Maybe it will take an Angel

My love doesn't need a manger
to hold the new born sun.
My heart has known glad tidings
and that joy and peace will come.

For we can not all be shepherds,
and our voice may not be heard.
In among the haste and flurry,
of this very modern world.

No matter how long we've pondered,
this strange life and its bold decree.
I know that most are still afraid,
to be all that we could be.

So maybe it will take an angel,
to whisper gentle in our ear,
to tell us that it's okay to shine,
that it's the reason we are here.

Image: Three Angels by Susannah Bec.

Written for the Sunday Whirl using all of the words. Not great poetry, but I did my best! :-)

Wishing you all

love, peace and much joy!
- Susannah x

Three Seconds. . .

In the three second lag
between your action
and my reaction
I saw it happen

That hint of trouble
began to surface
instigating the game
we swore we wouldn't play

This year has been one
of calm surfaces and blue sky
one in which I could believe
that luck was on our side

That you were no longer
a citizen of that dream land
a denizen of those altered states
convinced that you could fly

Feet firmly planted in the black earth
something in your eyes gave it away
and in an instant the blue sky changed
becoming purple and black like a bruise


Written for The Sunday Whirl
using all of the words.

This story just arose out of the words as if by some strange alchemy. The wordle seems to instigate that happening! - pulling tales out of nowhere and pouring them onto the page.

This is not autobiographical.

When Love Arrives. . .

What an enigma,
this weightless joy.
These rare and rapid pulsations,
that spasm and sparkle like glass.
It is as though some part of me,
long imprisoned, has been released.
I have been made spacious by this feeling.
The elements have fallen in the perfect order.
And I, as if in the grip of some strange magic,
am racing, tumbling, laughing and breathless.
through the bleak, windblown city streets,
headlong into your strong and gentle arms.


Written for The Sunday Whirl using the words below.

Staying Centered

I am the fulcrum around which my life rotates,

I hear the rush and shudder as the cogs turn.

Ruddy and metallic, this movement is vital.

Freed limbs rotate. Idle thoughts rustle.

It is not easy to be mellow and mindful,

in this untidy world of man and machine.

I may sound smug, but I am no longer gullible.

I will continue to ignore the subliminal messages,

pasted onto the detritus and divinity of my life.

And let the spinning wheels slice the sunshine,

into bite size pieces that I can eat.

Written for Wordle 32 at The Sunday Whirl - using all the words. I just let the words take me where they wanted to go. I am not sure if I used Fulcrum correctly though?

Now back to my NaNoWrimo writing! (with any luck I should hit the 50,000 words target by the end of the day.)

I look forward to seeing where these words took everyone else. :-)

Trying not to move. . . .

It was a shallow hollow
in which she kept
her misery.

No depth at all.

In fact
the slightest motion
would set it moving.

Like a mini tidal wave.

Back and forth,
gaining momentum.

Until it would slosh
over the edges
and run
d
o
w
n
her pensive face

following
the limescale trails
of its watercourse.

And then
splish, splash
d
o
w
n
onto the ground.

Spoiling
the shiny shoes
and cheerful gait
of those who were passing.

She tried to keep it inside,
she really did.

But she found
the constant stillness
so very very hard to bear.
Written for Three Word Wednesday using the prompt words - Hollow - Misery - Shallow.

Personal Evolution

She'd been trapped,
drowned in silence.
Oblivious to the planet
and its clockwork motion.

She had skated on thin ice,
started fires and left them to smolder.
She was a maverick, a firebrand,
she walked on a knife edge.

She was mindless, oblivious.
Unaware of the great universe,
and the fleeting spark
that was her life.

Until the diamond
of her consciousness,
was honed and polished.
Rough edges smoothed.

Then all of her facets
began to reflect the light.
And her clear eyes shone
with everything she was.

And in the vast blue sky
of her now peaceful mind.
She watched as her thoughts
went floating by like clouds.

Written for The Sunday Whirl. - Wordle 31

I used all of the words. :-)

Looking For a New Day

"For I will run into the great tomorrow and my heart will be fast and my breath will be faster and there will be no time for sharp remembering or mournful cries for what has gone. For I will be running with the wind in my face, dismal concrete underfoot and yesterday behind me snapping at my heels. I will run through the night time city streets, through the neon and dispair, past the boarded windows and the broken glass, past the street lamps and their yellow glare. I will run though my breath may sting my burning chest, for I am running, racing into tomorrow.

And when the hard ground softens and welcomes my pounding steps, and the heavens and its million stars hover above me like a great blanket of glory, still I will run. Towards the mountains, toward the oceans, toward the great tree up there on the ridge that bears my name. I will not slow, I will not falter, I will run into the great tomorrow, and my heart will be fast and my breath will be faster and there will be no time for sharp remembering or mournful cries for what has gone. For I am still running and there will be no rest until at last I am home."

