Gold-Mind

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There is so much gold inside your longing to be you, this is the most precious intent. No heavy cloaks of foul feelings can dim a diamond cut by the goodness you feed your mind. The mind, so precious an instrument, when seeded with love will yield abundance. Make the mistake of welcoming thoughts with ugly features and you run the risk of stepping into an ugly world, cold and uninviting.

Its okay to be you, let the manikins muse. So often revered, this jury of your pears has played a role in stifling your sunlight. You have earned your summer, so smile and forget shame. Learn to love all that your heart conjures in its hunger for life, its thirst for love, and its wants in the throes curiosity.

I have never seen a rose recoil in shame. It blushes often, but bears its head with pride, unashamedly a rose, be a rose. Let all the goodness in you blossom and let the world return the favour. There is nothing more contagious than true happiness.

…If you have good thoughts it will shine out of your face like sunbeams and you will always look lovely.

Roald Dahl

 

 

Father Forgive Me

On his face, the years are telling. His eyes, once alive with colour, were now shadows, long bled of there vibrant qualities. His skin, once taught with youth, draped as the last shroud of a man who has forgotten himself. The ushers of the  great hall were accustomed to his coming and going. It had been years since he attended a service accompanied by wife and son, now he creeps under the silent vigil of the crucifix to say his prayers. His lips had counted away the years on the varnished pine of that old cathedral.

Every man has in him a story without an audience. To the crucifix with its burden still pinned to it, he offered the secret journal of a man burdened by bitterness. Some of his hidden stories he is liberated from, jaded by the decay that meets thoughts long since unused. Others still hang to him heavily. The icy countenance of the grey walls gained a kinship with his story. He spoke of family, he spoke of life, he spoke of the dark folds hidden in his memory, he cried. He spoke of Mary.

Mary was the persistent thread, a vibrant yarn of red woven into his life patiently. Now a frayed parchment of a man, turning to the abundant flame of faith to help seal his loose edges. He was riddled with questions. The cold bottles he swallowed whole, hadn’t simmered the fire in his belly. Maybe a prayer rushing through the hollow house of holy communion could extinguish his inquisition.

For a man that the world had forgotten, Mary and the church offered sanctuary, she gave him a family again. He hadn’t swooned to the holy books as she had done, but the unrelenting love she claimed came from her faith was soothing to his spirit. As a boy he was hard to love, they said, no mother to teach tenderness, so her loving him was as water on wanting earth. As a boy his spirits were hoisted higher than most, and he had a nose for finding trouble enough to test his fathers heavy hand. In learning his father trade, the firm hand of an infirm mind, he watched his palm weep the faces around him to a cold distance. Only Mary’s warming smile and vibrant eyes, speckled with blue, were true and brave enough to warm him to the notion of worth.

He always blamed himself for the return of his father in him. He regretted that on that evening he was his fathers son again, riled into agitation by his sons action. That evening had lived in every evening since then. Any evening quiet enough, any evening potent enough with liquor to ease him into sleep would conjure the incident to life. He always woke up as he hears the last note of life, the last tumble at the last stair as she laid to rest. She was only hoping the calm him. There was ruckus, then there was silence. There have been 7 years of silence since.

**********************

On leaving the church he followed the empty roads to where there is a mounted stone and his Mary’s name etched on it. On that day it had been 7 years since he let her rest, the earth was never a fitting place for her. He’d always thought she would lay her wreath for him, never him for her, so he watched in ceremony and laid his apologies where her memory lay. The sun was running away from the day, the last light sinking into the ground waiting for the night to greet him.

He was startled by a sound. Greeted by two nimble arms pulling him close, little Hope wrapped her arms around her grandfather and help him tight. His only son had arrived to remember his mother, the two exchanged nods and separately made peace. Hope was alive by his feet looking up at his weary face with hers still full of life. She greeted him with her eyes, bluer than life and swollen with undying youth, speckled with blue. Playing with the ends of her red sweater, tugging at the loose thread at the sleeves. He stopped her short, stilled her hands and held her close. She saw him as Mary had always done, a man worth loving. A promise of life had found him, in Hope.

