Someday
Dawn’s light pierced onyx veils
Spilling satin ’cross the skies
Purple pigment, mast and sails
Sparked grand illusions in my eyes
Light ascended at my back,
Like rings of gold, crowned diadem,
Sketching an image, dressed in black
With starlight, silver, threaded hem
The shadow of my substance
Lacking dimension, yet intact
Reflecting my existence
Absent shattered soul of cracks
Hope filled my broken heart
To see the someday future, meld
I traced the sunlight’s art
Proof of myself, whole, I’d beheld
...
photo credit
pixabay dot com
Memory
She seems so real in the moment, so here and vibrant it seemed crazy one day she ever wouldn’t be.
But the most beautiful things are fleeting and temporary, which is probably why they are so mesmerizing.
We know we won’t have them for much longer, so we look at them and we steal a little bit of their soul. On paper or a picture or sometimes just a memory.
I had the privilege of this, seeing her and being with her. So rare, so simple yet so complex.
Soon she wouldn’t be on the same road with me. It was just a coincidence our paths had crossed in the first place.
Although it was selfish and greedy, I wished I could stop time and just let this moment stretch on forever and ever.
She made me crazy, but what made me crazier was knowing soon she would just be a memory.
Étoilée.
With one hand, I did as she had asked. I gently sprinkled the indigo dust to trace her outline.
She took a deep breath & closed her eyes. I watched her and hoped it wasn’t too late.
Her caramel skin started to glow. I watched in wonder at the transformation. She was now a being of light.
From her radiant smile, I knew that the pain she felt was now gone. I couldn’t help, but smile, too.
Then her new body lifted off the ground and she bid adieu. The only thing that she left behind was some golden particles~ that were now mixed with the indigo dust.
#Étoilée.
Tracing Her
Slowly, softly
I traced her outline,
Moving gently round her curves
As I had often done with my eyes.
But now this was real
And I traced round her with tenderness.
Her soft cheeks and button nose,
Her ruby red lips.
And down slowly ,
Slightly brushing
Her still firm chest
And down
And down
And to her legs,
Her knees,
Her calves
And two bare feet,
Legs parted slightly
As she lay.
A sigh emitted
From my soul.
The outline completed,
They took her body away and I put down my chalk
And wept.
A Summer Snow Angel
"Get the hell out of here! Damn it, Skeeter!" An entire weekend spent clearing out the garage, cleaning and etching the aged, oil dripped concrete, priming, allowing time to dry, and finally painting with the expensive two-part epoxy paint that would "never" pull up under hot automobile tires. I was busting my butt to make my garage's appearance match its organizational efficiency, and it was all ruined by my stupid dog.
I yelled with anger, and frustration! When I did, she jumped. Her feet floundered in every direction on the wet paint. Like some "Scooby-Doo" cartoon dog her paws left a perfect trail of prints leading away from the perfect doggy-shaped "snow angel" she had created perfectly in the middle of my shining, quickly hardening, "never to ruin" garage floor.
Twenty years later I still try to keep the garage neat and organized, but that "snow angel" is the only part of it that is "perfect". The "will last forever" paint around the angel is discolored and chipped. The garage itself is merely a tool cluttered garage.
But Skeeter's caricatured visage in two-part epoxy has doubly outlived not only the painted floor, but also her years on earth. I look at it now and fondly remember. I can see her yet sprawled happily on the cold concrete, safe in her spot tucked away from the heat of the southern, summer sun.
As always, a lump follows my nostalgic smile as I turn the wrench, and whisper a quiet "I miss you, Skeeter-girl" to that summer snow angel.
The boat
Little John, Miriam’s youngest, saw it first. “Mama, look!” he said to her, pulling on her skirt.
“What is it, Johnny?” she asked a little sharply; there was work to be done after all.
“A boat!” he exclaimed.
“So?” she thought. They lived in a fishing village. What was so exciting about a boat? But she looked to humor her youngest, left behind by his bigger brothers who were helping their father. When she looked, she gasped and opened her eyes wide. “Oh, my,” she whispered. “Come, Johnny.” She dropped her broom, grabbed his hand and ran to the water’s edge.
It had been 20 years since she had last seen the boat. The ship. And him. Everyone had told her it was a dream; an overactive imagination. She must have fallen and hit her head while climbing the rocks where her mother often found her daydreaming. They’d spent days searching for her on the rocks and in the sea. Then there she was, running to the village as if nothing were amiss, telling tales of a big boat, a handsome captain and other nonsense no one believed.
Her mother tucked her into bed where she was made to stay while they checked her head for bumps and her body for bruises. There were none. They shrugged their shoulders and went back to work, grumbling about that daft Miriam frightening her parents and wasting everyone’s time story-telling. Meanwhile, her mother fed her watery soup and listened as she rambled on about the handsome young captain who let her wear beautiful clothes and feast on food the likes of which they’d never seen before.
Once they let her up, she went to the water’s edge every day for weeks, searching the horizon. He’d said he would return, she told them. They told her she was a fool. There was no boat. No captain. Eventually, she stopped waiting; hoping. Her parents married her off to the cobbler’s son. She started living as she was meant to do. As they all did.
But the ship had returned; he had returned. She felt his presence though she could see no one at this distance. She smiled a youthful smile; then she remembered she’d left youth behind a long time ago. And dreams. A weight settled somewhere in the vicinity of her heart. She lifted her hand to wave.
“Come, Johnny,” she said, turning from the water. “Let’s go home. We have to make breakfast for papa and your brothers.”
“Wait till I tell them about the boat, mama. They’ve never seen such a boat, right mama? It was sooo big…I can’t wait to show it to them. I saw it first, right mama?”
“Yes, darling.” She glanced over her shoulder. The horizon beckoned; clear as far as the eye could see,
“Come, mama; let’s run!”
“Yes, let’s,” she said breaking into a run, away from what might have been or never was; Johnny, towards what could be.
From Summer to Winter
Who was she?
Why is that memory so prominent in my mind?
Why can’t I see her face in this dreamlike state?
Whispers of young strangers in conversation enter my mind, and distorted echoes of sand crunching beneath feet, and of crashing waves; they reverberate within.
I try without avail to picture her face. My memory is withering like an autumn leaf. A bitter reminder of the nearing winter.
I see her laying on her stomach, watching as the sea wanders up the shore only to retreat. I see her tanned arms outstretched, embracing the beach while digging her fingers into the damp sand. I see her feet swinging gracefully in the air - a familiar action, similar in its essence to the wagging tail of a dog.
Her face is turned away from me, but I urge her spectre to face me, just once. I need to see her, even if only for a moment.
She obeys, flicking her hair over her shoulder, she turns her face to meet mine.
But the glare of the golden sun casts a halo around her, it fights to prevent me from seeing anything but an outline.
I struggle, squinting through the burning light, finally, I manage to catch a glimpse of glistening deep brown eyes. Eyes set with an air of wisdom, with an underlying urgency to their gaze.
But her eyes, her eyes.
I simply don’t recognise.
She was short of breath, holding my hand,
She laid on her back, not letting go,
I traced her out, with my deep emotions etched,
She closed her eyes, with no regret.
This abandoned child in the mountains,
Is now with someone greater, maybe not,
but these few moments into the twilight,
are the ones which will burn my heart outright.