Field With a Forest

We made it through the desert
only to be drowned in a
hot tub.
We crossed the sky-wide tightrope
only to trip walking down the
sidewalk.
Avalanches and earthquakes hardly make us
flinch, yet moments as simple as a stinging
papercut
break us down to fistfuls of tears.
The plain is wide open for this momentus
duel.
Only you don't show and I'm glued in
place as trees begin to grow, rooting themselves to my
feet.
Boulders settle into the place where you
should have stood and now I feel that I should
go.
But I can't for fear of crushing
the soft wild flowers dancing across the
earth.
Ad the age-old roots have chained
me down, vines becoming part of
me.
Here I stand on this no longer empty
field, but amidst a forest, no longer
alone.
For I am now
one of the
trees.


-Suzanne

(Back from the dead, I know. I hope to resurface after my unscheduled time MIA or on hiatus or whatever. The new year's coming and so am I. See you in 2015!)

Carry

Some days you just
flash forward and you realize that,
holy crap, I've got sixty more years of this.
And then you wonder what sixty years feel like, because
whatever small amount you've acquired by this point is basically
laughable.
That's sixty years of taking walks,
sixty years of cold winters,
sixty years of walking into a sketchy Walgreen's and
staring at empty aisles. Completely normal things.
Maybe you'll walk in someday with a kid on you
arm. And then your kid's kid.
Maybe you'll go walking in a park
and have them slung behind you
piggy back.
Carry them like you
carry those sixty years past
on your shoulders.

I can't turn it off.

This lamp is too bright in my room.
It used to be comfortably dim, no
unfounded aggression, just
beautiful lulling complacency.
This lamp is too bright. It slaughters the
mood and imposes hope. I liked it
better when it was just quiet and
lifeless and dim, because
like calls to
like,
does it not?

Maybe she will find it again

(This sort of shares some themes with my post from last week, hope y'all will bear with it)

Years ago, her muse left her...or she left her muse, neither is very clear on how it happened.

But happen it did, and her pages are black and white and dead…

She drags them from their slumber, bringing back what ought to be gone.

She can’t help trying to resurrect the words., the pages of what once was.

So she sits at her desk; she sits on her porch, on a nature trail, in the back of her car, waiting and praying and chanting around the flimsy manuscript dead before its time.

Some days she thinks about her muse, and where it must have gotten to.

Perhaps Fiji; it’s supposed to be nice this time of year….well, any time of year.

The muse is gone, though, and she remains.

How many spells will it take, how many bouts of dark magic?

What will it take to earn her passage to far off island in the sea?



-Kat

Jewels

Autumn is the scarves around necks and the boots on feet.

Autumn is the sapphire sky growing dimmer with each hour.

Autumn is the crunching of leaves and the snapping of twigs.

Autumn is the rosying cheeks and red-tipped ears.

Autumn is the beginning and the beginning of the end of a new year.

Autumn is the cinnamon and apple-picking without reaching too high.

Autumn is the morning diamonds, wet on webs and leaves and grass on the verge of dying.

Autumn is worn book pages under fingers beginning to tire.

Autumn is the warm dusting of colors on tree tops, the ombré from green to gold, orange to red.

Autumn is the jewels in eyes glittering with the rain.

Autumn is the steam from a mug held in chilled hands, not quite ready to yet 

fall 

off.

-Suzanne 

(So sorry this is late! I wrote it Thursday but for some reason it never posted.)

At The End Of The Row

Black white and bare, the photographs; stripped of their significance by the shining floor and lifeless walls.

She walks into the museum late, almost does not get in.

And she knows where she’s headed: to the black white pictures in her long dark dress, black floor white wall room.

In all her uniformity with the palate of the pictures, she bears unspeakable eccentricity.

The people in the photographs are long dead, and she the necromancer.

She only looks, she does not touch; touching is wrong.

At the end of the row, the picture is empty.

Museum closed, the lights flick dark; she takes her place.

Bowing her head in mourning.

All the haunting frozen moments, and she among them waits.

For Richer For Poorer

http://nowheremind.tumblr.com/post/10458542192

They know her too, but not by name; to them, she is only Flower Girl.