Written for The Real Toads and Kerry's Wednesday Challenge
Image: sb

Going and then coming back again

________ I am walking a tightrope __________
there's no safety net
for this high wire
trickster
.
.
.
up here
all you need
is balance and
a point in space
to fix your eyes upon
.

I'm surrounded by the vastness
of the pink and coral sky
the altitude loans me
strength

. I . pause . up . here . in . the . empty . air .

m o t i o n l e s s

as I contemplate
my next
__________move__________

I am still and serene
.
.
.
Then
yellow and buzzing
the* * * * * BEES* * * * arrive

***swarming***around***my ***stillness***

and rapidly uNRaveLLing
the sturdy rope
beneath my
feet
._.._.__.._.._.._.__.._.

They are telling tales so eloquent
that I can not ignore their pointing finger --->
and the cleaning of my perception that comes with their sting <----

THE MOMENT AND I ARE ONE

And I swivel
(my feet so sure and steady)
and I tread the thin wire I had been walking
_____________________________________

back to the solid ground from which I had first stepped out

____ into thin air ___

___!___
__________

Written for The Sunday Whirl using all the words. . .

Hmmm, what makes you think I am avoiding getting started on my nanowrimo novel this morning. :-)

(I had fun and killed quite a lot of time playing with this!)

Hope all you others doing Nanowrimo are being more productive than me this morning! :-) - Susannah x

A Plaintive Missive to the Object of His Affection . . .

In dappled light and shade you sit, strident and lovely.
Bearing your wicked beauty like a flag,
you reignite that fickle flame
I thought long doused.

The coral pink pleat of your lips
pull forth a passion long forgotten.
The subtle swish of your skirt, a red flag
to the charging bull of me.

And once again I am lost, intoxicated.
Plunged into delirium by that heady scent you emit.
Unbalanced, as it comes drifting on the sultry air
and unfastens from me, my reason.

You are my laudanum . . .
You are my love . . .

So cover your tender ears, and please pay no mind
to the vicious wail of my wounded and bloody heart.
For the pain you can hear, is that of my piercing,
as I fall upon the broken shell of this fierce longing.

And though its keening pitch may seem extreme,
please forgive me, for I have no way to quieten its sound,
or to still the wild racing of my pulse. As once again
I am slain by that quick sharp sword of your beauty.


This tale of a suitor and the object of his unrequited love was inspired by The Sunday Whirl and the words of wordle 29.

I didn't know whether I would be joining in with any prompts this month, as I am taking part in Nanowrimo for the second year. But I was up early this morning and my plot was eluding me, so here I am. :-)

Please forgive me if my posts and visits are rather sporadic this month, I will be back. - Susannah x

No More Bridges

You take out your blade
and cut down the clouds.
Their softness a blight
in your hard edged world.

You collate all the bridges
and you set them a burning.
Until everything's destroyed
but their rusted-out bones.

You drag the singing bird
down from the cloudless sky.
Its feathered beauty, stretched
and ragged in your idle hands.

You judge the nods and winks
as evidence of your belonging.
A cracked glaze on a broken pot
that leaks, and spills, and stains.

You think it is just beginning,
the tide rolling in and carrying
your long awaited ship in its swell.
You do not see the rocks you made.

And you can straighten the cushions,
put on the kettle, and bake a fine cake.
But your house is barren, and the path
to your doorway is covered in thorns.


Written for The Sunday Whirl - using all of the words.

A strange and bitter tale arose out of these words for me this week. I 'got' the first two lines and just went from there.

Not Broken. . .

I am not broken - I am dancing

Forgive my feet
while I learn the steps

(I'll stick to the shallows
until I can face the ocean)

I am not broken - I am dancing

Sunlight across my shoulder
a mantle I'll gladly wear

(forgive my false causes
as I drop all my woes)

I am not broken - I am dancing

I will draw back the bolt
that kept my door locked

(and applaud as hoops topple
I'll jump through them no more)

I am not broken - I am dancing


Written for The Sunday Whirl
I wrote this on Sunday but wasn't pleased with it and thought maybe I would try again later in the week, or even give the wordle a miss this week! The words really didn't flow for me this week. But I have decided to post it anyway as I really don't like to miss the Sunday Whirl. :-)

Scarred . . .

For Poets United's Midnight Snack

Autumn wraps around me,

like a cloak.

Spent leaves,

falling.

Shards of stained glass,

swirling.

Firebrand fingers touch

the ground.

Long shadows, stark and blatant,

trace your steps.

Words fall from your lips,

like bombs.

Detonating on impact
with my heart.


