Literature's Next Frontier


Flamingo

POETRY:

~I can not be read~

by The Golden Poet Quill-red


Life has its ways of showing us its natural colors and ways of doing things of purpose. You see it for what it really is. You grab on to it. Life is grand! Most people you see are the same. You can walk with them, hold on to them, feel them, and sometimes think what they are thinking. Sometime even feel their internal vibes. Hearts of quietness and loneliness to the soul is what I feel. Most people at their will want nothing more but to understand how I feel, and understand what it is that I’m thinking inside of my quiet little box of my mind, but I won’t let them. For I work way too hard for them to start understanding me now. Even I don’t understand who I am! At time I gives clues as to some of things that I want some people to know of me. But yet, never to give them the whole piece of the puzzle. Like some people I do have my expectation as to what I do feel that people should know of me. Quiet, loving, willing to do anything to get the job done right, determined, as well as very motivated. How I feel is how I write and how I write is what’s inside my soul. The world may read my words, but not my internal vibes. For this I can not be read. I can not be read because I choose so. It is easy to read other people, for they let their guards down wanting to be read hoping to be loved by everyone. Not knowing that not only will most people not love them, but they will hate them as well. For their expectation of themselves are different as to what people are seeing of them. Their internal vibes are showing too much. For this, I closed mine off! Coming from a place of abuse has taught me to stay within myself. Hidden away from the world looks of anger. Why do we anger with no reason for them. We lie and cheat others just to get a head in life. Forgetting about the things that really matter the most, and that is to love! Love one another as if they were you yourself wanting to be loved!  For these are the things that keeps me from wanting to be read! Staying safe, staying strong, and living along with happiness to keep my hopes and dreams of becoming a real man of myself! For these reason I can stand alone and say! I can not be read at least until I am ready to be read. Some my judge me for my ways of thinking, and so I’ll leave them with one thought to the mind. When you see me what do you see, or what you feel? Is it love, is trust, or is it the way I feel inside. Don’t worry I all ready know, because I can not be read.             

 

Cornelius G. Cole
The Golden Poet
 C
                        



Posted on: September 04 2011

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POETRY:

~In the mind of a black man ~

by The Golden Poet Quill-red

   
In the mind of a black man there are memories of our yesterdays of the pass. Our hard work leads us to temptation of unwanted gratitude, and pleasant achievements. All in all it’s what we thrive, and live for. What is a man with no thoughts of achieving his up most desires of the future, and what is a man if he sees no tomorrow in his pathway of life. God made our journeys in life to be achievable not to be breakable. There for we must run to achieve the unthinkable. Dreams of laughter, dreams of tears, dreams of sorrow, and of dedication are the dreams that will indeed find their way into our hearts, yet we must continue to march on a journey of continuance to achieve our dreams to the end. Brown eyes, blue eyes it doesn’t matter what color our eyes are or the color of our skin. All that really matters is where our journey ended us up at during our last breath of life. We try so hard to look at other people dreams trying to see through their eyes that we forget to look through our own eyes so that we can remember what it was that we had dreamed up for us, so that we can become even more of achievers in our own way of life’s journey. Black may be more beautiful on our skins, but in my mind I see breath taking achievable moments and more laughter’s  to my heart as well as joy to my soul in my future. It doesn’t matter what I’ve done in my pass all that really matter is where I end up! That’s at the top of my achievements and to the top I go…
    
Cornelius G. Cole
The Golden Poet
C
      


Posted on: September 04 2011

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POETRY:

