whisper with the chanting tide, speak everything and nothing
blow the dust from the corners of my soul
kneel beneath the lamp in the sky
to cover me in midnight shadow
The Darkness Of Our Soul
The Mind
The red door is shut, the handle, polished steel. It begs to be opened.
I turn the handle to enter, brave. The room is cold. Two chairs stand in the middle of an Oriental rug. One is empty. A child, stares back. I have seen her face before. A forgotten photograph found inside a weathered cigar box.
A wild- eyed, willow wisp. Her moon- face stuns the dark. Emerald eyes glitter. A stubborn curl falls over one eye, as if to shield her from the world. Freckles dot the bridge of a tiny nose, claiming the familiar landscape of wide cheek bones.
My hand reaches forth.
It is as if she has waited an eternity to place her palm in mine.
When you are weak, stand with me. I’ll lend you strength.
I’ll hand you a crumpled paper bag.
You’ll open it to find a scrap of heart, still beating.
I’ll reveal the scars that criss cross a back.
They will not diminish us.
I’ll offer you a photograph.
Allow the images to speak.
You’ll sense a glance, familiar. A posture, strong. A smile so endearing, your heart cracks. Turn the photo. A penciled notation is fashioned in perfect script. Evidence of loss and struggle amidst beauty.
I’ll reach for your hand.
You’ll reach back.
It’s impossible to separate our souls, our stories.
Our ancestors do not leave us, rather, they gather to bear witness, to stand alongside.
In the village of Saint-Antoine L’Abbaye, situated at the end of a gravel path, stands a white washed cottage, curtains drawn, door locked. Inside, she waits. Eyes filled with such tenderness. Sweet despair heavier than the scent of crushed rose.
Grey. I was grey. Grey as the stones washed upon the shore, heavy with the history of us. Little stones washed over my feet like scattered pieces of an unspoken truth. As the sea sang in a whispered hush, I flung one stone. Then another. Stone by stone I cast you off.
Except for one. A crooked heart. This one I shall place upon your grave.
The value isn’t in the object. It is in the human story attached to it. The worn chair, the chipped saucer, a silver fork, her oil painting, a skeleton key, a one-eyed bear, a favourite find, a worn photograph. The memory is tactile, visual, and fraught with emotion.
It’s been awhile since I’ve sat down to “free” write much of anything worthy of eyes and time. So, here goes a draft of something that has little relation to anything, other than a fledgling writer’s recommitment to practice her craft~
Perched upon a twisted branch, nestled deep within the tree top’s canopy, a raven hid. Beneath its view, a woman lay sprawled upon the mossy floor. Tousled locks, the colour of spun gold, fanned over the green that bedded her body. She was covered in tapestry, its richness deeper and bluer than the ocean that smashed beneath the hillside cliffs at the forest’s edge.
It was the glint of diamond pinned at her neckline that caught the Raven’s eye.
A woman’s body, once an empty vessel, was filling. Was she drowning? One hand slid over her heart. The steady rhythm, a comfort. She stirred, grateful to be alive.
What all knowing presence had snuck beneath her skin? Its comforting warmth now surging through her veins; its wisdom trickling down in whispers, “seek and you shall find.”
Full lips parted and she drank the words as quenching to her hollow as a downpour over parched earth. As a seed unfurls, she felt herself transforming back to life.
Once again, the voice spoke. This time the words were audible, “You are not alone.”
A flash of black broke through the verdant canopy. Eyes wide, she knew the answer to her question.
This ephiephemy hadn’t come about in easy fashion. Rather, it had been a journey of twists and turns, thorns and roses, darkness and light. Steeped in the brew were moments of glimmering truths.
Beauty is found within shambles. A gritty truth she understood. Glances back through time, a particular poem cut from a Daily, a chipped, floral tea cup, a photograph and an untold story. All small, cracked and torn moments forged to memory.
She stood, a forearm shielding her forehead and faced the dark fury. A lone voice commanded, “Be not afraid.”
She straightened. The others had circled, an army of silent souls. Sentries, they stood guard. Step for step, they had matched her pace along this journey, only pausing when she had collapsed, to rest her cheek upon the carpeted forest floor.
GETTING CREATIVE- this is my little creative corner in the world where I have my music, my stories sometimes combined with my music (read the story and you’ll find the song), poems (or really, really short stories as I like to call them 😉), audio stories and audio poems (for those of you who prefer to listen), my digital drawings and sometimes I even throw in some quotes or photos for inspiration 😊.
GETTING CREATIVE- this is my little creative corner in the world where I have my music, my stories sometimes combined with my music (read the story and you’ll find the song), poems (or really, really short stories as I like to call them 😉), audio stories and audio poems (for those of you who prefer to listen), my digital drawings and sometimes I even throw in some quotes or photos for inspiration 😊.