Inspired by the picture above: Rage by AnnaMariaDeMari at deviantART

He is Gone. . .

She swallows hard, closes her black lashed lids,
head tilted back against the heavy organza drapes.

Listens as his automobile roars. Kicking up gravel
like a rambunctious child, it squeals away into the night.

The hat-rack is empty, it stands like a punctuation mark,
highlighting the fact that they are both now rendered obsolete.

By his departure, he has purged the ballroom of its dancers.
Left this big old house fallow. Already she senses the decay.

He will be long gone, into that world of whisky and neon.
Backslapping cronies will admire his balls, keep his thirst slaked.

While she will chase a solitary crumb of hope around this vast room,
worrying at it as she ages. Wondering what she could have done better.

Her life a stagnant pond. She needed him to stir the surface,
bring life to the brown muddy water she had become.

Once she had sparkled, gushing and singing as she rushed,
over and around the rocks in her path. Once she had been fluid.

But she had let the sides of her life be narrowed by silt. Until
her channel was a trickle, mud banks keeping her static.

Her garden overgrown. She had relied on him
to keep it weeded, to nurture the beauty there.

When he had stopped, she'd watched, powerless
as her flowers were strangled and died.

Oh how she had hated him for that.
And now he was gone.

It is your responsibility now, he had shouted,
as he had bounced down the winding stairs like ball.

It is my responsibility now. The words rang
over and over in her head, like a bell.

From deep within she felt the water rise,
it bubbled, it surged, it burst the banks.

She opened her world weary eyes, there was a light.
Her parched life, irrigated by water springing from her core.

She watched as all around her, new life sprouted. The ballroom
now filled with flowers. Birds singing in the dead of night.

She threw back her head and laughed as joy took flight,
whirling around her head like a cloud of butterflies.

It is my responsibility now. The words rang
over and over in her head, like a bell.

It is my responsibility now.
He is gone.


Written for Wordle 25 at The Sunday Whirl (using all the words.)

Tricky words this week I thought - but it just stretches me to write something I wouldn't usually! I didn't really know where this was going to go until it went! :-) If you know what I mean.

It would have been so easy to write an unhappy ending - but I don't like those, so I didn't. :-)

Lost and Found

NIGHT (dark) LOST

The church spire lunged up toward the heavens,
piercing the clouds and making splinters of stars
that fizzled and dazzled in the blackness of night.

The shadowed cobbled walkways were now empty,
and midnight and its neon signs screamed of adventure,
making promises to all those who were lost and alone.

Long litter lined streets, stalked by loud youths and
too naked women, who criss cross the concrete like chalk.
This is no place for fearful souls who can not face the shadows.

Myriad headlights, cars rushing on their way to somewhere else,
except for those that slow crawl the circle of city streets,
looking for short skirts and street corners.

Sitting on this cold hard bench, amidst the take away cartons,
the drunken shouts, and the smell of stale urine in the air,
I close my eyes and try to remember who I am.


DAY (light) FOUND

I was fearful and lost,

alone and in need of adventure,
the circle that I was walking was too small.

I paced the streets,
searching for something concrete,
I was looking for signs, looking for salvation.

Effervescent water splashed,
creating music in the cobbled courtyard,
the church spire towering like a needle sewing clouds.

I looked up at crows whirling,
acrobats in their blue sky playground
and I imagined they were calling out my name.

And the moment sparkled,
called on me to remember something,
something long forgotten or maybe never known.

Myriad doorways flung themselves open
and the muddy stream of my thoughts settled at last.
In that pure clear water was a perfect reflection of my face.


Written for this weeks wordle at The Sunday Whirl

I had trouble with this weeks wordle words!

Church and cobbled just didn't seem to flow into anything I wanted to write.

So I persisted and actually wrote three different pieces. I have put two of them in this post as I think (hope) that they work together.

As always even with words that make me stumble, I really enjoy the wordles.

- Susannah :-)

Love All . . .

The shaft of light was no accident.
The shimmering halo
it cast around your
beautiful head,
was fitting.

We would chat.
Volleys of tumbling words,
batted carefully back and forth
over the cumbersome net
of our politeness.

Occasionally the motion slowed.
We would shift uncomfortably
in our seats, eyes averted.
And you would look outside,
at the faceless passers-by.

Watch them,
strolling from shop to shop.
Arms full of their baggage,
that was always so much
smaller than ours.

A strange silence
would descend over us,
like a great blanket woven
with longing, and all that we
couldn't, shouldn't, say.

Then I would jostle my papers,
move my chair, clutch at straws.
Until, like a great white bird
taking flight in a black sky,
your gaze would return to me.

And the dangerous dance
we were participating in,
would continue. While we
pretended that it really
didn't mean a thing.


Written for The Sunday Whirl.
(Using all of the words.)