~ Do You Remember How We Met ~

by The Golden Poet Quill-red

Do you remember how we met? So many years have pass by since then. We never thought our love would have last so long. Through pains and tears we still manage to stay together as one soul one flesh. I remember watching you from a distance hoping and wish you just look my way, and see the love that I held inside for such a special woman. I must have followed you around for hours without you even knowing I was there. You were a new student to a world of cooking, and still you stole my heart before you even got started. Days and week had passed and still, I’d follow you around hoping and wishing you would just look and see me there. Watching at amazed how God himself blessed me just by seeing your face. Still more Days and week had passed, but this day faith have prevail. Soon a day of excitement had come upon my heart, when prom night drawled us close. We danced our first dance together that night, God touched our hearts, and the love we combine, so deep, so passionate kept us together in love from the start. With just one dance we both knew in our hearts that It was mint for us to be together with nothing to tear us apart. Finally the days would have passed, and the day had come when we would leave the school of cooking but to our heart we would not depart. I bought you bus ticket taking you from one state to another just to come live with me in a world of destruction only for a few months. We both quickly packed up our bags and left a state of devastation and cruel ship. We thought things would get better little did we know. Life was of pains was just beginning. Throughout our years We fought  through the hardships, tough times, and deceit of other people, and yet We’re still together remembering our times falling in love with our hearts tied together. Not a moment of our life would I even change. Being together with you is like miracle of endless life to receive, and I have all the life I need with you by my side. Do you remember how we met? It was then you took my heart away. I’ll never ask for it back. Even if death ends us both. Do you remember how we met? It was then I seen my first Little White Angel, so bright so beautiful, Sweet, and soft as the clouds of the sky Because,  I remember how we met I gave you the key to my heart , my soul, my life being.  You were the joy I need to survive in world thats broken. The sun I need to over come my Darkness, the cloths I needed to cover my un-cloths heart. Most all you as beautiful then as you are now inside and out. I love you Dear with each breath that I take, because all together I remember how we met…

 

Cornelius G. Cole

The Golden Poet

C


Posted on: September 04 2011

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POETRY:

~ Forbidden Love ~

by The Golden Poet Quill-red

 

  I lay awake in my bed at night thinking and fighting, but still can't sleep. My Soul Cry’s Out wanting take my Middle night rest, but I can’t. Tossing and turning Fighting Myself to pull the cover over my head, Finally I SCREAM!!! Only to be heard by me only. I Can’t stop myself from thinking thoughts that controls me. Trying to hold back the tears, trying to throw away my fears, but not being able to deal with uncontrollable desire of the presents that I’m feeling towards you. How come is that I can feel your presents, but your not here? Sweat Falls off my face, My body temperature is rising again, hands are shaking, and My throat is filled with lumps! Anxiety of the night is Starting to kick in. Day break is finally At Near. For morning is Here. Why did I Stay awake All night? All Because of a Forbidden Love. Her walk, Her Smile, her laughter is as water falling in a rain forest. Lips of a Bright red Rose and Body fragrance Which takes my breath away. The Only Thing is your forbidden. Love has its ways of bringing life to a soulless heart even breaking through the unbreakable of the minds that’s never seen love before yet, your not mine to love. Your in love with someone Who don’t even love you back. In return he breaks your heart like broken pieces of glass that cuts through the finger tips during pick from a shattered heart. In time your heart will heal, but my heart awaits until it to will have you. Just think us two Walking alone the beach during the mid Day After Noon! As The Sun Starts to Set. Only to be taken away by lights of candle light dinner then movie. Still you’re the Forbidden Love which taken all my life being away. I keep telling myself that soon someday our love will collide, But then Those Two Simple word Continues to surrounds me. you’re the Forbidden Love. If only I could hold you in my arms for one night! One night could tell that our love could combine together. With a love so Strong Only God himself could tear it apart In Death do us part. Walking under the Moon light, Stars of the night fall, and sun set of the ocean blue is what I long to do with you. Why can’t you see that he’s no good for you? Do you Not see that love is Only in the horizon of the sunset of the hearts of love? You and I could light The Sky without any misconception to tear us apart! Why are you  The Forbidden love? Therefore, I’ll leave you with my words. Keeping In Your mind. My tenderly hand Touching To your face, Touching you with the touches of My finger tips ever so slowly. Making your Body Quiver Slowly from side to side, Only Wanting more and more of a touch so sensational, led only by the tips of my finger tips. Breath taken endurance in Your Mind Wanting me to Continue. Your thighs squeezing together without let up. All your Clothes are on the Floor. My lips to your lips, My kisses to your everywhere parts. Making you want me even much faster then what we are going to do! Love making Souls Combining together by our heart of the Souls, Our Candle light by our bed side are most out. Still you want more love make tenderness from our soul. Morning comes again and yet we’re not done. For we both know that We just Begun doing the impossible. Breaking  the breaking waves that’s been keepping us apart. Our Forbidden Love That Have now cease to be. By love making tenderness which takes your breath away so, Until that day does come I’ll Keep you in my Heart as Forbidden, For You are My Forbidden Love.

