Steve weaving his usual and unique magic.
Thought bubbles must be punctured gently,
deflated with a fine molecular needle.
She lets me do the shopping at the markets,
the hens are in my charge, I sweep the floors,
but I’m a prisoner in her house.
On the crooked kitchen shelving, potions bright,
alluring clues, magic herbs and condiments.
To prepare Bahian fish, she says.
Her eyes are jungle camouflage, her tidal laughter
breaks in waves when nothing is amusing,
mysteries are woven in her hair.
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So while I was pondering what exercise I could do to work off the crazy amount of food I have eaten today (I blame the weather. It suddenly turned cold like autumn, after unseasonably warm weather, like autumn. But now it’s cold, like autumn), I found this.
This took me back to memories I am sure I have somewhere. And the time travelling was exhausting, to say the least. Not to mention the memories of always going everywhere on skates. So, considering this song is over three minutes long, I’m checking the exercise box off my list for today. Take that gym
PS And yes, the disco ball is still in my kitchen. That thing ain’t going anywhere.
Have we had that conversation?
This manicured violence
that entertains our peace
I long for relief
there’s no relief…
while you hear angels
plucking the strings behind
those aching memories
wrapped in the untearable
cellophane of your mind…
(this gorgeous song…all I can think of are families torn apart by war and violence…)
he had heard it all before.
all those longing rhymes. with door
revolving the cool.
the directing wants reversing
the spectres need rehearsing
he said. I can’t remember.
I just loved the music.
“Please tell me you know that feeling. Everyone else is in on a secret and I must have left the room in the telling. Don’t you feel that way sometimes?”
He gasped suddenly and almost burst her ear drums with the silence he exhaled.
“But you did leave the room…”
It was going to be a normal day. If it was the last thing they ever did. A normal day of picnicking in the sun, like normal families. On a sunny spring day. With a packed basket. And a blanket. And outside games. And other normal things that nobody they knew ever did. Because, well, they did time travel to get there.
And this was where they were going to meet her grandmother. She told them she had the secret to normal and she wanted them to have it. It would be in a little box. And normal people carried such things around. Although, she had never opened it herself. She was just going by what her mother had told her.
And sure enough, it was labelled “normal”.
On one side. The outside.
The other side, the inside, was a lot more than they ever did not expect.
“What was that word again? The one that was on his face?”
I don’t know. I DON’T KNOW.
“What was that time again? You know, when he was in that place?”
Stop. Just stop.
“And what was the song he played? The one from…?”
Her fingers recoiling, it slipped from her grasp.
The urgency was suffocating and all she heard was line
after line after line after line
of how not to do it.
And he would die if she didn’t.
How would they find it? She couldn’t remember the rules and every step she ran, she jumped two steps back in clarity. She hated that he got to the formula before she had, and now she was paying for it.
He decided to surprise her. The last thing she would expect from him. He knew it was against the rules, but he would take her back. To the beginning. The problem was, the only vivid outline was from their last fight. Why couldn’t he find the bridge? He had the formula after all…
He was right.
There was something exhaustibly hilarious about the situation. She just couldn’t remember what it was. After all, it had been a few days since the operation, and they assured her it would grow back. But she was the anomaly, wasn’t she? Was that the funny part?
She looked over to the bucket of words but it was almost empty. She sighed. Her sighing normally turned things inside out beautifully, but not this time. This time she stopped half way.
I never noticed that before, that ceiling, she thought to herself. All this time, she hadn’t noticed the fabric of her security. But she had never floated like this before. The current had always looked uncomfortable.
The boat rocked gently convincing her she was awake, although, now she couldn’t see. She was blinded by pin pricks of light that ferociously claimed the space around the notes.
By the time she reached the entrance/exit, her eyes burned with sight. And there he was. All the younger for the waiting.
For my dear friends who struggle with this, (and I have too) and for the people who love you, important words so beautifully and honestly expressed.
I don’t want to talk.
I need rest.
I need silence.
The thoughts in my mind are overwhelming. They won’t stop. My life is a constant battle of outside voices competing with internal thoughts. It’s too much.
I don’t know how, but I need rest.
I’m lonely, but I can’t silence the storm of thoughts in my mind when another voice is in my ear; so I shut everyone out and feel relieved when they finally walk away.
I don’t mean to hurt feelings, but I need silence.
I don’t want anyone around because the tension that radiates from their discomfort with silence is even worse than being forced to talk.
I know they mean well, but I need rest.
I don’t need to lay down in the sense that it’s been a long day. I need to disappear for a while in the sense that it could be fatal…
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“I thought it only fair to warn you, but the baby will come at dark. And you know how they like to prey.”
She shuddered as the courage in her spine parted ways, some into the atmosphere, the rest slipping into the earth. She knew he didn’t mean pray.
Overwhelmed with gratitude and relief that he had come, the baby moved inside her.
When I woke this morning these words were in my head! What on earth had I been dreaming? I hadn’t thought about writing short stories, but maybe I’ve changed my mind…
You’re deafening my dreams,
the yelling is sewing up
I’ve grown into pink
and warm, loving streams
of consciousness, lost
in childhood low beams.
