Winter Wind
The wind is dancing
loud, rhythmic
pressing
against my windows
night twirling
out of control
until the sun breaks
and my world
is filled with
debris
brittle leaves
forgotten bits
of refuse
promises
broken and damaged
unrecognisable
Tomorrow
never comes
but if you stop
and listen
to the night
swirl around you
it ceases to matter
She Watches the Sun
She has been living in the house by the River. She has watched Spring come and go. And Summer. Now Autumn is fading into Winter. Instead of sitting on her long porch watching the Sun set, she is standing inside her house warmed by the fire looking out her big window watching the Sun rise.
The light dances on her wooden floors creating patterns that contain the secrets of the Universe. She is tired of secrets but not of silence. In silence she watches another day dawn wondering if she will find the courage to speak today, wondering if he is still lurking in the darkness.
New beginnings are never completely new. There is always something slowly dying but still there in the shadows of the mind. Time. They say it takes time. Recovery takes time but she thinks it is the burying of the dead that takes time.
And so she waits. She no longer counts the sunrises and sunsets. She watches and sighs with contentment at the knowledge that the Sun always rises and always sets, that the Moon dances with the Sun in counterpoint, always rising and setting, too. There’s a kind of magic in that, she thinks, a kind of strength.
Wind Chimes
It was
the wind chimes,
you see.
Wind chimes.
My Achilles heel.
I pause
to listen
I pause
to touch
and in that moment
of surrender
I am lost
to beauty
to rivers
of unbearable thought
to sound
soft as a summer breeze
loud as a crack of thunder
in a winter storm
Lost
to the music
of the spheres
gossamer threads
of existence
pulled taut
until I am
a mere echo
of sound on the wind
until I am
the very essence
of wind chimes
on a still,
hot,
summer night
waiting
to sing
25 October 2017
West Sussex, England
It Was Like the Surface of the Moon
It looks like
the surface
of the Moon, he said.
Later
after a bit of research
which is what I do
I would discover
that geologically
it was exactly
like the surface
of the Moon
The wind
on the Isle of Harris
was ferocious, wild, free
and sometimes cold
depending
on which side
of the island
you found yourself
Other than the howling wind
and the cries of sheep
an the occasional sound
of tires on asphalt
it was utterly silent
forgotten, somehow
It was a place
that slipped
in and out
of time
I was never quite sure
which century I was in
I just knew
I was stripped bare
to nothing
but a wispy
kind of essence
The parts
that make up
the whole of me
the broken parts
the shining parts
the dark parts
the good parts
merged together
into someone
I decided
I quite liked
a whole someone
Sheep spoke to me
in magical sheep language
A stray cat wove in and out
of my jean clad legs
My camera poised
for that next shot,
paused
I looked up
into laughing eyes
and remembered
how to smile
While ghosts
from long forgotten pasts
claimed me
as theirs
And in that moment
I became a daughter
of the islands
Anything is possible,
I thought,
on the surface of the Moon
Every breath
is a poem
Every vision
is a work of art
Every smile
is a sunrise
Every moment
is the start
of creation
I could never
quite remember
which century
I was in
I just knew
it was the start
or a continuation
of a forgotten poem
of a song
floating
on the current
A gull shrieked
gliding on the wind
while the waves crashed
and the sheep spoke
and the cat fell in love
and so did I.
jrd ~
13 July 2017
Sussex Coast, England
Smoke: the runaway
Her hands shook as she lit another cigarette in the frigid night air. The wind was gusting off the Atlantic again. The night sky was clear and ruthless, filled with glittering stars you could cut your heart on.
She watched the smoke curling into the beam of light from the back porch light, watched her hands shake with cold, with fear.
She had travelled farther this time, just jumped on a bus and stayed on it until land brushed up against sea.
She inhaled hard, felt the smoke scorch the inside of her lungs, her throat. The rope burns were still visible on her neck and wrists but she didn't see them anymore.
She had one thought and one thought only. Was she safe? Would he find her this time? Had she gone far enough? Was she safe?
She didn't realise the night air pulsed with her harsh whisper, expanding to fill up every bit of space, a creature with its own heartbeat. Am I safe? she whispered over and over again, more incantation than question, while she smoked one cigarette after another, afraid to close her eyes.
The night sky, once a source of wonder, glittered menacingly down upon her bowed head, wreathed in tendrils of cigarette smoke.
[an informal writing challenge]
It Felt Like a Kiss
It felt like a kiss
long before
it was a kiss.
He was talking but I couldn't hear his words. I don't think they were important words. He was just talking. We weren't touching. He was several feet away. Just talking. I felt a kind of liquid warmth melting the walls of that part of me that someone once told me made me a vessel.
I don't like that word: vessel.
I want to be a deep, dark magic cauldron where magic is made.
He was not handsome or sexy or beautiful. He was just a man. Talking.
A man of parts and invisible tentacles that reached deep inside of me and plucked me like a string instrument. A musician looking for that perfect chord.
I was mesmerised and curious and hot and rapidly filling up with need.
He played me.
And then he kissed me.
His lips hungrily claiming mine, even as I pulled him deep into the rich darkness of my cauldron.
He kissed me.
And together the softness of our lips. The hardness of our lips. The harshness of our breath. The softness of exploring fingertips.
All of that swirled and coalesced and we made magic.
He kissed me.
Happy International Kissing Day
It Is
It is Bergamot and Orange
and the soft hum
of the ceiling fan
and the memory
of her hands
pressing into
the stubborn knots
in my neck and shoulders
and her reminders
telling me to breathe
and the silence
of dilapidated
dairy farms
and the peace
of hippie gardens
and cold cider
and faeries skipping
just out of view
and yellow primroses
growing wild and free
and sleep
soft, peaceful
sleep
Early Morning Reverie
It's 4:30 in the morning
and I am in my garden
sitting at my new wooden
Bistro set
listening
It's my favourite time
to be out here
The wind off the channel
dies down a bit at this time
I can hear baby birds
crying to be fed
and the occasional Gull
Soon the sound of the Gulls
will drown out the sound
of the other birds
but in that tiny space
of silence
between the next squawk
just as the sun starts to rise
and the moon starts to fall
I will hear the black birds singing
And for a moment only
all will seem right with the world