Happy Caturday! It has been a while since I have shared anything cat related but I will try to make this a weekly thing again. For now, Caturday features my beloved Sir Harold in his favourite box.
Staring down a blank page feels hefty after an already long week. When seeing news of the world roll through social media like a plague of violence, bloodshed and injustice. When so many things go unchanged and there doesn’t seem to be a damn thing we can do about it. A vacant white screen glares as angrily as I do at some of the stuff I have been reading lately.
It has been lurking on the edge of my mind that it has been twelve years since my mother’s ex burned the house down in a drunken rage meant to kill. And it astounds me how much has changed in those years. This week’s Poetry Friday is dedicated to perseverance and courage of domestic violence survivors.
And to the promise I made myself back in 2004: Never again.
Black as Night
curled up in a strange bed,
Mother drinking weak coffee
while standing strong
after running again.
Young and restless,
after all the bruises and pain
I was running in place
on an endless road
and the rain fell down.
Guess I see the world
through jaded eyes,
haunted by a thief.
He was a scumbag raping a gypsy,
left her broken
at the bottom of
a catatonic chamber.
He sulks around her bedroom door,
Continue reading “Poetry Friday ~ Jaded Eyes Eloquently Fragile”
Sometimes life is a series of detours, leading you away from the road you were on just to plunk you down where you’re meant to be. Whether your road is pavement and skyscrapers or gravel back roads and endless skyline, your place to fall might be nothing more than a simple change that shifts everything back into focus.
Last year, as some of you know, I spent six months as a stay-at-home wife for my husband while he went off to work every day. He is so supportive of my writing dream and my ambition to be a stay-at-home writer that he let it happen so I could get the first draft of “Edge of Glory” done instead of going to a job I hated each morning.
“One hand reaches out
And pulls a lost soul from harm
While a thousand more go unspoken for
And they say what good have you done?
By saving just this one?
It’s like whispering a prayer in the fury of a storm
And I hear them saying you’ll never change things
And no matter what you do it’s still the same thing
But it’s not the world that I am changing
I do this so this world will know
That it will not change me.” ~ Garth Brooks, “The Change”
Love is not pointless. Hope is not a lost cause. And no matter what anyone says, I refuse to believe that the world is completely tragic and treacherous.
I have been sitting back and watching the news rather quietly lately. Mostly stunned at some of the things happening. The Stanford rape case. The Orlando shooting at a gay night club. Some days it feels like the world bears such a hefty load and it gets hard to believe in good hearts. Reading news stories and wondering if there is any love left at all in the remnants of shootings and murders and the absolutely horrific things human beings do to each other in the name of religion, self-entitlement and cruelty.
A little late for Poetry Friday, but it’s a gorgeous rainy night here and I am sipping on a cup of tea as I sit down to work on “Edge of Glory” on a rare night I have the house to myself…
Watercolour Flowers of a Sombrous Earth
Where are watercolour flowers dripping purple wine?
Paintbrushes of satiny petals
across a sombrous earth.
Lovely gypsy of grace; runaway in strange shades.
Rain down on me astounding colours through my hair
trickling down the sidewalk to the gutters.
Just to see the eyes of the painter,
the face of genuine propriety,
symphonies of gentle movements
across the soft lit room. It’s in shades of petals
melting through hands; to be more
than anything you’ve ever known,
textures of vibrancy soaking flower stems
while dreamers count each petal that lands in their hair.
This is more than a place. It is wherever you are.
We are like portraits whispering secrets upon
the canvas which we are painted on,
smudging blooms of pinks, blues;
every other hue at soul tips. We are poets.
Our words enliven the moon-dusted flowers,
tinge the strangers of crimson
for the skies to drip silvery lyrics, each one elegantly poetic.
So soak me up like rain. We are all artists
of eloquent destinies, children of water-coloured flowers,
runaways of paint-dripping stars. Thriving glances
of the patchwork gypsy, petal sewn silk in your hands
raining through my hair, astounding dreams
to be every shade of everything I could ever dream…
Somewhere in surrealism is simplicity of a sombrous earth.