I never felt so lost as all the seas are twisting the souls forever daunting amongst the tangled weeds perceived to be my bed. Instead, I find my feet dangling atop a sailor’s head and all because I have no love left to pretend.
The seas had been emptied to drown the crowded sorrows and all the earth has dried to crumbling bone. Crushed! That is the sentiment heard around the world amongst cries of starving hands. Sand sifting through fingers atop the mountain peak.
Beware! A man comes from the east to tempt you with her feast of golden hues and noxious smells of burnt sugar. Their evil plan dispels the glamour of romance.
Take me now! Let it be done!
The minutes are literally ticking away second by second. I am not lost in a satisfying romantic dream. Rather I am locked up in a reality that steals every comforting thought. To escape this would mean freedom. Imprisoned in my mind is a small child being forced to eat man’s stale bread.
Reader, If nothing makes sense it is simply because I am half awake and writing this as it appears in my mind. Hopefully a deep slumber overtakes me soon. An escape to some other moon. The pink one is expired.
Time, a trusted friend, teaches those mourning, to question and speak out loud. Over and over, Time welcomes Guilt, Anger, and Despair.
Yet, suicide survivors cannot begin to understand… how will peace ever exist in this chaos? Just one word, thought or picture, sends us in a spiral. Those days become wrapped in Sorrow. Then Relief appears. Days saunter on and we learn progress takes small steps.
Our eyes lift and grow wide… a visit. Time, our best friend. Patiently, Time sits, listens for a while. I let Time’s silence be silent, until i can hold it in no longer! I pray to release chains… memories have become a prison. My wishes, a disease. Confusion sets in.
Time please forgive and pardon this aching soul. I beg Relief to visit. A stranger far too long.
Do you like writing with others? Need a sounding board? Want to polish your works “before” you release them to the eyes who read your blog? (i am guilty of publishing everything and anything and need discipline.) Then I encourage you to contact me firstname.lastname@example.org because i am searching for such a person or persons.
First, i should warn you i am highly introverted, never finish a project (but really, really want to publish a book of poems) and get off on long tangents which eventually never resemble what i started. I am currently in-between homes, not organized, have none of my writing or painting tools (the longing for them is burning through the layer of clothes) as they are stored away.
There are positives. I am still passionate about creating with words and color. I am a great listener, so if you need to get something off your chest…. I am married so i wont be needing anything from you except time and a love for poetry, abstract art, photography and listening to the sound of hope.
So what are you waiting for… i am here!
A snippet of what i am currently writing…
I am riddled with holes
as parts of me
to leak out
upon the hard wood floor
a wide-planked pine
I have been told, countless times, i am archaic. So if that doesn’t scare you, i am game. 😍😘🎶🎶🎶🕊
My review of The Feathered Heart by Mark Turcotte.
I once found a teeny-tiny downy woodpecker feather. At most, the feather measured one inch (2.54 cm) in length. My guess as to the year found would be 2010. I had since lost the treasure to find it again while packing up our house to move. Today’s date 3/11/2018.
The feather, seen above in the bookmark constructed, is grey/black with five incomplete white spots. The spots are not complete circles as the white color lies on the fringe. As such, it mimics my teetering heart, lying on the edge of an invisible border erected by thoughts. It is my feathered heart that led me to find Mark Turcotte and his book of poems, The Feathered Heart.His book will be returned to as often as needed. To remedy my soul with feeling words erected as fences. (I found a used copy, to be delivered just in time for my birthday, through Amazon 😁.)
My wayward feet travel searching for answers. The silences weave protection. The war i battle is not within but from outside the curtained window. I learn to dress in velvet’s hope.