Winter begone

February draws us into her cold embrace,
and wraps us in winters snows, and in her haste,
denies that, upon which we are based,
our abilities for the wild, unto nature, we brace.

Oh cold cruel winter, whilst thou not loosen thine grip,
remove your ice from the foxglove, winter lily and rosehip,
the warm spring winds, thru the forests silently slip,
March beckons, and springs sweet juice, she quietly sips.

Windchimes

I stared as the music tumbled and fell
through my fingers, sticky and wet
warm honey.
And where the notes hit the ground
great choral overtures rose savage and sweet.

Lifted high into the summer skies
on gossamer wings.
enfolding the morning in its magical embrace.
Unicorns danced, snow white
in a field of emerald green grasses and ferns
to a long lost tune of the last zephyr
the wind and music embraced me
holding me close to her breast
smiling, knowing.

In my hand, one single note
the name of the wind.
Opening my hand, I blew softly
and the silver seed swirled, kissed my cheek
then gently danced off into a world of discovery.

And, I smiled.


Inspired by Bradley Deans The Windchimes.
Listen for yourself and dream.

The Secret Garden

I watched the moon, slowly stealing into the sky
The first glitter of stars splashing twilights’ last breath
Looking through the wine glass, the candlelight danced
To an unheard tune; in waves of gold and reds

I watched as you caressed the tiny flowers
Snow white droplets, embraced with forest greens
They responded to your loving touch
And gave up their floral scents to your gentle feel

Ferns swayed to the music of the night
Mystical and magic, ancient, without age
Carried on the damp evening breezes
Chasing away the remnants of the day

Night falls, embrace, dark and sweet
Throw secret shadows in wild abandon
And the flowers know, the dance begins,
In this, the secret garden

Moon

Oh great silvery celestial orb. Wilst thou not be my witness? Hear my confession, for I have naught but lust and desire and a love for one who knows not that I exist.

You, who doth chase the sun from the very heavens, wilst thou now forsake me and leave me the tormented dreams of unrequited love?

Oh cruel moon, absolve me. Bathe me in your glow and wash away the ache. Food turns to ash in my mouth; wine to water; color to dust. You smile. Can it be my foolishness that so amuses thee?

You seek to anger me? Best be aware oh great heralder of the stars, my plight is also thine! You beguile young lovers; add shimmer to fields of oats and barley and lull the peasants into a false sense wonder and adoration.

You are a deceiver! Witches and Warlocks dance naked in your light; unashamed. Satyrs and nymphs perform their pagan rituals; their sex enflamed and engorged.

Hath thou no shame? And still you smile at my anguish? Thine light shines bright but leaves me cold.

Old fool, be gone! Away!

I call on the golden orb of day to smite thee with its golden rays.
Rise no more in the black skies! I call on the stars to devour you and spit you out!
Shine no more! False promises of love art thine black legacy!

Smile no more!

No more!

No more I say!


Read more of the effects of the moon at Theme Thursday.

The Book

He watched her as she slowly let one exquisitely gloved hand brush lovingly over the ancient leather bindings, sending a small swirl of dust into the air. She seemed to be breathing in some exotic perfume. Well born as could be noted from her expensive attire. As she stood transfixed before the books, she said without turning “how much will you take for these three?”

He had been gazing so intently at her that he started at her question.

“You can have the first two for one hundred apiece. But the third, the one with the ivory snake is not for sale.”

She turned and stared at him; a small pout that appeared almost playful and sensual.
“But that’s silly! The three would look divine in my collection, and I am willing to pay handsomely for it. You are a seller of books and I am a buyer. Now name your price!”

Though said quietly, her demeanor and tone made her last statement sound more like a command then a request. He would not be treated as one of her low born house servants. All trace of politeness withdrew from his features as he matter of fact stated once more, ”the third book is NOT for sale!”