 

Cornelius G. Cole

The Golden Poet

C


Posted on: September 04 2011

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POETRY:

~ Circumstances ~

by The Golden Poet Quill-red

What love is this which thinks she knows me? For this reason She try’s to love me. My little heart must first take a stance. For she doesn’t know of my circumstances. All in all some may think its cute. To see a woman heart played like a flute. Its cold outside as snow fill the air. I can’t help but to notice. She’s giving a glare. It’s the look in her eyes the switch in her hips.  That has this poor Guy doing flips. She now has my heart as if I’m dancing. Keep in mind I have  circumstances. With the swiftness of hear moves I’m feeling tipsy. I’ll run the other way she wont even miss me. With my broken Heart that has been torn in pieces. Lied to, Stomped on way to many times. I had to leave her in behind. I can’t take these Chances. For she doesn’t even know of my circumstances. Being drained from running it is now time to stop and rest. To clear my head from her tactful mess. What love is this which thinks she knows me? For this reason She try’s to love me. My little heart must first take a stance. For this She came and found me with her circumstances. She been hurt in ways that gave note to my heart. Melting away this poor guy’s blocks. That’s been blocking the way for her not to take part. We both have been hurt in ways so we now start talk. Still I’m thinking of running the other way. For I feel that its time for us to depart. Yet with my mouth I say let us both take a little walk. Now we both know each other circumstances. To love with our hearts. With smiles and laughter that fills the air. I wonder if she would she let me kiss her anywhere. I lean in to give her a quick kiss on the face. She quickly runs Spraying me with mace. Days later as my eyes healed by being mace. She quickly reveals her face. Screaming you don’t even know my circumstances. At times like this I would try and run away.  Still understanding her makes me want to stand in my place. With tears falling down her face. I finally ask her. Why don’t you please tell me all of your very own circumstances. As she says to love me for who I am. And I’ll do the same. As we now both have the same last name.

 

 

Cornelius G. Cole

 The Golden Poet

 C


Posted on: September 04 2011

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POETRY:

Leavin' on an Astral Plane

by R. W. Scott Quill-green

(With most sincere apologies to Peter, Paul and Mary)

 

All my keys are blank, my ink won't flow,
I can't write, it's become a chore,
I hate to think my writing skill's gone dry.
But my head is achin', it feels worn,
My agent's screamin' and I'm feelin' torn.
My muse is gone; I feel like I could die!

Please help me, don't write for me.
Tell me you'll inspire me.
Help me like you did so long ago.
I'm searchin' all through my brain,
I don't know if I can write again...
O' muse I have to know.

There's so many times I've played the clown,
Hit the heights, and hit the ground,
But alcohol, it was just a fling.
Every time I write, I write for you,
When ideas come, they come from you,
If you'll come back, I'll do anything.

Please help me, don't write for me.
Tell me you'll inspire me.
Help me like you did so long ago.
I'm searchin' all through my brain,
I don't know if I can write again...
O' muse I have to know.

Now the time has come at last,
I need an answer, I need it fast,
I need to know, O' will you stay with me?
I dream about the days to come,
When I won't feel like a bum,
About a time that I won't have to plea...

Please help me, don't write for me.
Tell me you'll inspire me.
Help me like you did so long ago.
I'm searchin' all through my brain,
I don't know if I can write again...
O' muse I have to know...


Posted on: September 02 2011

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FICTION:

Brain Disturbed

by Delicate Flower Quill-blue

     All seems calm as a storm brews in the cerebral cortex of the unsuspecting brain that rests on a pillow of impending nails.  Shadowy figures dance before half opened eyes as a needle prick teases the upper right lid.  Flashing lights swirl together and burst apart in a kaleidoscope of distorted snouts of old men with rotting teeth.  The reverie shocks the matter into a crushing reality as the vice tightens and startles the skull into a throbbing ball of lead.

