Some say I should curse my love, for making me become this. That I should have refused her hand, as I lay dying on the battlefield. I say she swooped down and saved me, took me to the fields beyond. Gave me new meaning and eternal love.
So what does it matter? How I look, or the horns I bear. I bear them proudly, without feeling their weight. They are a sign of my prowess and courageous heart. Of her giving me part of her essence, meaning she’ll always be near.
Now we fly the skies together. From afar seeing what becomes of man. Diving down to pick up, those that no longer have flesh hands. After we have them delivered, we fly back to our fields. In the soft twilight, there is no need for armour or shield.
There we lay together, exploring the way to each other’s bliss. So truth be told, I’ve never been happier than this.
When inspiration strikes, whether it’s convenient or not, I try to write. And few things are as good at waking my muse as the pictures curated by Paul Brooks over at The Wombwell Rainbow. See all images and read other responses to the Folktober Challenge here.
For many years the garden lay neglected. Fallow, overgrown with sorrow weeds and thorny trauma brambles. Creative stream choked off, the source strangled by fear. No longer filling the deep story pool. Unable to attract sparkling dragonflies of fantasy, buzzing idea bees or paradise birds flights of fancy.
The weeping willow shedding its leaves in grief. Becoming naked skeleton of raking nightmare fingers. The starving muse wilts and fades. Retreating into dark amnesic mist under the onslaught of anxiety rain, depressive storms.
A bolt of awakened lightning sheared through the bruised cloud cover. Putting the strangling weeds in flames. Rekindling the suffocated creative fire. Birthing a fierce Phoenix from the flames. Rousing the sleeping muse with a song of newfound life. Hailing the first ray of kind sunlight. Praising the smatter of nurturing rain.
Now the garden blooms and grows. Tended by the muse and the soul Phoenix. The brook babbles and laughs as it flows. The air is filled with fragrance, the sound of wings of every shape and size. Safe in the knowledge their host will never again, let anything her creativity compromise.
Written for Poetics: Garden(ing) at dVerse. As I took my evening walk, thinking about gardens and gardening. This is what came to mind. Following a thought about one of the first writing communities I found “Imaginary garden with real toads”. A place that made me feel welcome and a place who’s kind encouragement kept me writing through all my doubts, making me think that I could do this. I know many of you might have a hard time believing it. But I’ve been writing poetry for less than two years. I’m still finding my way and my voice.
This is not the first and probably won’t be the last time I’ve written something very personal to a prompt. My writing is both pent up creativity poured out, and a form of dealing with and working through everything that’s happened to me.
It had been a colourful hippie bus, proclaiming love and peace. Vibrant, buzzing with hope and life. Wheels turning for untold miles, on roads and in minds. Traveling all over the country spreading the word. Encouraging the travelers to go further, look beyond. Envision a world where everyone belongs.
~ Where did the trip go wrong? ~
When did we lose it’s soulful songs? Forget that a new era never dawned. Today its message a lost echo, barely heard. Such sentiments much harder to find. The world full of nature’s destruction, division and strife. A faded, bleached out memory overgrown with weeds.
She knew the cave was for acolytes forbidden. It was said it could render a person utterly mad. But if it was truly dangerous, wouldn’t it be better hidden? Her curiosity evaporated any hesitation she might have had.
The stone carvings were massive, reaching beyond the light of her torch. It fluttered, spluttered and gasped in the airless cave. With a quick spell she summoned light from her sorceress brooch. Took a breath from the air-sack that would her life save.
With a frown she studied the carvings, so intricate and complex. Surely they belonged to the ancient astrology. Or they meant nothing, only carved to vex and perplex. Born out of a mad woman’s deranged fantasy.
She sat down to meditate, seeing if she could find any meaning at all. With a burst of insight the meaning to her occurred. The truth nearly obliterated her mind, made her skin crawl. They were incantations meant to summon eldritch horrors from another world.
The cafe began to feel like her only real home. A place that with or without known people made her feel less alone. A place where no one objected if her curious, quirky, whip-smart personality shone. She spent whole days sitting at a table. For the first time feeling she might be able to have friendships and camaraderie. At night she dreamt she’d stumble into a fable.
So what did the story teach? That her agile, perspicacious mind made her prone to the Jante law breach. That her fiery passion would make her for the unconventional way reach. She spent her days in her home away from home. Writing stories with elfs, fairies, unicorns and gnomes. Composing poetry that made her heart and soul the universe roam.
Beware the serpent who promises everything without demanding anything in return. He just plays on the ego’s lazy wish to receive without having to earn or learn.
Watch out for the seeping poison that hides behind polished images online. They are just there to trick you into thinking polished surfaces lead to clouds nine, where everything is always fine.
Think twice before leaping into beliefs that promise salvation and explanation as long as you follow the rules and never question anything. They just play with your ego’s fear of life’s uncertainties, anything can happen, even if you try to control everything.
Watch your step whenever someone promises a pill or drink or smoke or sniff will make everything fine. They are only out for your hard earned dime, while you dull your shine and end up in dependency confined.
Keep your wits about you whenever you feel bedazzled and someone tries to sell you something your heart, soul and gut know sounds too good to be true. They are most likely out trying to put your perspective askew, leaving you feeling stupid, lonely, sad and blue.
Life is never as easy as we wish, sometimes it’s full of hardship and anguish. Mostly it’s full of hard work, with the occasional perk. It is also full of moments of happiness and joy, of love, friendships and passions that our souls buoy.
Listen to your instincts, heart and soul, and you’ll find what for you is a worthwhile goal.
“Am 68. Live in Mexborough. Retired teacher. Artist; musician; poet. Recently included in ‘Viral Verses’ poetry volume. Married. 2 kids; 3 grandkids.”
likes drawing and painting children, animals, landscapes and food. She specialises in watercolour, mixed media, coloured pencil, lino cut and print, textile design. Jane can help you out with adobe indesign for your layout needs, photoshop and adobe illustrator. She graduated with a ba(hons) design from Glasgow School of art, age 20.
She has exhibited with the rsw at the national gallery of Scotland, SSA, Knock Castle Gallery, Glasgow Group, Paisley Art Institute, MacMillan Exhibition at Bonhams, Edinburgh, The House For An Art Lover, Pittenweem Arts Festival, Compass Gallery, The Revive Show, East Linton Art Exhibition and Strathkelvin Annual Art Exhibition.
Her website is: https://www.janecornwell.co.uk/