Dreaded Whispers

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.

Breath and Bones

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.

Dream Like Dali

Picture source: Salvador Dali 1904 – 1989

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

Burning Both Ends

Unknown source

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.

Charlie’s Black Christmas

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.

gruesome santa

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.

So, be good! Lol.

A Little Light Relief

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 YOU🏆Congratulations!

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.”

To support Anita, please visit Crafts page:https://www.facebook.com/CraftsByMeBoughtByYouForCRUK FB page:https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100002317234302 Anita also has a justgiving page if you feel you are able to make a donation. Anita has raised £2,666 of her £3,000 target.https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/anita-nabonne…

Strange Arms

I hope you’re all well and taking care, now and this coming holiday.

As it Comes

tree twisting

Picture source:  Strange…tree.  Thanks Paul Militaru.

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

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Cedar Summer: late summer silhouette & whimsy

From 2016. I’m not able to be here so often now but, again, hope you’re all well.

As it Comes

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

where…

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Haeddre

heddir

Haeddre 29/7/2016

(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.