The flowers stay beige and still, and they rustle as she runs to the bus stop.

She lives far away from the city; no one wears the long red coats, no one sells flowers out of wicker baskets.

Beige flowers are not for the life of the rust-railed, drab-suited men and women hailing from the glittery buildings.

But every day she waits at the bus stop, basket empty, basket full, and she knows the people.

She knows the woman that comes with her phone attached, whose ringtone prompts reflex, whose eyes glitter with the light of her screen.

She knows the man and his two children he takes to work in the big glass grocery store, because they always come back with two lollipops reward.

She knows the elderly couple that hobbles to the metal bench and falls into it, even when it rains.

In good times and bad, sickness, health, joy and sorrow.

They sit at that bus stop and wait to go home.

Pinwheel

There's a pinwheel in my head. 

Spin spin spinning. 

Its plastic panes a constant bane, slip-slapping upon the insides walls that compose the cavern that is my skull. 

No brain.

Just spin spin spinning. 

A wooden rod shoved down my throat, sprouting leaves and leaves of societal norms and from it came the wheel. 

Its logical home my head, of course. 

Cheery, colorful crushing.

And I can't get it out.

It's staying.

No, the wind's on.

It keeps me awake.

No rest to be had.

I think it hates me.

My spin spin spinning head.

It's shiny, strict hands, all over the walls.

Stress stress stressing.

Never going to sleep again.

-Suzanne

(For some reason, I had Ed Sheeran's "Don't" stuck in my head while writing this. Words are very different, but the rhythm is similar in some parts.)

Afire

She heard the story

Of the girl who wrote poems

Under the desperate watch of the moon

And, when found

The girl locked herself in a closet

And set herself alight

She knows better

Of course.

She knows when to nod

And smile

When to cover her face and

Hold her tongue.

But she cannot help

The wanton words

the lustful lines

that escape her

in broken bits of song

a forbidden courtship in ink

scribbled hastily onto the back of

the veiled hand

rubbed away at a

moment’s notice.

She can’t let them see.

She wonders if she has the disease

The blood sin

The wax-wicked words

That set a poet afire.

-Christina

Note: this is a poem based on a true story, from this article: http://www.nytimes.com/2012/04/29/magazine/why-afghan-women-risk-death-to-write-poetry.html?pagewanted=all 

And then, as you were always meant to, you tell her the story of your life.

The streets are dark and damp and uneven, as they are apt to be this time of year. The cobblestones were once paved straight, but those days are over and we are resigned to the grumbling of the squeaky unoiled horse carts through the town.

Do come in. It's going to rain again soon, I think. You can feel it in the air. Mind the step.

Have you been traveling long? Of course you have. Sit down, won't you? I'll get tea.

Fires burn in the fireplaces, lovely and simmering. Smoke claws out of the chimneys, only to be devoured by the saturated air.

Grey or chamomile? Do you have a preference? Oh dear, I've lost the teapot. It'll only be a second, you just rest there.

The chair is so warm and the day is so long. The fabric is so worn and the night is so muted.

There we go. The kettle's only, it'll only be a mo. Say, what's your name? I don't think I caught it. Oh here, take the blanket, love. Right on the arm of your chair---there you go. That's better, isn't it? Sorry, I was asking your name. What was it?

Her voice is gentle yet with substance. She is the kind of woman that does not get wrinkled nor weathered, but is instead halfheartedly creased before the world decides that it liked her better without all the folds and consents to leave her as she is. Her cheeks are still full and dimpled, the kind of cheeks where you can still almost see the youth, if you work hard enough to see it.

Oh that's a gorgeous name, that is. You're from the north, with a name like that. What brings you out so far?

The rain taps tentatively on the roof, seeing if it is welcome.

That's a right far journey ahead of you, then. Oop, I think that's the kettle, let me just check on that. One second, is all.

And then it comes down, faster and faster, gaining confidence and speed.

Looks just about there. Chamomile, you said? Dear Lord, listen to that roof. I told you it would rain.

And then it barrels without abandon onto that little thatched roof, and for a moment it is surprising that it does not collapse inward with the pressure, but it holds strong. 
How old is that woman, that woman standing over the kettle? No one knows. There is no way to know, and somehow it is clear that she is not about to reveal that bit of information to anyone. There is no reason to care about that kind of information, anyway. She is not a creature that ages, only one that matures.