I’ve come to cherish
a colour so rare,
it’s often disparaged
and stripped to its bare
left beating to fare
in a world that translates
should be taken
to hearken the voice
that speaks so much closer
to ears and hearts moist
from beatings relentless,
frustrate in defenceless,
it’s time to put value
in not kicking more ass…
(when did that get cool anyway?)
I’m so sorry, what did you say?
No need to speak louder
put your guns down instead.
Let’s speak in a whisper,
nuanced tilts of the head –
(watch those mind bullets fall out…)
This looks lazy. Although, remember, looks can be deceiving. Well, except in this case. I am being lazy.
But, this is worth your time, I promise. It went around a couple of years ago, and because I’m so obviously filled with love for fellow humanity, and not just chocolate, I thought I’d bring it back around. Maybe counter clockwise this time. But when you get a chance, do yourself a favour and read it. For all of its philosophical poignancy/hilarity/downright jocularity.
what a recondite day for a funeral
the sky the colour of wind
with it’s abstruse way of connecting
and a restless need to rescind
the boundaries of pre conceived notions
that death is a part of life
we weren’t created to be separated
I’ll never stop thinking we’re rife
with the agonies of dimensional distance
cunning, convoluted and cruel
I thank God for blessed reunions
and perfuming the stench of death’s fuel.
that same time…always that exact time…1:27 am,
(although, yesterday, come to think of it, it was more like 11.30,
and then the night before it was 12.45,
and then, I think earlier in the week it was actually in the daytime, but it could have been 1.27pm, now I hadn’t thought of that, but I know it wasn’t 1.23 because I purposely don’t look at the clock at that time, and of course, there’s the whole 11.11 thing, which is another time I don’t look at the clock, because, well, it’s just begging you to, and I spent too many years being superstitious and I just don’t do that anymore.
(But if I am brutally honest, there are some things I refuse to say out loud because, well, Murphy. And now I am writing within a bracket within a bracket, which means I’m inviting you into some inner inner thoughts and I am actually rethinking that because well, now it’s 1:37am and I seriously should be getting some sleep.
And I have to allow time for this gorgeously, heart breakingly melancholic lullaby….))
This is so amazing I want to eat it. But I thought maybe I’d share it instead. Ugh! Thanks Yassy and Mick. Divine.
I lean on my heart, feeling it slipping away into an oblivion of aloneness.
My eyes hold teardrops that want to drown me. My stomach is full of pain that i seem to have swallowed in my sleeping and waking hours. Sobs rise in my throat into a broken conversation.
nature, its wilderness consoles
aloneness the pain
Life is a curtain raiser. I parade my role, a labyrinth knotting my insides, then this unconditional comaraderie breaks into the lonesomeness of my spirit’s desolation.
nature your soul’s partner
harvest her rewards
Dawn breaks into the window of my soul, the cosmos senses my essence, my nuances blend into a telepathic epiphany, stirring peace into my quintessence. I evanesce, the scars on my psyche sparkle like gems..from the heart of a loner, an immortal verse…a meditation for tranquility
reclusive virtues play
Thank you Mick..
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Maria, this is beautiful. Thanks for putting such eloquence to something it’s hard to find words for.
what do the children say
about special relativity?
when they neither had
a space to live and
a time to be free?
when past, present and future
were never in their grasp
when limbs, tears and blood
were all that they have
ask them an equation
they only have one:
the end is equivalent to the
mass of people multiplied by
the square of the speed of bomb
© 2017 Maria. All Rights Reserved.
This piece is also inspired Bjorn’s prompt at Toads. The photo above is from Banksy. In 2010, Banksy did another version of his Balloon Girl with a monochrome child, spray-painted on the wall of a private house in Bevois Valley, Southampton, England.
My heart bleeds for the people of Syria, especially the children. The alleged gas attack from Assad regime in a rebel-held town…
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did you think
as the world spiralled by
in colours you couldn’t wear
and memories you couldn’t make?
did I think
that you would live forever?
And we could drop from the swirl
tomorrow at your door,
reminiscing autumned haze
we never shared.
The quietest breeze passed
before we could uncoil a sigh.
Your brilliant paintbox
mourned all the more
for the world’s unknowing.
(In honour of one of our church members who was a remarkable man. He was a quadriplegic who died suddenly today. I am truly saddened for not taking the time to know him better.)
Thanks Melissa. This is beautiful.
Have you ever listened to a piece of music that was so perfect that it gave you chills every time you heard it? The song “Bring Him Home” by The Piano Guys is one of those pieces of music. (Link below.) I could listen to it a thousand times over and never fail to hear the yearning and passion in every note.
Did you also know that this kind of music has the power to change even the most stressful moments into an atmosphere of peace? Let me share an example.
The other day, I was taking the bus to run an errand. As I got on, there was a mother and her teenage daughter just in front of me. One of the passes didn’t work and an argument started up between the driver and the mother. I could hear them talking loudly, tempers rising, as I climbed up the…
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