Her eyebrows shot up and her mouth opened as if to speak then just as fast her face returned to normal and a smile crept across her mouth. “Can you tell me your reason for not wanting to sell the third?”

He stood silent for a moment, content to just stare at her. She was remarkably beautiful with an ageless face. Her eyes so dark that he was sure the pupils had swallowed up their colour. Her very being exuded defiance. He suddenly realized he was being quite rude and blurted out “because I have not done the proper research on that one yet!”

Her smile broadened. “Oh, I can tell you all about it. It was written by Sarah Price of Plymouth in 1649. Sarah was a good woman who preferred the company of the forest to village folk. She was a healer and an herbalist. She had helped many of the sick villagers when the local butcher of a physician had said ‘it’s now in the hands of the Lord’. One day, the local Prior, who was known to partake far too freely of the sacramental wine, came across her in the woods as she was gathering roots and herbs. He abandoned all holiness and fell upon her in a most disgusting and vile manner. When she went to lay a formal complaint to the Bishop, she was advised that the disgrace would be too great to the church and she should return immediately home and say no more of this. As she returned home, there were two men at arms from the Sheriff waiting for her. She was arrested immediately; tried and found guilty of witchcraft. While awaiting her execution she wrote these spells and incantations. On November 16th, 1649, she was led from her cell to the village square where a pyre had been erected. As the flames engulfed her, she swore a curse that she would return and have her revenge.”

He fell back in his chair and gulped air. “How can you know all this?”

She leaned forward and produced an antique dagger from her bag and in one swift motion, thrust it deep into his chest. He gasped and looked down to where a red spot was growing quickly across his chest. The handle of the dagger was an ivory snake. She looked deep into his eyes and smiled. “I know all this because I am Sarah Price! This is MY book! And you; my soon to be dead fellow are the descendant of the Prior.”

She turned on her heels; took the book from the shelf and strode out of the store wiping the dagger with an embroidered hanky. He took one last breath and stared at the empty spot in the bookcase as all went black.


Penned for Books at Theme Thursday.

Beacon

Your love is my beacon
the crashing waves, your song of love
siren of the harbor
soaring lullaby off cliff and cove

Bring me home again
to your wild green isle
where once we loved and were loved
besot, bemused, beguiled

Bring me safely to your shores
my wanderlust is quenched
raise up your soul in song
from the black velvet ocean, my vessel wretched

I will travel no more
my adventure is at its end
my treasure is found
as darkness descends

Your love is my beacon
to light my way
the stars pale in comparison
home, home again, never to stray

Let your beacon shine bright
in the dark autumn night
turn darkness to light
blindness to sight

Your love is my beacon


More beacons may be found at Theme Thursday

Painters Block

I was born of evil
Born in a cauldron of hate
Suckled on mistrust
My hunger so great,

Satiated in lust
Loins afire
Turning colour to dust
Turn cold the artists’ desire

Lay the canvas bare
Raped and torn
Break brushes and palettes
Leave them broken and forlorn

I am the destroyer
I am that which you dread
In your life, in your love,
In the dreams in your head

Embrace me now
It was never your calling
I have shown you the way
Its beauty enthralling

Will you love me now
And renew your vow
I have taken it all
And yet you question “how”

It was you that sacrificed it
As on a pagan alter
It was you that saw excellence
It was you that faltered

I was the instrument
But you were the crime
Your self loathing
Disgusting and sublime

Will you love me now
Only this I ask
I have always loved you
Does that sound sad, forlorn and crass?

Return to your art
Its beauty enrapture
Its gaunt still life
Forever captured

Forgive my insolence, my unknowing eye
Absolution, your tender heart
The expanse of your love
The expanse of your art

Born to hurt, it pains me
Your colours must live
I block your creativity
Idle your art, without reprieve;

Till at last
You push past me.
Take up the brush,
At last you see
Tho an anarchist I am,
I do so affectionately.


For more colourful prose please visit Theme Thursday.