Hush now

a poem

lighthouse-waves_WenPhotos

WenPhotos via pixabay

Big girl now, so you don’t. Your tea party will not come to pass, so get up, get out and get on. There’s gold in those distant towers, creep in, sit quiet, be good. Rapunzel got her prince, but you cannot, must not, let down your hair, no. Don’t spread too wide. Fold those gauzy violet wings neat. Pack them in a shiny carapace without markings, and lower your eyes.

Big girl now, so you don’t. It’s a paradox all right, this flipped and contrary view. You’ll get used to it, or maybe not. Don’t talk back. A smile pays rent on the space you occupy. See, you exist in the moment of a careless glance. Grow curves (no edges) smooth and pleasing to the hand. But beware the wrong places. A magic trick; more presence, and you are invisible. Now they see her, now they don’t.

Big girl now, so you don’t. It’s good to share, yes, even that. Everything. Your one possession, boundaries breached, legs parted for him. Not too many, just enough to bag your prize. It is what we have done, always and forever. You must prove you’re worthy, grown in a different way. Mouth shut, eyes open, the cuckoo housed. The enemy is within the walls.

Big girl now, so you don’t. There are always jobs to do, babies to soothe, egos to cradle, wounds to bind. Your blood ebbs and flows, and the clock ticks on, and life is a seething ocean, testing defences and opening cracks. Peer over land’s end at the rocks where sirens beckon.  Their invitations whisper at the edge of hearing, snatched away on the wind.

Big girl now, so you don’t. You are the battered headland assailed by storms; the lighthouse dark and empty. It is another day, and you have forgotten how the sun warmed your skin. This world is forever grey. This heart is forever patched and broken. No matter how much you wish to sink, the world is built upon your back. When the cliff itself despairs, there is no place to jump. Offer shelter, promise safety, stand firm and carry on. They need you.

It was child’s play then; it’s woman’s work now. It’s a man’s world still, and it’s time to find your place. You’re a big girl, so hush now.

The collector

still life with old camera_Unsplash

Unsplash via pixabay

 

Here, a bright feather of iridescent purple and blue, plucked from the bird of happiness as it flew by. I fashioned a quill, dipped in black ink drawn from a pale, eyeless octopus that, shunning light, knew only deep sunless despair. And with these, I write a song for you.

 

Here, a dark mysterious shell, some glittering grains of sand, pulled from the farthest shores of imagination. I searched after lightning struck and used sea glass to bottle tamed fragments of raging sea. And with these, I carry the storm home for you.

 

Here, a smooth jawbone and a horn, ripped from some ancient creature now extinct. Elbow deep in blood I dug through rotting meat and guts, and boiled the bones white. I strung sharp teeth on sinews and scraped the hide clean. And with these, I make necklaces and furs for you.

 

Here, a fine pattern hinting at past violence and pain. The icy burn of a Judas kiss, a red-hot blade slipped into my heart both left their names behind. Fresh scalpels carved embedded bullets and forgotten shrapnel from my flesh. I cried healing tears till wounds were mere memory, scars written on my skin. And with these, I trace forgiveness for you.

 

Here, a brimming cup of clear water. I stumbled among rocks, scrabbled in the earth with ragged hands, searching for the source. I toiled endlessly, shaping the clay, firing each hard-won vessel in the furnace, though so many lay broken on the midden of experience. And with these, I bring refreshment for you.

 

Here, a monarch butterfly caught in amber. I chased many joys but captured only one, sacrificed to preservation that more might see it close. I dissected and catalogued the pieces, then remade them into a lesser whole.  Deathless yet not alive, its colours are held where a tree wept, hardened by time. And with these, I offer possibility for you.

 

Here, a hoard of objects orbiting my gravity. A lock of hair, a puff of breath, a glistening tear. A heartbeat, a ruby blood drop, a remembered sunrise. A sea-worn stone, an autumn leaf, a stolen kiss. All these I have collected, sewn into a Frankenstein quilt with hopeful stitches. And with this patched creation, I offer my love to you.

 

First published 15th April 2017 in The Creative Cafe on Medium, and winner of the creative challenge

one sky

sunset-sky_adinavoicu

AdinaVoicu via pixabay

one sky.

brilliant colours blend and slowly the sun descends
in blazing orange hues. we did not choose to be here and
we have no choice. your voice quietened by tube and pipe
a muffled scream. I wonder if you dream of summer, dressed in stripes,
of dancing on the beach. you will not reach the sea-lashed strand.

one sky.

a tiny hitch of breath, the merest twitch of a hand
machine made. humanity fades to a discordant chorus.
if there is nothing pure above, no sure god in whom to trust
then we must accept our fate of sun-bleached bone and dust.
prayers cannot help when no-one cares to listen to us.

one sky.

cloud tears falling rain. I try in vain to hold up the sun.
no deal that I can make will reveal a spell to stop what’s begun.
I hold a hand turned cold, and clearly I’m outrun.
this day closes not with perfumed roses. instead a clockwork beep
tells all is not well. here at day’s end for the last time, you sleep.

one sky.

and when the sun slips from my sight, I hope the stars lend you their light.

for M

the space between

fractal-1274803_1280

image by gr8effect via pixabay

 

I’m looking for somewhere.

Somewhere between the in and the out breath. The place where a tossed ball hangs in space, suspended, not falling, not rising. The place between thought and action, between seeing and recognition. A pause before the sun slips wholly below the horizon, a moment where the planets align. The lull between one heartbeat and the next, right before the song starts. Or just after it ends.

I’m searching for a place.

Somewhere to press a wildflower and forget it, to tuck a tiny note to my guardian angel, to bury a wish. The seam of a jacket fashioned from dreams, where hopes can be left for safekeeping, in whose pockets nameless shiny seeds jostle with downy feathers. Somewhere insubstantial thoughts are rainbow gossamer in the breeze. Somewhere the clouds come down to break my fall, bearing me aloft, caressing my skin.

I’m searching for somewhere, a place to hide.

Tell me a story

book_butterflies

 

Tell me a story. Give me tales of a thousand nights, warm scented breeze on my skin, sand in my shoes. Take me to the farthest pole, blue-green fire dancing in the sky, breath clouding in crisp night air.

Tell me a story. Let me taste salt sea tang while sun beats down on wooden decks. Show me dolphins, flying fish, whales breaching white-topped waves. Let me glimpse bright eyed merpeople watching deep under the surface, waiting.

Tell me a story. Carry me on red and silver rockets to vast silent space stations where the stars never go out. Show me galaxies born from cosmic dust. Bring whispers from strange aliens and stranger, once-human creatures.

Tell me a story. Lead me up the mountain, rocks skittering away under exhausted feet, lungs screaming for oxygen. Describe that joyful promised land seen only from the summit, take me there on wings of faith.

Expand my horizons. Play my emotions. Cloak mindless chatter, soothe unthinking wounds, only with words. Let me shed this skin, be someone else, somewhere else, sometime else. Give me distance, just for a while. Let me lose and maybe find myself.

Tell me a story.