There we go. Here's a cup for you, is that warm enough? Breathe in the steam, it's good for you. Now, dear, tell me about everything. From the day you were born until this very moment. On nights like these, it's good to have a talk, don't you think?

The day so long, the night so muted. The rain so sharp, the tea so soft.

These are the nights where nostalgia lurks.
These are the nights where stories reign.

Fantastical Fridays (6) In Which Publishing Crawl Is A Thing

So this will probably be the last Friday post for a while...I'd like to have a lot of time to talk about this stuff that I care about, and I'm not getting that time right now, so I will wait until the crazy blows over and I'll see how things proceed.

So today will be pretty short. As has become the fashion of things, I suppose...

Here is a beautiful blog that y'all should check out:

http://www.publishingcrawl.com/

What is this strange and barely introduced link, you wonder?

Ah, grasshopper. It is a meetingplace of the brains of YA (just the brains, the authors and agents and editors stay at home). They drink tea and silently muse about the workings of writing and books and sometimes the publishing industry, and when their silent musing is over they exchange it into an uneven mixture of quarters and pennies and use the currency to purchase gorgeous words from the tiny word people that live in the clouds. And then these beautiful people on Publishing Crawl take their hard-earned gorgeousness and splurt it all into a series of blog posts for the general folk of the world.

So thank them for it, and head on over to take a look.

Wheeee!

-Kat

My Not-So-Super Superpower of Invisiblity

    There are definitely perks to being invisible, but I wouldn't say this is one of them. This aching dreariness seeping through me in this packed hallway. This desperate need for connection, contact with a fellow human.

    I know you! I know you! You know me! You were suppose to be my friend--why can't you look at me?

    They're supposed to look at me, I tell myself. Church brothers and sisters. Junior high friends.

    What have a done? What about me makes you twist your neck when I'm coming down the hall? 

    Aren't such sorts of people supposed to love me? This transparent body of mine is crushing me. Weights in my heart sinking me, pulling pulling pulling me.

    You're cool, I'm not. You're a boy, I'm a girl. I'm a freshman, you're a junior. Am I too weird? Am I too awkward?

    The guy in my class says hello with a  smile. The girl in my club hugs me. The player on my team gives me a high five. Me. Me! They are looking at me not through me!

    WHY CAN'T YOU LOOK AT ME?

    I guess the people that care about me might not be the ones I think ought to be caring about me, but they are relevant nonetheless. Because they don't make me feel quite as invisible as

    you.

-Suzanne

Beautiful Skinny

My mommy is the most beautiful person in the world. She smiles like an angel, and when she gives me hugs, her hair tickles my face. Sometimes I sneak into her room when she’s getting ready, and watch her put her paint on her face (Mommy calls it makeup) and spray her delicious par-fume. In the morning, she always smells like flowers and fruit, but by night, her hugs smell of almost burnt cookies and chicken soup. She hugs me with strong arms, squeezes me tight. She sings in the kitchen, loud and shaky, but I think it’s perfect.

My mommy doesn’t think she’s beautiful. When she’s putting that chalk dust on her cheeky-bones, she sighs, and talk about the imaginary lines on her face. They must be imaginary, because I can’t see them. She bakes the cookies, but leaves it all to me and Daddy. She stares at the melting chocolate bits, a little sad, while Daddy asks her about her die-et. She frowns while Daddy jokes about the tummy of hers. She reaches for an apple.

There’s a pretty dress in Mommy’s closet. It’s lacy and pink, and Mommy says she wore it when she was young and skinny.

I look at her. “When will I be ‘skinny’?”

Mommy frowns. “Darling, you already are. I wish I could be as beautiful as you.”

She worries. Every morning, when I peek into her and Daddy’s room, I see her stand on that scale, and sigh a little. She looks over pictures, and when Santa Claus gave me A Little Princess and The Wind in the Willows, he took our cookies and gave Mommy a weight-loss book to make her “skinny”.

One day, I see herself sitting in the closet, holding the dress in her lap and crying over the scale. That day, she only had carrots for breakfast.

 Later, I go into the closet and look at the dress. The next day, when I look closer, I begin to see Mommy’s lines. Maybe I can only have apples when I grow up. Maybe I don’t want the tummy.

Maybe I want to be skinny. 

It Feels So Long Ago

Do you remember when we walked in
to the future and you let
go of my hand?
I don't know who let go
first. But
I do
know I'll never see you again.
I can't. Every day I think
of that hand I know
you less and
      less
because, darling,
I have heard the tales.
I have heard all the tales.
And darling, I cannot forget those tales.

Fantastical Fridays (5) --- In Which I Am Obsessed With Paint

It's been crazy week and I'm still a bit deaf from people yelling in my face for an hour before I went home, but I just found this music video and it is gorgeous. Best lyric video ever.

Now I actually have to go back and listen to the song. Whoops. Missed that part.

Short post, but, y'know, PAINT. You're welcome.

-Kat

Beethoven

My band class, two days old by the time you see this, had begun in a painful sort of way. Everyone was gripping their seats as if they were life rafts, instruments precariously perched on trembling knees. Nervous chatter filled the room, like the chatter of birds or chipmunks crying for help from a friend in a neighboring tree. There was no help to be had here. The director stood at the front with a marker in his hand, a baton absent, widening the eyes of his students. Then, he began to part the lips of his fuzzy, beard-clad mouth and

Speak!

And in moments of his voice being released, he had a room full of glassy-eyed teenagers rethinking all of their life decisions that had led them

Here.

Band was where you were supposed to pick up your instrument and play some notes on a page, preferably at the same time as everyone else. Well, at least

Potentially.

But potentially the purpose has more potential to be examined. Because it seems like music might just be more than those previously mentioned notes and baton slashes. Some players just make it look like

More.

When you look at many of the first chair players before class, you can see maybe of them joking around, laughing, being the crazy teenagers the rest of us are as well. But then, they come to class, they sit down in their seats, press their mouthpieces to their lips, stick their mallets in their palms, or touch their reeds to their tongues and

Transform.

They pull the notes off the page with their fingers on their keys and oxygen in their lungs they've sucked out of the air. They take themselves to another place and leave everything else

Behind.

But these impressive musicians are students right now, and we are all uncomfortable. There are kids on their phones, whispering to their neighbors and staring off into space. I am still clutching the edges of my seat, trying not to pass out from boredom and exhaustion and desperately trying to remove my mins from thoughts of the physics class I am required to attend next. And to do so, I begin to look at the board my director is writing on and start to catch what he is saying. He is talking about

Beethoven.

As he speaks, talking with such vigor about this passed composer and his works and his oddities and his differences, I begin to really like Beethoven. I had nothing against him before this lecture, but I didn't really feel like I knew him before. Now, I know

Him.

Beethoven wasn't like the other composers and metaphorically speaking, wasn't allowed to join in the reindeer games for quite some time. Because people try to judge the composer before they are 

Dead.

In the music world, that just isn't right. Beethoven was different. He didn't want to write about circuses or parties or dogs or toys or anything else like the others did. As my director said, "He chose not to write about what was earthly." He wrote about

Emotions.

Beethoven was a poet with notes. He cannot be described any other way. He wasn't a composer who likes rigid markings or strict notations. He wrote to express and he expected it to be played how he felt:

Emotive.

That's what those first chair players wanted to be doing right now (and at this point many of the others in the room who could no longer stand the blank staring and urging to talk): expressing. But instead, here we were listening to the director speak for 60 of the 90 minutes instead of conducting like we felt he was supposed to. It seemed as if only two people in the room were listening. And then I realized, I was one of them. I was listening because I was listening to Beethoven. I was listening to his anger and his love an his tears and his heart in the music I had heard before but never really understood.

I was listening to poetry without actual words. And I found myself loving it. Me! The last chair flutist growing a first chair

Heart.

-Suzanne

 

Neverland

They told me of an island

Fraught with magic

With faeries and thick-brush swamps

Wild mysticism, untamed innocence

children go there in their dreams

To the legend

Where the pure

ones dwell.

