As I Reap The Dreams That I Have Sown – A Harvest Song

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There’s thunder in the sky,
the sickle flashes by.
As I hurry to cut down the corn.

I reap with a happy sigh,
as swift swallows fly.
The field must be done by Sunday morn.

I’ve struggled and hoped,
clinging to a frayed rope.
Until roots took hold, new futures were born.
Now I’ve got to be bold, leave behind what I’ve been told.

Forget about the lonely tears I weeped.
As I reap the dreams that I have sown.

The harvest moon glow,
when I life changes sow.
As I sing beneath the sickle moon.

I’ll rise above my woes,
when the change of seasons blows.
As I dance scy-clad to her freeing tune.

Forget about the lonely tears I weeped.
As I reap the dreams that I have sown.

I’ve sown the seeds,
that my soul will free.
Time to harvest them just like the corn.

I’ve learnt to know my needs,
to my muses feed.
Now let creativity my life adorn.

I’ve struggled and hoped,
clinging to a frayed rope.
Until roots took hold, new futures were born.
Now I’ve got to be bold, leave behind what I’ve been told.

Forget about the lonely tears I weeped.
As I reap the dreams that I have sown.

As I reap the dreams that I have sown.

©RedCat

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Written for earthweal’s weekly challenge: LAMMAS. I was so inspired by the song in the prompt, a 14^th century song about the death and rebirth of the barley crop (video below), that I had to write one of my own.

Of sowing and reaping, growing and weeping, of dreams becoming reality.

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Steve Winwood singing “John Barleycorn must die” – a 14^th century song about the death and rebirth of the barley crop

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Photo credits:

Sickle moon – Photo by Mitchell Bowser on Unsplash

Corn Field – Photo by Nadine Redlich on Unsplash

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Cat Searching High and Low

©RedCat

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I opened the chest with spare linens today
In it was the old blanket Puck the cat loved
I must not have washed it after he passed away
Because directly came Pika to sniff and purr
As if drawn by years old scent
Her body language telling me she wouldn’t be deterred

Later she searched all over the house and yard
As if wondering where he were
Demanding entry to places she’s normally barred
I let her into both closet and storage shed
Letting her do her futile search
Knowing the longing singing in her head

It’s like when I come upon traces of my father
A photo, his name in a book
His old faded shirt I still have in a drawer
And my heart instantly fills with that old sorrow
Prompting me to search to make sense of the loss
Knowing whatever I do, he won’t be there tomorrow

Now Pika and I sit gazing through the window
I scratch her ear, she settles on my lap as the sun fades
We both know however much the wind blows
Our longing for a lost one will still be there tomorrow
Ready to awaken at a sight or whiff
Piercing our hearts anew like an arrow

©RedCat

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I read the Poetics: The Print the Whales Make prompt at dVerse. And knew directly about what I would write. Even so the sorrow still hurts. But it also feels good to share it, something I was never allowed to do as a child. I first wrote “strangely feels good”, until I realized grief is something that’s supposed to be alleviated by sharing. 

So instead, let me say how intensely grateful I am to finally found a way to share it, and people who don’t shy away because I do.

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Puck lying in the book I’m reading.
©RedCat

A Dream within a Fantasy – Flash Fiction

Photo by Frank Cone from Pexels

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Is this a dream? Am I dead? Have those small paper squares of my youth laid dormant in my mind?

Suddenly there’s a voice.

“Calm down. This is a dream within a fantasy. A peek behind the veil. You’ve been searching. Trying to make sense of everything. Express that which narrow minds can’t even experience. Connect with the shared unconscious. Find the reasons behind the reasons for your existence.
It’s lonely being alone in empty vastness. So I lit a spark, watched it explode into being, filling itself with beings. Until the vastness teemed with life.
Letting me know how it is to have a finite life, a body, a loving heart.”

Suddenly, sun in my eyes, my own bed. In my notebook what I wrote last night.

“I prefer keeping in mind even the possibility that existence has its own reason for being.”

©RedCat

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Written for Prosery: Possibilities at dVerse. Where we write prose with a maximum of 144 words, and incorporate a given line. Tonight that line is: 

I prefer keeping in mind even the possibility that existence has its own reason for being.

Wisława Szymborska, “Possibilities”

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Photo by Alex Andrews from Pexels