Wake Up Call. . .

There were times,
when the days just slipped by.
Oozing into one another.
Ill defined chunks of time
liquidised, homogenised,
missed.

Until the moment,
you appeared in the middle
of that long black road, (the one
that led to all my tomorrows)
you barred my way, forcing me
to stop.

Derailed.
Suddenly conscious, of all that
before was just background soup.
Awake, aware, swallowed by feelings.
One message that changed
everything.


Written for Poets United Midnight Snack 003

Inspired by the picture prompt above - "copyright Adam Andersson"
"Textmessing Girl" by Reggaemanyo at Deviant Art

Knowing when to speak. . .

You speak of sheep.
The modern man asleep at the wheel.

While you, with your vigor and verve,
have your ready muse, pouring forth
from your elegant and tapered fingertips.

You do not see yourself, in the mirror of the parry
and thrust that you use to strengthen your ego
and reinforce the satin thread of your diatribe.

And as I walk your book lined corridor,
to the green walled den, that has your smell
and your superiority stamped onto its silk lined walls.

I yearn to tell you that an opal does not get its fire by learning,
that some things intrinsic and raw, have a power
that intellect has long forgotten.

But my eye is caught by a moth, fluttering,
blustering against the cold hard glass. Shut off
from the majestic trees and the moon, rising
like a great silver disk in the violet sky.

And I see it as an omen,
an oracle speaking in hushed tones,
talking of a deeper truth.

And it cuts so deep, that when
I open your slow and creaking door
and see that there is no light.

And that your studious eyes
are roaming my face like a map.
Looking for my lips. Searching
for the x that marks the spot
where the treasure is buried.

I swallow my tongue, smile,
and don't say a single word


Written for Wordle 22 at The Sunday Whirl

I so enjoy the wordle as it seems to push me to write things that are not anything I would write without their help. I find it fascinating and always look forward to seeing what story the next one brings hidden in its words. :-)

Exposed . . .

I pace the perimeter.

With measured steps
my stride is fast, my gait even.

I do not falter.

Even when you throw lines
laced with your charm.

Designed to trip me.

To halt my progress,
force me back to the centre.

So you can see my eyes.

In this glass house,
I long for walls.


Written for The Thursday Think Tank prompt - Glass Houses

Todays Kitchen

You'd think it would be more simple,

to just pick up and answer that urgent tone.

To jolt myself out from this strange reverie,
scrape 'now' from my machine gun synapses.

I should throw my unwilling self back into yesterday,
cut myself loose from the suds and lather of todays kitchen,

And find deep in my pockets, the memories, sweet remains
of when you still had your dignity, poise, and gallant stride,

The endearing jaunt to your hat, as you would pass by
before all the roaring and bluster and too bold moves,

That caused you to build our love on shaky ground,
where rubble and lightning replaced promises.

All long gone. The kitchen is almost clean,
suds gurgling down the yawning sink.

Gingham framing kitschy keepsakes,
distractions from a bleak skyline

... and the insistant ringing,
of the cold black phone.

Written for wordle 21 at The Sunday Whirl

Mother May I . . .

Mother,
may I take the moon down
from that big dark sky
and cradle it in my arms
for just a little while?

The stars won't miss it, and I
can stroke its silvery surface
and rock it, as it does the tides.
I'll watch it as it changes, like
a shape shifter in my lap.

I will be really careful not to drop it.
I promise to hold it gently but firmly.
It will be safe in my arms, and I'll
sing it that lilting lullaby. . .
you know, the one you sang for me.

Mother, may I take the moon down?
Please. . .


Written for Saturday Centus and the prompt - Mother may I
(Exactly 100 words minus the prompt.)
Image by Susannah Bec

When. . .

when the too sharp day
dresses me in its nuance

when the trembling sky
lets go its precious drops

when curtains are drawn
so my light is banished

when there's pin prick holes
in the cat clawed darkness

when hope comes leaping
through bat filled night

when courage is gathered
to face the morning

when the door is unlocked
and windows flung wide

when words mean more
than marks on paper

when. . .


Written for Thursday Think Tank prompt - Windows
Image and words - Susannah Bec

Circulation

Observe my heart,
watch as it fills with blood
and pumps it out again.

Note that it is a rhythmic thing
like a drum beat or a tide.

Observe my heart,
watch as it fills with love
and pours it forth.

Note that it is a rhythmic thing
like a drum beat or a tide.

Understand that
the more love it gives,
the more love it summons forth.

It is a rhythmic thing
like a drum beat or a tide.

Understand that
the force of love is potent,
it contains powerful energy.

Like a drum beat or a tide.

Know that,
with persistance
it can erode any barrier.

Like a drum beat or a tide.

