Scenes from a longer tale

I've got a tale brewing in the cauldron of my mind and if I tuck it away in corners like I normally do then maybe I'll never share it, so it's going to leak out here.

I make no promises about what is to unfold or how this may evolve, but this is a tale that is yet to be. 

Imagine that I've laid out a thick cloth marked with circles within circles within lines like rays. I pull staves of apple wood with rune like symbols from a small pouch and cast them over the cloth.

They fall in patterns that slowly resolve into visions, glimpses of the future. 

The future is malleable, we weave our thread across our little part of it, adding to the overall pattern. Often our choice of threads is limited, and it's hard to change the pattern entirely from halfway through a design. But sometimes we pick a thicker thread from those we're offered, one of a colour that will influence the final tapestry, with dye that bleeds over into the ones that touch it. And sometimes there are threads that change everything they touch, that shimmer and offer the chance for a new pattern entirely, if we only say yes to what is possible. 

The visions in the apple staves tell of one such shining thread...

Poem: Fool

0: Fool

As long as I wore the glamour
I could fool myself
that I would never fall.

The daydreamer's mantle
protects one from being taken seriously,
you know?

Some day, not long,
it grows heavy with the weight
of misunderstanding.

The fall is inevitable,
it is only the manner of landing
which is in question.

From Showing My Hand

~ Autumn Equinox 2017

My first collection of poetry...

XVII: Star

Tell me,
my dreams,
which of you are true?
Which celestial spark points North
and leads me to my cave,
my court,
my stage?
And which is the lighthouse,
warning of the shallows
where sirens live?
Where do the rivers
of sleep lead?

~ Autumn Equinox 2017

Find my original post of this and more of my other writing and projects here!

Poem: For Mari

Moonlit Mari, 

 of the white ocean foam, 

 hoof beats riding, 

 carrying me home. 

Light in the darkness, 

 bright against night sky, 

 spinning like a Sufi, 

 as your laughter flies high. 

Moonlit Mari, 

 in the fullness of your prime, 

 blessed voice ringing, 

 through all space and time. 

Halloween Musings

Deep magic this time
Through Samhain flames
But pumpkin light
Holds Glitter and games.
Transforming through play,
To balance dead ones named,
With sparks of sugared-light.
A kiss of whimsy
Communities share
In the spirit of wonder at play.
It cracks the edges
Of sophistication
For Sophia herself to return
Eldest Sister
Youngest Soul
Through laughter grows.
We slip our skins
Masked, bedecked
In our true faces
Or one to try...
For a night the veil thins
Between what is proper
And what is allowed
And the child-spirit within
us can spread it's wings once more...
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The New World Floods - Draft

Somewhere across the pond
Two winds meet
Water rises over edges
Defined for so long as forever
The New World floods

We worry, this side
Powerless against power
So vast dictating what shall be
Lives upturned
The New World floods

Thinking we are atop the chain
The peak of nature
We forget and are reminded
Of Her dominion over us
As the New World floods

Many places have met Ocean
Within my memory
Each time sending ripples
Through our comfort
As their world floods

How can we do other
Than what we do
Even seeing how fragile
Solid ground is
As our world floods.
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Songstress

Sifting through journals, uncovering memories, hopes, lists of ideas that just might form a ladder to carry me from the muck I felt mired within... I find poems, songs, snippets of beauty and moments of experience stored in rhythm and rhyme. Pieces of time in shapes that tell tales of myth mixed with the mundane. When I don't write stories... I am songwriter.

How many roles do we keep hidden from ourselves? Things we do that we forget, deny, disbelieve?

What shall come of this?

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Creation is like a sun shining from the heart...

The sunlight soothes my skin, scent of a green, green land playing in the air.

A bee bumbles past as I lay lazily, brush in hand, stroking the paper into colours.

Words come, unbidden, as the image emerges and my pen pours ink onto the page, spelling out the words, the spell, to capture the feeling.

How words and images reflect each other, like twins, Dionysian movement, Apolline images, dancing together.

I am reminded of Blake, who I have often strived to follow, inspired by the seamless blend of pigment and print.

Walkers wander past, voices loud against the hush of the slow summer which sneaks into my valley. Traffic in the distance, not so far from here, but still worlds away, does not burst the bubble of my beauty-brushed-blessed-being-of-the-moment.

I am here, bathed in light, warming in the sun, warmed from the sun within which feeds on the fuel that is joy. Joy, like a sun in my heart, shining in the light of the sun in the sky, overflowing through my hands and onto the page.

How can I share this moment with you?

I breathe up, a prayer of delight, of gratitude, of beauty.

I talk of sun and warm and light, of joy overflowing and green green grass... and still I wonder, can you feel it?

Can you feel the heat, the flames like liquid gold, pouring out from my heart into beauty, being fed by beauty, a circle of love for the world?

My heart opens and love pours out.

The Silent Smile

Once upon a time... for that is how all stories must start, although there is always something before, and so it is also how all stories must end... Once upon a time there was a maiden who lived near a deep dark forest, a maiden named Rose.

When Rose was very small she would slip away into the forest and come home with twigs tangled in her hair and a silent smile upon her face. Her mother would ask her why she loved the forest so, and she would simply smile and shake her head.

One day, however, a sad thing happened. Rose stopped going into the trees.

All children grow up, and it seemed not in the least bit strange that she ceased her wandering home with twigs and leaves and moss entwined in her locks, and instead would come home with red lips and green eyeshadow.

And so Rose grew up.

She married, and they moved into a little cottage by the forest, next door to her parents. Sometimes, though, her beloved husband would catch her gazing sadly out of the window into the dark green leaves, but she never said why.

One day little Rose, who was not so little now, was ironing, or washing, or cooking, or somesuch chore as adults have to do but that seem never to be finished, and she heard a voice from outside the window.

A voice calling... singing... laughing...

And she ran outside (and I cannot remember if the dinner burned or the washing was left undone, for it really doesn't matter today) and there, disappearing into the forest was a half-forgotten figure, a slender girl as green as grass and as naked as a newborn, with sunlit hair and the shadow of wings on her shoulders.

And Rose, of course, followed.

She followed the green-girl through the trees and as her feet felt the forest floor for the first time in forever, she remembered why she used to smile as a child.

And the green-girl stopped, and turned, and smiled.

And disappeared.

And Rose returned to the cottage, several hours later, with twigs entwined in her unbound hair, earth between her toes, and a silent smile on her lips.

And every now and again, still, though her hair is now grey and her feet less sure, she will kick off her shoes, unbind her hair, and slip into the forest to find her silent smile.

Coursework

Brain whirs, click clicking like clockwork turned crazy.

Fingers find passages in the words whirling round and round and round, crafting thoughts into things that make sense, albeit only to the head that tipped them out, they fear.

Restless, the body breathes deeply. It feels like this is forever, for always and eternity. The body always only knows Now.

Meanwhile the Mind wrestles with itself, like untamed horse and whispering-rider both, the Mind both knows what must be done and longs to wander free.

The art of essay writing involves every part of the Self, even the distant dove, immanent and divine, watches patiently, singing; this too will pass... and the mind and body calm, lulled by the song of spirit, this is now, and there will be another now, and another. Lets live this now, craft this piece, and pass on, beyond, from moment to delicious moment, each a foundation for the next.

Do this now, the mind promises, and we shall be free later.

No, says Spirit softly from the stars, we are free now.

Story Charmer

In the back of my mind, through the forest of thoughts, I catch glimpses of the story. Its shy, but longing to be shared, and though I can't quite make out its shape occasionally, just for a moment, I catch sight of its colour.

Warm markings full of depth and glowing orange-red flash between the deep green leaves, like a goldfish in the ocean, dark and murky.

The story sneaks closer and I sit patiently, my pen flying across the paper while every other part of me is still. Waiting. Waiting for the story to lay itself down in the movement of ink, the flow of words across the crisp paper transforming potential into reality.

The Dance

The beat. Struck. Deep.
Rhythm. Pulsed. Through.
Bodies. Dripped. Danced.

The sweat poured from her skin and she did not notice. It made her movements smoother, easier, removing all friction from between her and the world.

She danced.

Lights flashed every colour imagined since neon, a riot of manic patterns coating the room with jilted visions of seconds snapshotted from the ravers’ lives.

The beat struck deep in her bones.

Her arms moved of their own accord, feet dragged willingly on puppet strings of song. She did not dance, the beat danced her.

She was the dance.

No thoughts. No mind. No feeling but pure bliss.

Only the dance.

Her eyes, half open, watching the floor. The floor, moving beneath her, known only by the touch of her feet.

She was the dance.

Then, into her sight, came another pair of shoes.

Feet faced feet, dancing together.

Matched perfectly, dancing in the dance.

The music raised their faces at the same moment and they met, recognising in each other themselves.

They danced together.

Time began, mirrored in each other’s eyes.

They danced in until the lights came up, the sun rose beyond the walls.

The danced out together, fingers entwined, along the beach where the waves began to pound.

They danced together, no longer alone in their world, alone in the dance.

They danced together and a new world was born between them. A world of wonder.

They danced together.

And the world danced too.

Fortune Teller Dreaming

I watch the rich red curtains fall gently behind my next visitor. A soft-spoken lady with a face like a mouse, sharp and shifty-eyed, she steps forward hesitantly.

I wait, drawing the sense of the mystical around me, important, this is, for both her and for me, we wouldn’t want to ruin the performance, would we?

She takes a sharp breath to begin stammering whichever variation on “what do I do now?” they all seem to ask, and I interrupt, my voice soft but clear.

“Take a seat.”

The sound rings out in the tent, but does not echo. I gaze at her as she jumps slightly and then does as I have suggested.

I pause, waiting for the right moment.

A moment that comes slightly later than it would in a normal conversation.

A moment that becomes heavy with importance.

A moment that brings itself forth from the thick, red-tinged incense smoke.

“You have come with a question.” The moment states. I am not asking, but she nods in reply.

“Then we shall begin.”

The question is spoken hesitantly into the gloom and the cards turn inevitably over. They speak of people and places, of limitations she has placed upon herself, dreams she has given up. The story is old, very few come to me with a story that is vastly different, for those that follow their dreams need not ask me what they are.

Her face clouds with uncertainty, how can I know with such clarity things she barely understands about herself? It is easy, but I do not tell her this. The cards, they speak to me, they have spoken to me so long I can barely remember a time when I struggled to understand them. They open my mind to the web of dreams and destinies that entwine us all, and show me, through a raft of images, where to look for this particular story, this particular fate.

She leaves, her dream revealed, a door recognised, a key received. I do not expect her to truly walk through it, although that is not unknown. Often it is enough for people to know that their dreams are still there.

After she is gone I gently blow the candles out with a kiss, return my friends to their cotton cloth – a gift from a friend and more valuable than any silk recommended by a well-meaning author – and I wrap my shawl around my shoulders to leave.

I slip out the back of my tent and walk home smiling, the cool night air coming in on the tail of the day and gracing my lungs with fresh clarity.

As I walk I remember my dreams and sing to the slowly revealed stars, rehearsing for the gig coming that night.

Devils and Gods

You find yourself wrapped in shadows, unable to move.

Transfixed, you are, by a beauty, slowly melting out of the distant darkness. The shadows clothe her, her hair sweeps the floor and is blood red, revealing and concealing her movements in turn.

You can see a glow in her belly, as though she is made of glass and has fire burning deep within. She stalks towards you, slow, inexhorable, hypnotic.

The fire rises through her chest and pours down, down her arms into her hands. The glow brightens and the flames lick out through her palms, forming a shape, becoming hard. Soon she grasps a double headed axe, and still she comes closer. Each sensuous step brings her closer.

She is close enough now that you feel the heat radiate from her skin and she stops, her nose an inch from yours.

"I cannot slay your demons," she whispers with a sad smile, "But I can slay my own."

She leans back, you still cannot move, and the axe begins to swing.

Bleeding Heart

Heavy heart, full of love, overflows,
Tears pouring, silently.
Water becoming clouds, floating,
Bringing green life to the earth.

Flying, Soaring, Falling

Serpent coiling round sensous curves
The egg breaks, releases, scales form.
Dancing deva, devil, god
Her wings spread, she flies above.

Toes touching starlight, leaping far.
Round wrist, cross shoulders,
Whispering in her ear.
Spiralling divine, she hears his song.