     Barometric pressure fuels the beast, steaming the brain into a poisonous cauliflower, waiting for tortuous vessels to unravel by the healing hands of the medicine man.  The swollen lobe lays, like an expanding sack of sand waiting to be torched.  The hammer that pounds morphs into a Phillips Head that churns and screws its pointy pike through an avalanche of sludge.  A poker dipped in molten lava spears the sclera, coursing cornea and perforating pupil.

     Thousands of healing hands glide over the ravaged mass of morbid matter.  The mending force leads to a den of Opium.  Excavation begins as the moment of normalcy arrives.  Gratitude is expressed to the heavens above and to the brilliant inventors of the little white pill, with vows to never eat pizza or chocolate again.  But, the pain gods know better and they hover with a sinister smile.


Posted on: August 31 2011

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POETRY:

Spring

by Delicate Flower Quill-blue

The bareness of winters white

has given rise to springs delight

as beetles follow lady bugs

to trenches filled with worms -

where hearts of five come alive

with each and every squirm.

The working ants march to hills

where soils rich with daffodils

filled with buzzing bees that hum

fron Azaleas to Chrysanthemums.

The songs of springs rebirth resounds

as roots of branches drink

creating pastures far and wide

from natures nutrient ladened sink.

The chirping wakes the morning bloom

as dawn speckles shades of blue.

The rainbows eyes collide with dew

to greet the budding leaves

with grassy lands of green surprise

as forests fill with trees.


Posted on: August 30 2011

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NON-FICTION:

My Migraine - Revisited

by Delicate Flower Quill-blue

     A needle spears my brain in the middle of the night, or so it seems.  My peepers expand slightly as I realize it's only a matter of moments before I will be kicked out of bed by the storm about to rage through my cerebral cortex.  Consumed by exhaustion, I want to believe that the hurricane is a nightmare, so I pretend the vortex of swirling lights in front of my closed eyes is but a dream.  My perceived reverie becomes all too real as the crushing force of a lead balloon propels me out of my comfortable bed.  I stagger to the kitchen - my tortured brain willing me toward the pill that will eventually restore order to my electrical circuitry.  I grab a bag of frozen mixed vegetables and wobble to the easy chair to wait for redemption.

     I'm stretched out waiting to be rescued as the barometric pressure fuels the beast and steams my brain into a poisonous cauliflower.  I wait for tortuous vessels to unravel by the healing hands of medicine man.  A glance at the digital device tells me another thirty minutes of suffering can be expected before the vice releases its grip.  Until then, I can only pray to the pharmaceutical gods to hurry up and work their magic.

     I lay, like a sad sack, saturated by melting veggies, too weak to execute my fantasy of baking my head in a nice hot oven, while the giant jaws squeeze my skull.  A hammer bashes my brains and slowly morphs into a Phillips Head churning and screwing its pointy pike through my left temple.  Thousands of bits drill holes that fill with sludge from an avalanche of heavy wet mud.  A poker dipped in molten lava spears my sclera, coursing through cornea perforating my pupil.  My eye barely views the time ticker, reminding me that relief is only fifteen minutes away.

     I imagine thousands of healing hands gently gliding over my worn out frame.  A momentary tingle surges through my body, making its way to ravaged masses of morbid matter.  The  drugs are trying to work, but as usual, I waited too long before popping my relief, preferring to believe what has been implied by others - that I am a psychosomatic producer of my own suffering.  The mending force leads me into a den of Opium where I lay and breath deeply.

     I feel excavated.  My eyes open easily.  I view the clock.  The moment of normalcy has arrived.  I exude gratitude to the heavens above and to the brilliant minds that invented my little white pill.  I vow never to eat pizza or chocolate again.  But, the pain gods know better and they hover with a sinister smile.