Know that,
with a heart full
of unconditional love.

Like a drum beat or a tide.

We could change the world.


Written for Three Word Wednesday using the prompt words - erode, heart, observe.

Up At Dawn . . .

Green leaves studded with dew,
quivering blooms, pallid in
the early morning light.

I watch the striped caterpillar crawl,
tentative, alert to birdlike movements,
arched and insistant, a moving jewel.

The roof rack is piled unfeasibly high,
with suitcases bound, bright coloured
ribbons, streamers tied tight to the bar.

We are both awaiting the hordes,
the gaggle of women, the slow stride
of men, and the goof of children.

Who will wave hankerchiefs, throw confetti,
hold flowers and song sheets, and watch
as this special day unfolds without a hitch.


Written for wordle 20 at The Sunday Whirl using all the words.

Not easy ones this week! Particularly goof and birdlike!
But as always I enjoyed letting the wordle lead me and seeing where I ended up. . . and I ended up with this tale. :-)

No Such Thing . . .

My pockets are filled
with sunlight.
No shadows here today.
I washed them, down
the shiny white sink,
(they swirled clockwise,
gurgling as they went.)
Today sparkles, and
there is no such thing
as tomorrow.


For Sunday Scribblings prompt - Tomorrow

As I Lay Me Down To Sleep. . .

In my dreams
I slip out of my skin
easy, like a cool breeze
sweeps across an arid land,
kicking up dust. I spiral upward
my vessel empty, matter discarded,
as my soul runs, fervant and illuminated,
for the truth swallowed whole leaves a coating,
a residue of goodness that glows in the dark.
I hear the roar as I slip back into my self,
feeling weight turn heavy in my trunk,
ears buzzing, earth bound again.
I find myself clothed in flesh,
wrapped in a mortal cloak
incarnations holy gift.
Spirit and matter
joined again
as one.


Written for The Sunday Whirl
using all of the wordle words.

Isn't it amazing where the words take us!
That is what I enjoy about the wordles,
you never know where you will end up. :-)

Some moments are always remembered

You were so beautiful then...
Your laughter rang like a bell,
riding the September air like a wind blown lark, joy filled and full of sky.

I remember the moment it struck me. In an instant I was flooded with the stark knowledge that I loved you, deeply, utterly, totally.

It cut through the very fibre of me. So deep, that even now, when a half century has passed and you have been gone it seems a million years. There are times when the southerly breeze blows soft in through my window, that I can still hear your voice and feel your gentle hand squeeze my fingers. Just as you did that day we smiled for the camera, and I knew without doubt that you would be mine.


Written for Magpie Tales - Inspired by the photo above.

Love or Something Like it . . .

Graffiti stained granite,

daubed with the markings of life.

Incendiary slogans shout for freedom,

there's a revolution in the making.

The too handsome stranger

has words that spin like plates,

and sparkle like screw top bottles,

all fizz and wasted glass.

Straight backed, he will not slouch,

though fervant desperation

spills from the cracked

cheap vessel of him.

She sweeps up the cold ash

as it falls from his burnt out life.

Cleansed of all her preconceptions,

she is taken by his strange beauty,

enchanted by the wild shine of his eyes,

and the way that the afternoon light

falls gently around his shoulders,

like a cloak.

Written for The Sunday Whirl using all of the words.

if I die young . . .

If I die young
I want you to know
that however it happens
I was ready to go

It may not ring true
but I think you will find
that believing it so
will give peace of mind

So goodbye and good luck
may your life be fulfilling
and when your time is up
I hope you'll be willing

For life is a journey
an adventure, a game
we come into it alone
we go out the same

Our birth and our death
are two sides of one line
just the way it should be
. . . part of the design

The moments are precious
so don't hang around
just relish the living
each sight and each sound

Then if you too die young
I know that you'll know
that however it happens
you were ready to go. . .


For the Saturday Centus prompt - If I die young. . .

Rules: Use up to 150 words AND the 4 words of the prompt (154 total maximum words)

SUNK

I am a shipwreck
battered by time and tide
sunk by the weight of the ocean

my anchor is gone
I sail no more

I am a shipwreck
pinned to the seabed
water swirls and slops above me

my crew still on board
fifty fathoms deep

I am a shipwreck
battered by time and tide
sunk by the weight of the ocean


Written for Sunday Scribblings prompt - Shipwreck

Fifty One S's

Sensitive surfaces,
Such slippery slopes.
Sounding spent shackles,
Singing sweet sweet songs,
Serenades to shaken sanity.
Stains on a savage salvation.
Soothing scarred serenity,
Subtle senses sparkling.
Scenarios shimmering,
Scintillating symmetry.
Seriously symbiotic.
Strings of sunlight,
Sky saturating.
Serendipity,
Streaming.
Shining,
Souls,
Sacred.