Ruled by a mischievous boy

The young spitting image of Hermes

Dressed in green

I wished hard

For the night

I’d escape from the window

Be lighter than the wind

Fly.

Fly, fly away to the Neverland.

I suppose I can’t now.

  

I’m too old.

Even in my youth, I’m

weighed by my knowledge

changing

slowly becoming chained to this earth

I can’t be an astronaut.

I can’t fly to the moon.

I can’t grow wings.

I spit words out of my mouth

Like gold

They—adults—are beginning to listen to me now.

Worn down by years

Marked by sin

Illuminated with wisdom

I am becoming them

Slowly

Sinking

Into their beautiful

Elaborate

Sad

world.

I am no longer

That whimsical child

Asleep on top of

The book of fairy tales.

I can’t escape through my dreams

Now.

Maybe it’s called the Neverland

For a reason. 

And he knows you too.

You know him; he is the spirit of the waters, he is the voice of the deep. Down and down you go. You know his face, you know his eyes. Whiskered and sunken, writhing in gritty shadow upon the ocean floor.

Once when the world was bare, he clothed it. When the world was dark he roared; when the world was light he whispered. He fell in love with the great rock in the sky, and they waltz each other to sleep.

You know this being, this grandfather of grandfathers, this baritone of silent arias that hum along the sands.

Once he thought he was the sky; fleeting and wind-struck, dragged along by the images of clouds across his skin. But they pulled him and pulled him...one day they let go, and he found himself barreling back in the other direction, realizing that he was anchored. For better or worse, he was anchored to the earth, and this did not bother him as much as it might have.

You know this king, this god of waters; Neptune, Sea Dragon; Lord of the Nile, Lord of the Styx. You know this man because his is the heart that keeps yours beating.

Once he tore at the earth for thousands of years until it yielded. Once he crashed upon the sands and ravished its people. Once he was the calmest thing upon the planet; one touch would ripple on for miles unchallenged.

You know this man, guardian of the deep.

http://www.saatchiart.com/art/Painting-Wave-Sold/290387/175619/view

-Kat

Fantastical Friday (4)

...otherwise known as Three German Songs You Should Be Listening To Even If You Don't Speak German.

Okay, the first one isn't actually a song but it has music in the background sooooo...

Classic unintelligible German. Gotta love it.

Next is what I can only explain as The German Version of Gangnam Style If Gangnam Style Took Place In A Grocery Store. "Supergeil" basically means "super cool" in this context.

And then here's just a beautiful song that has a really adorable music video. Cheers. 

I mean, Proust...

So viele Lieder! Ja, es ist die Beste. Ich weiss.

Auf Wiedersehen!

-Kat

Music Box

Music box chimes

Whirring gears

A faint little melody

Falls on deaf ears

She rises from beneath

A fair maiden in of glass

Her crinoline skirt

Less childish, more class

She takes to the room

With all ease, all grace

Floating about

Not feeling out of place

Among dry, soggy faces

And coarse, rough eyes

Gray, dank people with

Pain, undisguised

She should feel weird

She should feel wrong

She should feel down

She shouldn't feel strong

It's not fair, her talent

Her faith, her joy

She has perfection

Not some trick or ploy

"She mustn't be around here

While we crumble down

It's only fair she leave us

To drown"

The faces murmur

Anger stirred from within

And pick up the ballerina

Throwing her back in

Into the prison

Of dissonant notes

and untuned bells, she's stuck 

Beyond too far a moat

Crossing is unattainable

She is forced to give in

Tossed off her toes

Thrown from her peak

Ballerina gone

Tutu beside

Now all that is left

Is a pain she can't hide

-Suzanne

(Sorry for the super cheesy rhyming poem but it was all I could come up with today. I'm still really sick. :P Hopefully by next week I'll feel better and you guys won't have to suffer along with my  horrible poetry. Oh, and the second picture is of a music box. Sorry it's dark!)

why roses are red

Deep in the forest there was a wild rose patch.

They wound through the brambles and branches in beautiful disarray, like the sweet script of words on the pages of a fairy-tale book. The petals were fresh and soft, with the magic of the long-gone Folk, untouched, hiding the thorns that lay underneath. 

Of course, the traveler didn’t know this as he walked through the forest. There was hardly a chirp, or the soft scattering paws of a frightened animal. Instead he saw spindly trees, the roots slightly blackened, the branches balding. The wind was an underlying presence, like a shrill whisper in the dead silence.

It was almost a little too silent. No life in the dead of the woods.

Funny, how he thought he was only a wee bit lost. He didn’t know he was wandering towards that rose patch. The trees grew taller, wider. He found himself in the thick of the forest, waiting for a place to rest for the night.

And then he saw it.

It was a grove, a clearing, a field shielded by the forest wall. There were the roses, blooming from the edges, evanescent, perfectly shaped.

Except…

He stopped. Stood still.

There was no perfume, no fragrance of the flowers. The smell was odd, rotten; it clung to the air like rusty patches.

The moment his hair began to crawl, on his arms, the forest came alive.

A trunk struck him, enough to knock him off his feet. Branches shot out, trapping him in place. The rose branches crawled sinuously, the long, sharp thorns flashing in the light.

The traveler opened his mouth to scream, but the thorns reached in and sliced his tongue apart. The branches were taking him, binding him, constricting him. The rose thorns gouged into his cheeks and tore his clothes to shreds, then feasted on his skin.  He thrashed; terror seized him, rendered him immobile as he realized why there was no life in the forest.

Slowly, slowly, like in the jaws of a carnivorous animal, the man was eaten apart by the trees and branches and thorns.

Three days later, the rose petals turned a fresh, brilliant red, and blood that oozed out dripped onto the fertile ground.

-Christina

Yes It Is Sunday Not Saturday So In Conclusion, Socks.

So, this happened.

...and then this happened.

Then Pinterest invaded and totally bested any idea I could have come up with: http://www.pinterest.com/pin/511299363918297564/ (for those that like the mildly creepy)

So I just decided to write about socks. No creepy, because that was already taken. And then I thought about it. And then I wrote things.

---

i read a book in

God knows what grade.

it was Gooney Bird Greene, and every time i use the word

"suddenly"

i think of her.

because here is the thing about Gooney Bird Green.

she does not mind being herself.

she adores it. she will wear tutus to school.

she will interrupt class with the world's greatest story.

she will wear mismatched socks.

i remember when my mom did the laundry,

she would have me sort the socks sometimes,

and she had this special way of folding them in on themselves

so that the pairs would

stay pairs,

green by green

blue by blue.

i wore them, hitched up over

my tiny elementary school shoes,

with all the stubborn pride that

a person can be born with.

that was the year i was interviewed

by the school broadcast. the teacher

who ran it remembered me after that, 

and

in the crowning era of

third grade, i was part of broadcast.

i helped mainly with post production,

making sure the

audio lined up with the

video. it wasn't much, but 

i loved it.

sixth grade, he was my tech teacher, and he remembered me.

seventh grade, i watched the jr high broadcast, wondering, waiting.

and then there was eighth grade, and i was in broadcast.

i did the editing.

it was filmed live, so it was 

different.

but 

i still loved it.

the year wound down.

i remember one day my teacher said that he

still remembered that little girl with

mismatched socks;

he told me this,

beaming,

and i laughed and looked down

all my socks were black, so

it didn't matter anymore.

but for a moment, i remembered

that girl too, so proud

so young so inspired.

then i turned and

sat down and

started prepping,

watched the clock wind down

until the microphones went live.

-kat

Fanciful Fridays (3)

"Darcy can go play Whack-A-Mole in the corner by himself." 

So remember when I mentioned Pride and Prejudice in that first post?

Well...I haven't actually read it.

*ducks, hands cover face*

I've seen parts of the BBC adaptions (which are GORGEOUS). I know that's not the same thing as the novel, but I WILL get around to it. I will.

But in the meantime? Let me tell you how it showed up on my radar at all. Because if there is one thing about me you should know, it is that I was not initially drawn towards classical novels, much less classical romance novels (I'm more of a fantasy girl).

Well, it started one day when I was perusing the internet as usual...

You know what? No one has time for this. Short version: the Lizzie Bennett Diaries came along and my brain exploded and I love, I love, I loved it *.

Imagine Pride and Prejudice, noted classical romance novel, adapted into a sassy nerdy vlog (video-blog) version and...

BAM. 

Magic.

Watch the episodes, folks. All the episodes. Feel the feelings, laugh the laughs. Super highly recommended.

Maybe it will even get people like me interested in P&P, who knows? It certainly already has.

-Kat

* "I will have to tell you: you have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love, I love, I love you."

-2005 adaption of Pride and Prejudice

Flutter

Opening eyes

with eyelashes that flutter as wings,

lifting off to new pedals,

revealing irises and morning glories,

are without reason to see.

 

Listening ears

tunneling deep,

twitching at echoes

too far gone and too muddy

are materialistic without purpose to sound.

 

Lithe fingertips

that can only feel the patterns

full of icicles in the air.

freezing shoots before they grow

are useless if only numb.

 

Tasting tongue

full of eager buds

that sprout and bloom

when ignited

means nothing if nutrients are void.

 

Curious nose

with caverns for flurries

of petunia pollen and

thick, woody maple syrup

could care less with only rancid scents abroad.

 

Heart beats

that pulse rivers through a body

to jar awakening senses and

pull at thin soul strings

don’t matter unless they’re wanted.

 

The bubble that is built around

our wispy-walled worlds,

isolating feelings

from actions,

makes stony faces acceptable.

 

It means that

kissing eyelashes closed

and cutting off sound, touch,

tongue and smell

positively alleviate life away.

 

Here are my rising goose bumps,

and gritted teeth

seeing bodies turned to ash

with their wonderful, beautiful

spirits trapped inside.

 

Bubbles are the

pulsing enclosures,

keeping out the oxygen

those fragile soul strings

so need to breathe.

 

They thought that the

terrified fluttering of their

heart beats, trapped in cages

didn’t matter,

and that shatters the heart inside my chest.

 

Every word you say,

every breath you take

has meaning!

I want to shout.

Maybe a few will listen.

 

But many have

turned blind eyes, deaf ears,

numb fingers, tasteless tongues

and senseless noses

so soon.

 

Bubbles close in,

boa constrictors around their necks,

with no yield, they feel, leaving them

suffocating.  They turn to the ash

because where else can they go?

 

Pop!

 

One is too many to lose.

-Suzanne
(To be honest, I wrote this a while ago but I don't feel so good and couldn't get my brain to function properly. Sorry!)

Dreams of Ships

When she was small, she dreamed of ships.

Tall, lumbering ships that forged the Ice Seas, with tattered masts and wind-swept sails, like scars borne from a great tale. She listened to the stories her Da told her, the sea monsters who reared their heads and stirred up storms, swallowing the sailors with a gulp. She dreamed of the open seas under the starlit skies, with nothing but the moon and the hum of the wind to guide her. She dreamed of the glint of a sword, the tang of the salty air.

Ships were the first of many dreams. As soon as she could read, she disappeared into the library for days on an end, carrying a hand-bound book of once-blank pages. She came out with a head full of tales, a tongue full of forbidden words, and hands blotted with ink from the pen.

She was a hero. An oathbreaker, a fatebender. She dreamed of an isle to claim.

She whispered the stories to her brother, who laughed at her and told her to stitch, and to her Ma, who gently smiled and told her to tighten her laces.

She saw the lumbering sailors on the docks, with rough hands and scurvied teeth, and saw in their eyes the battle scars and jubilant song of adventure, and she smiled to herself. But the ribbons and bodices squeezed her insides, trapping her like a cage, and now her Da pulled her away.

Maybe she wasn’t meant for the seas.

 So she turned her head from the sailors’ docks and walked on.

They layered silks on her, beautiful ruffles of taffeta and chiffon. They rubbed rose oil and powder into her skin and painted her lips. They led her to parties, lessons, where they smothered her blasphemous wit with a soft voice and a yielding manner.

She dreams of a prince to carry her away.

Once vivid, now her dreams are now delicate, muted. She carries the spirit of a fierce romantic, a blazing spirit, but the world has worn her around the edges and tamed a fury, bent her and shaped her, surrounded her like the diamonds around her pale, creamy neck.

Once in a while, she still sees the ships from her childhood. But only from afar.   

-Christina