Category Archives: writing

The Great War

Image result for 1913 womanHands folded

Tight

Nails dig into skin.

Corset bound.

Breath:

Constricted,

Conditioned,

Short.

Enough to keep alive.

The truseau chest;

Life’s blood,

Her reason for being.

Started at ten;

Finished at eighteen.

Ready for the

Future.

Linen and

Embroidered bedsheets.

Victorian propriety

Her only weapon

Against the

Coming storm;

Homeless,

Manless.

Damn the War.

 

 

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The Piano

Piano, Ivory, Ebony, Synthesizer, KeyIt had already been a long day when I realized my daughter hadn’t done her obligatory practise on the keyboard.  Every day that we ask her to practise, she will find a wonderful reason why it is not the thing she should be doing at the moment.  When she capitulates for the agonizing 10 minutes it takes her to play the required playlist, her sighs discharge every ounce of air from her lungs.  As of late, my husband had been enforcing this routine because I arrive home late from work.

As newly classified farm owners, we are slowly learning the demands of the land.  So when the requirement of fuel for our stove raised its demanding little head, the regular routine of piano playing was placed, for the lack of a better phrase, on the back burner.

I arrived home to find my husband still chopping logs in my headlights one evening in early October.   All the preparation and supper routine still left; bookmarked by a new demand.  After the general greeting, we divided our evening tasks. He would cook the meal, and I would have some quality time with my reluctant ten – going on sixteen year old.  I corralled her up the ten steps to our improvised music room, pointing out her advantage: she had a piano and the lessons to learn this amazing instrument.  She looked at me with one of her latently hostile ,” I know what you are doing,” looks and I sat awkwardly on the stairs waiting for the token ten  minutes and the rush to escape.

At the keyboard, she collected herself- she knew the routine.  The song, while on the page, sat comfortably inscribed in her memory.  Her hands began to strike the keys.  And I was transfixed.

It was not the song that she played- although she played that very well.   It was that my girl; a child that I had helped to create, could do something I struggle with. Something I always dreamed of doing.

My childhood was difficult. The maelstrom of abuse took its toll.  My parents, though loving, were struggling with addiction and mental health.  Their chaos was my world.  Normal was something I had to learn; I am still learning.  Memory is something that I can’t trust.   The past fades for me quite easily.  For my young memories this was a balm, but in school and in my life now, it is a curse.

She picked up her hands and they found their place on the keys. My daughter created, and memorized music.   It came so naturally to her; I felt tears well up in my eyes.  This wonder was a part of me. She will choose her life; without fear and abuse. As best as I can provide, she will have the options that were unavailable for me. Perhaps one day she can teach me the notes to a song, and we can play together.

 

Fountain

poseidon-2504490_1280Liquid light dances in the air.

Magic.

The marble man

Holds his trident.

Pink dress with lace.

Auburn hair.

Simple hat to hold

The sun at bay.

She asks

Her mother for a coin.

Following the path of

Her ancestors

To a sacred source.

Seeking favour.

Chubby hands

Drop the copper penny;

An offering to

A foreign god.

Morning

I doubt when the owner built this place as a luxury hotel he ever pictured it like this. He probably never thought words like "abandoned" "ruined" and "haunted" would describe his Halcyon Hall.The children amble to the roadside

One after the other

United in their reluctance.

Too early

The sun not yet  on the horizon.

Their fall  coats too light

For the cool breath of wind.

Across the road

The old brick house stands dreaming.

The bats slowly return to the attic.

They wait.

For the light along the roadside

The warmth within

The long drive

To a room full of screaming children.

 

Cove

IMG_1065

Galleon

Image result for british galleon in harbourBlood, brine and flesh

I dream

In the belly of the

Ship.

Land;

Ripe and fertile,

Full  of life.

She died in my arms.

Gloaming

The cicadas sin???????????????????????????????g

As the sun

Dips below the treeline.

Even the wolves wait;

Hungry anticipation.

We found a blanket

Hidden in a

Trunk in the attic.

Wine wrapped

Inside;

Our offering.

In the clearing

We will

Toast the

Mystery of

The dying day.

 

 

 

 

Vigil

Her secret place.....The young girl stands at the crossroad.

She arrives every morning with the sun.

The shy farmers nod on their way to the fields.

Their hearts falter when,

Too early they arrive.

The sun not yet touching the horizon.

She is gone before their weary journey home.

Her memory, but a distant childhood dream;

Of the open world and the mystery of love.

For her part she waits for someone

Who lost her way.

Gone too soon

Taking the wrong path.

She will return; Heart weary or wise.

The two are one.

 

So she waits.

Long enough to feel the sun’s rays ‘

Warm her face.

She must go on;

The day must be survived.

‘Not today,’

The wind whispers;

Soon.

Salt

Image result for tear on cheekI honour you with my determination;

No minute lost.

I dream the world is fulfilled;

Wish.

We push beyond the borders;

Marked with the lines on the map

Adorn the palace

And create.

Kin

Image result for cradle in attic

Sometimes the muse is blindfolded.

 

Gifts are given in a game of

Truth or dare.

 

Determined by the

Flip of a coin.

You stumble into

Life.

 

The day you were born,

Your new family took you home.

The request of your mother;

Afraid to keep you

Her past life calling.

Judging.

 

Alone.

 

Struggling between worlds

You try to

Dream in double-time.

 

 

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