For the Thursday Think Tank prompt #62 - The 3rd letter of your first name.

AWAITING THE PAINTER

My bland walls,

are in need of your paint.

Daub them with
your precious colour.

Vibrant and wet,
let it drip. . .

Running rivulets,
down the length of them.

Hues bleeding,
merging into one another.

Creating new shades as they go.

Please, take up your vivid colour,
and paint this wall Red.

Written for Mag #78 at Magpie Tales Inspired by the picture above.

TAINTED

Is it sacred?
that sporadic tremor,
as you turn your head
toward the skyblown dawn.

Does the stigma
of your bright longing,
hinder your fluid movement
as you pledge a foul allegiance,
to those plaster reproductions
of your unrequited love.

You can not enmesh with illusion,
for fantasy is seditious in its unfolding.
Each tuft of grass, that is soft covering
those interminable, unspeakable,
nether regions of your mind.
Understands the taint
of your tread.

It knows its place,
beneath each touch
of your hard soled foot.


Written for wordle 17 at The Sunday Whirl

I almost gave up on this one earlier today!

I had written the first four lines straight away. . . as soon as I saw the wordle words, they popped into my head fully formed. Then I went away and left them simmering!

When I came back to them this evening, I was able to finish this piece, (after looking up 'seditious.' - I do hope I have used it correctly!)

As always I am really pleased that I was able to use all the words! :-)

I would be interested what conclusions the reader comes to about this. As I, as I usually do, just felt my way through, letting myself be guided by the wordle words. And now I am trying to piece together 'the story' inside the words.

Too Long In The Dark

Drench me with your summer love,
for I am not immune to darkness.

Smother me, until I radiate light
and pulse with all I have
left unspoken. . .

for I have been alone here,
and you are sunlight
knocking
at my
door.

*

For three word wednesday - this weeks prompt words were - drench, immune, radiate.

Girl in Exile

Sidestepping the arid thoughts

of these, her every day torments,

she swept the kitchen.

Blue broom pushing yesterdays crumbs

over her threshold, and out onto

the cold cement of another day.

The egg yellow sun crawling

over bland suburban rooftops,

scars her morning with its slanted light.

Its luke warm fingers roaming

her upturned face, exploring the weight

of her world on her shoulders, her slow walk

tender footfalls on unforgiving concrete.

In her head she sees the grasses of a distant plain,

and hears the plaintive notes that have become

her internal soundtrack. Playing on repeat,

looping over and over. An accompaniment

to her search for those rusty keys,

and lost prophets,

of home.



Also entered in the thursday think tank for the prompt She

Written for The Sunday Whirl - Wordle 16 (I managed to use all the words.)

This one almost constructed itself. Rather than having an idea to start with, the phrase 'everyday torments' came to mind and I went from there. It wasn't until I got to the end that I figured out 'the story'. Strange isn't it, how some of these just write themselves? Last weeks wordle was amazing in that respect for me. This week, it didn't flow quite so easily and I am not so pleased with the result as last week. But! I AM always pleased to have managed to use all of the wordle words. :-)

Blossom Time

Inspired by this beautiful image from jinksy and for In Tandem #4

There was always magic,
when the blossom came.

Confetti strewn petals,
rode on the breeze.

Fluttered in the air,
like snow flakes.

That sweet fragrance,
captivated me. . .

and made each day
a fairytale.

Somehow the world
was changed.

No longer
mundane.

It was intoxicating.
It was transcendant.

There was always magic,
when the blossom came.

.

Fortified - Written for The Sunday Whirl Wordle 15

Your projected image
an illusion, that rattles
these internal walls.

Waiting for redemption.
Waiting for the holy jangle
of long forgotten keys.

Harvested hope, splinters.
Tainting the free running fear
that irrigates this fortress.

A weed among flowers, shines.
No longer part of the crowd,
an exception, an example. . .

to pierce our preconceptions,
to make new our jaded vision.
It stains the water with light. . .

to illuminate the darkness,
and allow these thick walls
to sprout voices, and speak.


Written for the . . .
Sunday Whirl Wordle 15







I used all the words. :-)

The Grass is Greener On The Other Side

He meticulously bought the cigarette paper up to his lips

with deft and artful tongue he licked the exposed edge.

Flicking at the lighter until the flame leapt

. . . he inhaled . . .

eyes tight closed

as he took that ritual long slow breath.

Pulling the sacred smoke down

deep into his lungs.

Silence fell as he held it there.

Moments passed - like shooting stars.

. . . until he exhaled clouds . . .

Sweetly scented blue grey smoke

curling and climbing the expectant air.

He smiled as peace descended.

He was home.