Posted on: August 30 2011

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NON-FICTION:

My Migraine

by Delicate Flower Quill-blue

     A needle spears into my brain in the middle of the night, or so it seems.  I am used to the stabbing pain, so it causes no surprise and I close my eyes.  But, I know it's only a matter of moments before I will be forced out of bed.  Here it comes - the lead balloon has landed on my head.  I'm exhausted and try with all my might to fight the intensifying crushing sensation.  I am forced to stagger out of my comfortable bed and head to the kitchen where my drugs await me.  My tortured brain leads me towards the Maxalt - my prescription miracle that will make me feel normal in forty five minutes.  I waited too long.  I always do that.  I know I'm supposed to take my medicine before the pain envelopes my entire body.  But, I try to tell myself that it's all in my head, which is what has been said to me by some doctors and even family members.  They don't mean this in the literal sense.  They imply that this is some kind of psychosomatic invention that I force myself into experiencing.  I admit, I did eat chocolate last night.  And Pizza a few nights before that - oh yeah, and I had a box of raisins and a banana with my cereal for breakfast yesterday morning.  I know I'm supposed to abstain from these foods known to bring out the beast, but sometimes I feel fine after ingesting these seemingly soothing nutrients.  There must be a weather front on its way from Canada.  The barometric pressure builds, steaming my brain into a poisonous cauliflower that waits for the medicine to make its way into its tortuous vessels.  I stick my head over a pot of boiling water while I wait for the medication to take effect.  The steam feels like a thousand heated hands slowly massaging my entire body.  The endorphins give me thirty seconds of relief, but I'll take what I can get.  I grab a bag of frozen mixed vegetables from the freezer and shuffle to the couch.  I lie down and place the medicinal veggies where the pain is most intense.  I close my eyes and pray for the pain to disappear.  The pain is getting worse and I start to envision myself turning into Sylvia Plath as I contemplate sticking my head into a nice hot oven.  That sounds so soothing right about now.  I lay like a sad sack, saturated by my melting vegetables, waiting for the pain to stop.  I pretend I'm floating around in an Opium den, which is ironic, since I'm not the Heroin type.  But, the fantasy seems to be working.  The pain is letting up.  I feel like I'm floating and my eyes are getting heavy.  I'm feeling no pain and I thank the pharmaceutical gods in their white coats and dark rimmed spectacles as I sail off into a painless sleep.


Posted on: August 29 2011

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NON-FICTION:

What If?

by R. W. Scott Quill-green

Ever hear an ad on the radio (this is more a radio thing than TV), "...get the ___________ that YOU deserve!" It goes on to explain what it is that YOU, the listener, deserves in great and expensive detail.

And THAT got me thinking:

What if everyone really DID get what they deserved? Wouldn't that be amazing? Not everything a person deserves is something they want, now, is it?

Then I had a thought about the "What If?" question in general, and I wondered:

What if there were no pills or shots? What if all medicines had to be taken in a spoon? Would that change the number of hypochondriacs out there?

What if no person could do anything for him- or herself, including feeding, bathing, and cleaning up after a bathroom visit? Would that change the way we look at and deal with our neighbors? Our family?  ...and strangers?

What if the education system was based on things learned, not on time spent? No. Really.

What if when someone failed, you said "bless you" (because they just learned something), and when they sneezed you said "damn you" for spreading germs?

What if we only ate when we were hungry, and only drank when we were thirsty?

...and finally, what if YOU added to this list?


Posted on: August 29 2011

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POETRY:

Green

by Delicate Flower Quill-blue

Grass is green

and jealousy's mean

the wicked witch's face.

The hot house is as green can be

a very steamy place.

Mold and moss

grow quite well

along the strong big bark.

And plants and frogs

and leaves of trees

are green until it's dark.

 


Posted on: August 27 2011

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POETRY:

The Reappearance of a Memory

by Delicate Flower Quill-blue

Nothing appears to be seen

as far as eyes can see.

But, does that mean

nothing's really there?

Look - where there appears

to be an empty space.

The trace of a memory

thought to be erased,

reappears after all these years

of thinking nothing was here.


Posted on: August 27 2011

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POETRY:

Harrassment

by Poetrygirl Quill-red

Write, Write, Write; Fix, Fix, Fix; Try again, Try again, Try again; Write, Write, Write; Fix, Fix, Fix; Try again, Try again, Try again; Write, Write, Write; Fix, Fix, Fix; Try again, Try again, Try again; BUT WAIT!!! Stop fixing. