Leave any light on the endless shelves Speak the pass phrase Only those with flawless elocution A mind open to betwixt and between Shall pass the warden Go through the Nyx-door Plunge into onyx darkness Within are nights that never die Without the world spins on Here only esthesis will guide you Stay as long as it pleases thee.
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.
The three witches appeared through my pen when I started writing poetry. They are free, headstrong characters that sometimes have their way with me. You can also find them in December Moon. Witches brew and Yesteryear Cheer.
Re-post comment: Time for another Wandering the Archives Wednesday. Today’s been filled with writing stories. So I decided to share one of the first I wrote in poetry form.
Hurt beyond measure Faith in humanity utterly lost She decided to seek solitude The soothing presence of the seas endless swells Mist that obscures everything The cries of seabirds
High in the tower snug with a roaring blaze in the hearth At peace thou outside the winter storms Wailing presence around her shutters Safe among her books and scrolls Content with the rhythmic beacon-light sweep Reassured by the mourning foghorn sound Winter swells are not for sailing
Then suddenly cries and shouts Running feet on the stairs They don’t disturb her at first The running of the tower, light and horn are the servants hers the contemplating solitude
The storm has brought a shipwreck The vessel all in splinters Among the swells dead sailors Only one survivor They call on her to use her healing skill She mends his bones, tends bruises and sores with salves
Once he awakens, she finds a pair of honest eyes A heart open to life’s joy A curious mind ready to soar In her heart she feels an igniting spark Two lonely souls together for the solstice Who knows what they have to share During all those winter months, isolated until spring
Had a busy week and weekend. Celebrated birthday. Went to a concert and out salsa dancing. Gave myself some time off blogging to enjoy other things in life and not stress out about views. This is written for Kerry’s prompt on Real Toads ~ Art FLASH! / 55 in December. Already Sunday evening here, but if possible I’ll try to write something in the 55 form also. A third poem appeared in my head and made this weeks contribution to Pantry of Poetry and Prose.
Preparations for the last full moon abounds Where we let the Midwinter darkness fall Then light return with a fair singing maiden Her clear voice and it’s adoration turns our eyes upon the star It’s light compelling us to contemplate the birth-death-rebirth of the fisher king Yearly reminder to shed the old and start anew
Where I grew up. A several hundreds year old small, pre-steam industrial-mining-farm-wood-lakes town. Folklore still ran deep even in the 1980s.
So, I grew up with Lucia vigil. It’s a tradition dating back to when Lucia occurred on midwinter, the origin might be somewhere in the pre-christian era, but it is known from the 15th and 16th century. Meaning before Sweden switched to the Gregorian calendar in 1753.
As Midwinter is the opposite point of the year from Midsummer the veil between the worlds where thin, and you kept vigil to keep harmful spirits away and to celebrate and greet the light of a new year in form of a fair singing maiden with light in her hair.
“The tradition of Lussevaka – to stay awake through the Lussinatt to guard oneself and the household against evil, has found a modern form through throwing parties until daybreak. ” – Wikipedia
As a teenager and young adult, no real adult found a problem with us staying out late at discos and parties. As long as some of us (nearly, girls only)also showed up in the early morning hours, clear eyed and sweet voiced to carry lights in our hair or hands singing hymns to Lucia and Light re-born.
Written for Kerry’s prompt on Real Toads ~ Art FLASH! / 55 in December. 55 words without the title. Read my first contribution to this double feature prompt here.
Written for Sannas’s prompt ~ May the fire in our hearts keep burning as though there is no end ~ Our challenge is to write a Landay (or a series of Landai) on a subject matter of our liking. “It’s a traditional Afghan form which consists of a single couplet. There are nine syllables in the first line and thirteen syllables in the second. These short poems typically address themes of love, grief, homeland, war, and separation.”
There was also a link to this very interesting article ~ Landays.
I will definitely experience more with this form and read more about the subject!
Written for today’s prompt at toads ~ Weekend Mini Challenge. We’re asked to read the poem ‘The Uncertainty of the Poet’. And “study the structure and word patterns, and then write a similar poem, choosing your own words to noodle around with, restricting yourself to those words and trying them out in different combinations in couplets.”
This was really fun and both as easy as it looks at first and deceptively hard. I played around with a couple of different word combination before finding my stride… ;-)
Imagine a world Where united humans strive together Towards the common goal Caring for each and every individual Taking care of our home Taking steps to clean up the chaos we made Working towards a healthy planet and evolving humanity
Imagine a world where small factions make war Commit genocide over scarce resources Clean water, arable land A world where whole nations are wiped off the map Where continents worth of people Flee a raging planet