Written for The Thursday Think Tank prompt #59 - Grass
.

Image and Words - Susannah Bec

When Morning Comes . . .

Written for the Sunday Whirl - Wordle 14

I scan the night drawn curtains.

Searching for bright chinks,

cat claws, in the cloth armour

woven against darkness.

Flecks of speckled light bear witness

as visions wide net is cast adrift, to wander

over the newly minted sky.

A marvel, rendered in golds and yellow.

Low, scattered, broad brushstroke clouds,

gild the masterpiece with skeins of silver

and soft ribbons of the palest pink.

I blink three times at this visual feast,

layed out before my night weary

and unaccustomed eyes.

As if to capture it.

Commit it to memory.

Etch it into my being.

Midnights anxiety,

reprehensible,

in the face of such beauty.

I twist my hair carefully,

pulling it back from my face.

I fasten it with a silver clip.

Reaching out,

I press the button

just as the alarm clock,

begins to whir. . .


,
To tell the truth I was daunted by this wordle, on first glance reprehensible, rendered and marvel just didn't seem like something I could or would usually use. But I managed to perservere and use all the words. Phew! LOL

After Dark

I stalk the night on midnight heels,
creating sparks, a river of stars
illuminated in flashing neon.
In the back street world,
where I am queen
and the night
goes on
forever.

Written for the thursday think tank prompt #58 night time

In silence we hear the whispers

Don't ask, don't say.
Everything lies in silence.

We inhabit these
silent chapels of self
they are flooded with the light
of our own awareness (or not)

A slanted shaft of illumination
stained with all we have been
all we have seen
glass still intact
vibrant colours
now fading. . .

But we are haunted
by hushed whispers
long empty echoes
just reverberations
of our own forgotten
voice

Don't ask, don't say.
Everything lies in silence.


Written for Real Toads. Inspired by the fortune cookie (in italics)

Not Lonely - Just Alone

Upon the plain walls of my life,
there hangs a portrait. It is a good likeness.

And behind it, set into the discoloured patch
on the wall. Is a blank space.

And set within that blank space, is a secret safe.
Where I, have locked myself away.

And no one, would even begin to suspect,
that the portrait may not be me.

And that I, may be hidden behind it.
Sitting quietly alone, inside the 'safe'.



Written for Poets United Thursday Think Tank prompt #57 - Alone/Loneliness

Fire Magic

Written for the Final Tues collab.
Inspired by this beautiful image by Elizabeth Crawford at Unravelling.

F i r e M a g i c

I am ablaze.

Orange heat

Pirouettes.

Dancing

As it destroys.

Burning

What has gone.

So that

What is new

May flourish.

Purifying.

Cleansing.

Transforming.

Devouring what is.

To make room

For what will be.

And

I am there.

In the flames.

And I am consumed.

.


I will miss taking part in the Tuesday Collab. It is has been fun. I have loved it. x

Those long gone summers of childhood

That sunblind summer. . .

Where the light sparkled so vividly

that I didn't notice the shadows,

the sharp contrasts,

the night.

Memory tells of endless days. . .

wrapped in the bright beauty

of youth, and sunshine.


Written for in tandem over at Alias Jinksy. So, what do you see in Jinksy's image?

When Head Battled Heart . . .

On a whim, I followed the twisted river.
Instinct galloping on up ahead,
astride the sparkling moment.

Effervescent and soft saddled,
my sleek and sturdy steed
ran like the wind.

Blustered and blown, I felt that sharp sting,
that biting buzz of conscience,
twinged.

Reason and his long loyal henchman,
had joined forces, collaborated
to stop my errant flight.

The strong arms of thought and logic,
those powerful twin adversaries,
clung around my ankles.

But my wily and wise earthbound feet
had grown swift, with wings
upon their willing heels.

For that bright and glorious butterfly
that had formed, and fluttered
from my ever open heart

was far too full of joy, for me to ever resist,
and I, its guardian and willing cohort
had no more doubt.

I gathered myself up, and swirling light
and scattering colour, I danced
out into the waiting world.

Where my life became a painting,
and my every footstep
became a poem.

.

Written for Wordle 12 at the Sunday Whirl

What We See . . .

Written for Two in Tandem #9 over at Alias Jinksy.
So, what do you see in Jinksy's image?

I see the threads,

the warp and weft.

Grains of a story

the maker left.

Galloping horses,

soaring birds.

Flames and sunlight,

haunting words.

Tapestry woven,

with skill and with care.

Imbued with fine detail

for those that will stare,

at the pictures it conjures,

for all those that can 'see'

the patterns and meanings.

Like you. . . and like me.

As soon as I saw this image it reminded me of laying on the floor looking at the patterns in an intricate woven rug, or maybe a tapestry, and seeing the pictures that my mind always makes when looking at random patterns. (My bedroom curtains when I was a child were a real feast for my imagination!)

