the sturdy hillsides
that creep up to all but touch blue zircon sky.
(iv)
Craggy tutus tentatively hold large birds
that, once settled, will disappear
into trances; filtering the world as it sails
by the bewitched and twisting heads
of the Little Owl sleeping while hawks
pierce our eardrums as we fight on, tumbling –
in a race to be the first to conquer this hillside.
We brazenly slide down part way; rough
and ready vanquishers of these grassy mosses
aching from its boulders – our bruises
become the glorious, purple heather down
of our flesh – an indelible tattoo of these glens
already strewn with magical, inked
emblems.
(v)
Exhausted high jinks and chattering
laughter are heightened by stiffening
cold bones – windstorms activate
the grasses motivated by our tomfoolery.
Atop the hill we are puffed and exhausted,
we heave breathless for a while.
Our pigeon chests make us feel like king
and queen, but crinkled noses redefine
our stature and we settle for duke
and duchess given our ragamuffin
elbows and dirty knees, proudly assembled
as witnesses.
(vi)
I kiss my Haeddre, Duchess of Green
Flowers and the White Heather – night giver
to the moon – and I take her slender wrist
until we sit cross legged on nested fauna
and we are draped in the dying sun’s finery;
our shoulders’ shadow becomes a black cloak
glinting regal charm, and her crown is scattered
sun drops escaping the last squeeze of citrus;
they caress her head, anointing it,
just as surging, billowing clouds bid the day
farewell. Gusty breaths deepen around our hilltop
and dozing birds grip their stake with talons
on point and ready.
(vii)
The common buzzard circles in the subdued
hints of autumn’s orange skies, and sounds
of the playful Little Owl sing out.
As our red hands and cold, white knuckles
sit together over our dirty knees, I feel
her pigtails shudder on her shoulders
when I catch her staring at me staring
with eyes full – made moist by the wind.
Aye, It is fine to be aware and look down
on our blustery kingdom’s fine swathe.
OUR WINNER OF OUR GROUP CRAFTS, ART, MAGIC AND SUPPLIES MEMBER OF THE WEEK IS ANITA LUBESH from CRAFTS BY ME BOUGHT BY YOU