 

 

Choice

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Sometimes its easy, sometimes its hard, but making the decision is key. There are a thousand tributaries rooted in every second, every moment presents an option to reshape the course of the river. This body of time has life and a mind of its own, it keeps coursing, swallowing the world in its fluid steps. Gracefully supple, undeniably powerful, you have to take care and take to it in the right way.

There is a song that plays in the air as it cuts a course.The sweet and sour notes of this able bodied wine, aged since time in memorial, winds a testing harmony, demanding action or provoking complacency. Branches will fall from family trees, the ground will give way, there will be rapids that will beg you to find the strength to find air when it leaves you. When you fall victim to the notion that you are merely a passenger, you turn you lips to sour curves when greeted by the dissonance in the melody of you maladjustments. These twisted features steal from your chance to take ownership and rescue your rhythm. Tread carefully, pause and tread water, find the strength to command you minds oars.

I was in the habit of watching her lead. Infected by everything inside her, I lost sight of sense while spending time in her tranquil torrents. Like anyone else, I had my senses, I had my character. Without faltering I proved myself the master of my own thoughts on many an occasion rich with with her clear waters. She paralyzed this truth, with rapids, blankets of wash that showered me, washing my hands clean of confidence stolen from worldly things. Naked, I felt nameless, the river left me with many questions. Who was I? Where was I headed.

I believe our words are heavy, so I heaved a statement into existence that yoked my sense of self to effort. The river will always run, its race is longer and truer than mine. I will dive in and run with it while my body is able, while my breath is in action I will work with the waves and hold up my end of the bargain and cut my own course. There are a thousand tributaries rooted in every second, every moment presents an option to reshape the course of the river. I will be ready when the rapids return, captain of my voyage.

 

Writing 201, Assignment 3: Acrostic – Trust

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Another day in the world of WordPress has provided another glorious opportunity to fine tune our art of expression, Writing 201, challenge number 3 is in play. The poetic form we have been given to play with today is “Acrostic”, spelling out a word, or words with the first letters of each line of our poem. The optional devise we can make used of today is the internal rhyme, and finally the prompt. Our poems have the option of addressing the topic trust, in any manner we see fit. This is my contribution. Enjoy!

Momentary truths are tested against forever,

Afflictions of affection, feeding a foul weather.

Summers of sweet escapes and serenading amore,

Quiver in moors, stagnant, stripped of any allure.

Unravelling vales falling, raising a stale wall,

Elaborate tales told, unfold to exhale all.

Roaring flames spasming, eating away the frame,

Attacking the strokes painted by pain of a known name.

Deceit is a small game in the dance of hidden intention,

Evading the truth for gain, only maims future ascension.

Writing 201, Assignment 2: Limerick – Brooks

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Day 1 of writing 201 was the source of intrigue and excitement. Day two is finally here, and it brings with it a very familiar face, the limerick. Today’s assignment suggest a prompt and a device to implement. Based on today’s brief, I have to make use of alliteration, in a limerick to present a journey to you, the reader. Enjoy!

Beneath the brackens bosom, a babbling brook bleeds,

Running free from forests foot, finding flesh in fuller seas.

Fleeting, forgotten moments

Turn trickles to testing torrents,

Beneath bracken the brook begins, in tides of freedom it leads!

Writing 201 – Day 1, part 2: Haiku “Floating/fleeting”

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Today’s Challenge for Writing 201 has left me revelling in the allure of a newness. I’ve spent my evening pouring over the various submission to the days prompt with varying degrees of understanding, curiosity and awe. 17 syllables have trapped me in fascination and I fail to shake there grasp. With the same brief still in mind I have decided to contribute another poem. Another haiku to further confuse my idea of rhythm, meter and prose, and to better talk in a finer tuned tone of brevity.

FLEETING/FLOATING

 

Sprawling anxious waves
Alive like stolen secrets.
Every breath recedes.