So you read what I saw. What did you see?

Unearthly in its Splendour. . .

Written for Two in Tandem #9 over at Alias Jinksy.
So, what do you see in Jinksy's image?

(1)

Oh that doorway, found in dreams,
where the pure light beckons and speaks of ethereal things.
Unearthly in its splendour. . .


(2)

Like an early morning in St. Ives
where artists paint, surrounded
by nothing but sea and sky. . .

All those that have visited St. Ives in Cornwall will understand number 2 and maybe some have you have also seen the doorway in your dreams. :-)

Full Moon

Written for the Tues collab #9 inspired by this image by Elizabeth at Unravelling.

F U L L M O O N

Oh beautiful moon reflector of light,
our faithful satellite, queen of the night.

Puller of tides, calm watcher of sleep,
ruler of water and things that go deep.

Pale maiden of mystery floating in space,
has us enchanted with each changing face.

Astrological ruler of feelings and home,
she watches over us wherever we roam.

We may find our selves lost and wondering why,
but she is always above us - up there in the sky.

MOON 2 (SPEECHLESS)

I have no words left to describe the moon,

for she who sails in the heavens, and pulls

and pushes the oceans is not a one for words.

She rules the surges of the heart, the nuances,

the subtleties that the sun and his fierce shining

light may miss. So I am sorry, I have no words

left to describe the moon. . .


.

Image Moonrise - by Elizabeth Crawford.

Waiting for Daybreak. . .

(1)

From out of the edgy darkness
the night hurtles toward dawn.
The nail bite moon sharp as scissors
arced and silvered, it clings to the sky.

Memories like limbs flung across my sleeping back.
Transient and fresh, page turned, print already fading.

Once I flew, on a toss of a coin.
Reaching out for something more
than the pinchbeck flecks in your eyes.
The ones that I could have sworn were gold.

A strange siren that doesn't sleep, ricoshayes around my black box room.
Buttons pressed, dual password entry. Voila, lifetime history clears.

Teeth flossed and my garments folded
Daybreak sings my name in rhyme.
The covered windows talk of light.
All nights shadows, now are mine.


(2)

From out of the edgy darkness
the night hurtles toward dawn.

Nail bite moon sharp as scissors
arced and silvered, clings to the sky.

Memories like your heavy limbs
are flung across my sleeping back.

(Green eyes and pinchbeck flecks
ones I could have sworn were gold.)

Transient and fresh, a page turned,
the once black print already fading.

Unwieldy torches packed in boxes
(still running after the bird that flew.)

Flossed teeth and garments folded,
buttons pressed in my black box room.

The siren sings though no one hears it
above the teeming traffic flow.

Written for Wordle 11 at the Sunday Whirl

Oh this caused me problems! I faffed and faffed with it! rewriting certain bits and trying to use all of the words. I decided I had had enough, so pasted my original version into this post and pressed publish... then decided to post my latest edit too.

I am not really happy with either! Perhaps I will rework them sometime. :-)

Being There. . .

Written for Sunday Scribblings prompt Hitch.

Can I hitch a ride

to the other side?

I'll pay you in glee
(and things you can't see)

I'll listen to your fears
(we can shed a few tears)

I'll lend you my phone
(so you can call home)

I'll be your best friend
(until we get to the end)

I'll be company for you
(until we make it through)

I'll sit by your side
while we take the ride.

Image and words - Susannah Bec

Everything Blossoms - Everything Blooms . . .

Here by the side of the summer still pond

I sit among the long grass and tumbled stones

Soft humming and birdsong wrap me in sound

In the soft deep water I see the running clouds

Pink tinged and joyful, the sky reflection speaks

Sparkles of sunlight dance on the dark glass water

Rich with blue green life, the algae blooms. . .

Written in response to this lovely image by Jinksy
and for Two in Tandem at Alias Jinksy

All at Sea. . .Inspired by the Sunday Whirl wordle

Inhaling the shape

of her whirling copper grace

he stood stock still in the silent shade


His hastily flung kisses

hard echoes, flitting across the surface

of the patient waiting sands


and the haze of his bright longing

shimmered and danced

like quick spilt pepper



This is my fourth week joining in with The Sunday Whirl wordle.

I managed to use all of the words. :-)

And Now I Can Fly. . .

Oh and it was right there
in front of my eyes
as if in a dream. . .

Its white wings spread
and it took flight
carrying me. . .

Up into the endless blue
this winged being and I
unfettered we flew. . .

This bird from within
and the child in me
alive and as one. . .

We soared. . .


Written in response to this haunting image by Elizabeth Crawford at Unraveling
(for Tuesday collab no.8)