Wayward thoughts #01
Water reflections
Water
within you, within me
in our cells, in the atmosphere
Water
reacts and interacts to paint
rainbows and spark lightning
Water
flowing red in our veins and clear down rocky slopes
rising up invisibly into our skies
in cottony cloud collections
shifting resources from lakes to land
tumbling in drops towards earth
onto leaves and soil
and skin and fur
Water
Dammed and bottled
but never contained
Water
everywhere and in
everything
a three dimensional manifestation
of the flowing
sustaining
higher
energy of Love
*Shared with dVerse prompt on Water.
***Image from kyhealthkids
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The covenant
Long ago we made a promise
to meet under the blue skies
beside the acacia grove.
You asked me to search my heart for justice
when fear clasped its chains around my feet.
And as I turned and stumbled away
you promised me unconditional love.
Separation began.
You knew in time I’d learn to trust my feelings
in the season when cool winds scatter dust around.
Apart from you, I found myself.
Who I really am.
Though there’s nothing in life to be certain of
I looked inside and found the answers
amidst the memories.
That love is truth and truth is justice.
And in my heart I found all three.
**Shared with dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night #239**
*Image from twinflames1111.com
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Transform
Dust off those dreams and ideals spiked long ago
When your caged heart was free and lived with gusto.
With the Pen in your grasp
Switch genres, change the title and unclasp
the yoke around your neck.
Write one word, then never look back.
*****
In my google search, it turns out a quadrille is also a dance.
I was not familiar with the use of the verb ‘spike’ as in rejecting something. Usually used in publishing where a manuscript is considered and then rejected and put on the spike. So I thought I’d use it in my attempt at a quadrille.
This was nothing short of a mental crossfit workout… Hope you enjoy it.
Written for dVerse.
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Ghosts of my creative past
Found my old teen scrapbook, in which I wrote prose and drew pictures, as a pastime. This is seventeen years old! Wrote that at a time when ironically, I had given up on love. (Sad at such a young age). One could dream anyway, right? The poem in the middle reads:
“When the warming arms of the
Misty morning sun
Gently stretch into the
Mother-of-pearl,
I’ll wake up to you.“
Man, I was a sucker for romance. But life changes that along the way.
Along with my scrapbook, were my sketchbooks. From at least thirteen years ago. I used to draw female forms a lot. Faces. Hands. Then tried male forms, one of which was sketching Enrique from a cd cover. Back when I used to be a fan of his. Another thing that changed along the way to the present moment. Not so much a fan anymore.
There’s even an attempt at charcoal, long since abandoned.
I haven’t drawn in years. SO I really enjoyed finding these again. What makes it even more poignant, is that lately I’ve been feeling lost. And these took me right back to a place I thought I had long forgotten.
Do you still have your childhood or teen scrapbooks, sketchbooks, stories?
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First darkness, then the Light
When you’ve been digging yourself
Into a hole
For all your living years
When the time comes
To get out,
Get out.
Just remember
The hole was deep and far below
To climb back out
First comes darkness
Then the light
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The Hannah May incident
PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz
His question caught her off-guard. The room spun around her and she gripped the edges of the lectern to steady herself.
“Ms Silver, how would you explain the Hannah May incident?”
It was no secret that she had been Hannah’s life coach. A fact that tormented her. Buried guilt rose from past failures. Oversights.
It was she who had encouraged her to push past her fears, return to her love of sailing. She died in the storm of 2004. Neither sailboat nor her body was ever found.
Ms Silver found her voice, “Hannah May was brave enough to follow her dreams.”
100 words
Life coaches are amazingly positive people. And I’m sure they have their demons too. Ones they wrestle with and from which they find their own growth. Whatever the situation, it’s important to face fears that keep you from your dreams or the change you want to make in your life.
Have a happy Wednesday!
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I put my heart into a bottle
I put my heart into a bottle
stuffed it away. Out of me. Out of sight.
I’d grown weary of it’s whispers
nagging me through my busy hours.
It was getting harder to focus on all I needed to,
on who I needed to be
with it’s tales of dreams and hopes long forgotten,
long abandoned at the fork in the road
way back when such things were still possible.
No, it can’t be. Can’t ever be. Wont be. Not for me.
Silly stories, silly heart
Time to grow up.
At the edge of the cliff I threw the bottle into the ocean
Watched as the tides carried it away
over the horizon.
That night as I slept, the whispers came louder still
Woke up in a cold sweat feeling the hole in my chest
Empty and void.
Yet tales of better tomorrows, hopes renewed
swirled all around me.
See I had not realised that I could abandon my heart
But my heart would never abandon me.
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Thoughts of a dying dream
I was born with you, the day of your birth,
in your awakening
Out of those moments of joy bursting with light.
I stood by you, through years of your longing,
in your flagellation
Through those moments of pain echoing with the truth.
We have always been one, though you split us in two
Denied me, seeking fulfilment from others besides me.
Embarrassed, you walked away
I saw you look back eyes dark with regret.
You had no sense to know you could never forget.
Once in your mid-life, I sent you flowers, a fragrant bouquet
Hoping to remind you of what we had, and all the missed hours.
You read the note, threw it in the bin
Hid in the bedroom and found you could not hide from what was within.
That night, in the yellow of the porch light, you looked up at the stars
wondering, always wondering.
And here we are, together still at the end of your life.
Yes I’m still here, beside you, within you
And I bloom in your chest, with a lot of regret.
You tell me you’re sorry, you don’t know what happened
I say nothing, just let you speak, hear your voice cracking.
The pain in your voice is much for me to bear.
I know I tried to tell you over the years
that for you to truly live, both of us need to have life.
But I will die with you, the world never knowing who I am
More tragic than this, is the self you hid from the world.
All I could do was show myself to you
Hoping you would find your courage.
Something you could never do.
Oh the life we could have lived!
The possibilities we could have explored!
It is harder for me still, to question my own existence
The dream that never could and never will,
be more than a thought in your head
A fledgling hope that never took flight.
Why was I here? It makes no sense.
Then I look in your eyes,
moments before the light in them goes out,
and I see the same questions stirring about.
****
Inspired by an article I read on the regrets of the dying. Unfulfilled dreams were one of the biggest regrets.
There is something about unfulfilled dreams, hopes and desires that cause us so much pain. Most of it seems to go against logic and reason and it takes courage to follow them.
Undeniably, dreams are a part of who we are. To fulfil them is to fulfil ourselves. To give them life, is to give us a life that feels authentic, and has a buzz to it that makes us feel very much alive.
Need a better title. It is a WIP. Suggestions welcome!
Here’s to your dreams 🙂
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Veiled hearts
PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot
The first time their eyes met a deafening rip tore through her head
Mistaking it for her broken heart’s pieces cracking once again
She turned her gaze away, not wanting to shatter what took so long to mend
But something in his hazel eyes called to her through past lies
She dared another sideways glance a strange rising courage at the end
Pushed her into the unknown, where hopes renew and dreams begin
The second time their eyes met she did not flinch when the ripping sounded
A hazel gaze pierced through flimsy veils wrapping tight around the wounded
99 words
I read Erin Hanson’s poetry recently and was just so ultra inspired that I simply had to attempt my own. Last time I was inspired to pen rhythmic verse was in high school. So forgive me if it’s not perfect. The 100 word limit was quite challenging this time!
Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by novelist and artist, Rochelle. The challenge is to write a full story in 100 words or less.
Click here to read more flash fiction from other great writers.
Here is one of Erin’s poems. She is a talented young woman in her early twenties, touching hearts and moving souls since her teens with her magical prose.
Fatima Fakier 