Posted in Writing, Blog, Creative Writing

Little Wooden Boat

Stormy skies surrounded the seething sea as it rushed around us,
waspish waves that grow tall and then crash as the wind whistles and nature bristles with indignation.
The boat is a beautiful one,
blood red paint against the children of the trees in the forest where we had our first kiss. We bore this vessel,
and then we sent her into the incensed ocean,
just to see if she’d survive,
and though the water is rough,
and the wind is wrathful,
she still smiles and sways to and fro,
as if she doesn’t have a care in the world.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

I Belong Everywhere

I have been to Paris with old lovers,
Paris with new friends,
I have written poetry in pencil on the bells of Notre Dame,
and damned myself to hell as I fell from the Eiffel Tower.

I belong everywhere.
Daughter of dark nights, star filled skies and the melody of moonlight.
Siren of slipping into sleep,
then awaking in a dream,
but it’s never the same,
because I could never stick to one place.

I have been to the moon.
I didn’t stay,
it didn’t leave an impression.
Before long,
I was back on the barren rock I call home,
swaying with the wayward winds,
staring with a slight sneer at that big bitch in the sky,
wondering why I gave her so much power.

I understand the moon.
I have often agonised for hours over minutes of conversation,
worrying that I didn’t leave an impression,
some kind of connection that keeps them coming back,
so that I am not on this rock, all alone.

I went back to the moon,
to see what I could do.
Not out of obligation,
or because I was locked in her sad eyes,
just because I saw myself in her solemn stare,
and decided I needed to free myself from that sad image.

I belong everywhere and I belong to no one.

Again.

I belong everywhere and I belong to no one.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Winter’s Influence

Trees reach out with frozen fingertips for their lost leaves,
placed in the eye line of the powder blue sky,
the moon still shyly smiling across from the proud sun,
as the last of the birds go to their summer homes.

Winter has yet to arrive,
but her influence is everywhere.
Frost throws herself across the floor,
claiming the calm streets as snow circles the sky,
with her eyes aimed for all of us.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Mayflowers

I am made of mayflowers,
sweet symbol of the spring.
I wait all winter, to watch myself grow,
singing my overture in the shade,
as the sunlight fades away.

My mother walked with great pain,
a crown on thorns in her womb and a pebble in her shoe,
but she carried her flowering child,
until she found the forest and spilled me onto the soil.

Blackbirds call from far away,
as I sleep beneath the thorns,
whispering woods are bewitched and besotted.
I am the Princess of a protected land.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Forecast

The leaves are threatening to fall again,

dreich days replace the summer haze that I barely noticed until it was all I needed,

and then, suddenly, the sun was nowhere to be seen,

and the leaves leapt from the trees.

This does not bode well.