Coiling in her belly a serpent stirs.
Stretching from her heart, wings soar.
Serpent rises, wings connect,
A dragon with stars for eyes is born...


When love meets desire,
And understanding blossoms,
The most beautiful flower
Begins to grow.

Journey Through Sunset

Waxed green hearts blanket the banks
Where ripples of light and shadow flow,
The green headed bird leaves an arrow in his wake
And my train begins again.

Through glass I gaze upon darkening sky
Travelling through cacophanous colours,
Warm light turns water to gold against the shell
Of the sphere which holds my world.

Swiftly now I move, watching the sun's final glow.
Darkened storm-bearers let angelic light stream through
To grace with life the deep, damp, darkening land
Until the blanket of night must fall.

Strange how the last breath of day,
Before the world is dipped into rich darkness,
Glows with the most colours, almost as though this setting sun
Creates inks to be mixed into the blackened night sky.

A Moment

Strongly moved,
a shower of red patterns
the river.

Lights dimmed,
a blanket lies softly over
the world.

Before,
I moved in, under, through
the waves.

Today,
My feet touch the ground as I move
slowly home.

A new sheet

Bottles of colour in hand, running down the stairs into the cold, cold snow, white like a clean sheet, a blank slate, a tabula rasa. What will these colours give rise to, give life to?

Confronted with the freshness, momentarilly stunned. Possibilities endless. Total freedom.

Clunk.

The first bottle loses its lid, and with it drops the hesitation...

Swoosh!

Swish!

Shooosh!

Colours fly through the air like liquid joy, staining the snow.

Arcs of rainbow inks pattern my world.



Later I watch from the window as snowballers scoop pink snow to throw, balling it up tight and puzzling over the green and blue and orange.

The snow melts slowly, dissolving deeper in the footprints.

As night falls the rain follows and washes my colours away.

And with the dawn a new sheet of snow sleets down to shower with rainbows again.

An Angel Wept

On a crystalline world not far from here an angel wept. Perched atop a small hill as tears flowed freely into her palms, sobs wrenched from her heart in great gasps that steamed in the crisp autumn air.

I watched my little girl from the window of our stable, she was the youngest of our children and the light of my older years. Now she seemed so far from my reach. I knew this would be a hard time for all of us, and dashed away the tears that fell from my own eyes and blurred the world into a quartz-like muddle.

At dinner we were strangely superficial. Topics bore no relevance to the pain lying in the next room. We avoided mention of the blossoming blood that would not go away no matter how many bandages were applied. We tried not to think of life once the nurses had finished their job, once there was no more reason for them to be here. The boys talked of their day at work, Angelica barely touched her food. And for once no-one complained.

I was with her at the end. I closed her eyes.

The world was becoming colder. Winter came closer and the house was quiet. My little angel, withdrawn from the day, refused to go to school. And I hadn’t the heart to make her. Mathew and Peter spoke to me about it once or twice, as I recall, but I didn’t really pay attention. After that, they took her each day, and I sat, waiting for her to come home safe, never quite believing that she wasn’t also gone for always, and never quite believing her mother wouldn’t bring her home anymore.

My whole being was empty, or perhaps filled with the waters of the Styx, dark and dreary and full of sorrow. Every day was an effort to rise and food, food no longer had any taste. I ate out of rote, but nothing more. Mathew, the eldest, eventually went back to his wife, I’m not sure when. And the house became quieter.

Angelica took to spending much of her time wandering on the hills, by the lake.

One stormy evening dusk fell and she hadn’t returned. This was the first moment I felt anything other than empty sorrow. Peter and I spent half the night searching for her, on the hills, through the forest. We combed the caves nearby, we swept the fields, now bereft of corn, and found no sign of her. As the moon rode high, the storm cleared and the stars turned in the sky, I circled the lake, and there, curled beneath a willow tree wrapped in her coat, my angel slept safely.

I carried her home.

The winter was hard for me. But it was harder on my little ones. I tried to fight for them, to stay, but the cold and damp had gotten into my lungs, my blood, and eventually the water and the winter claimed me.

And out on the frosty, crystalline hill, an angel wept.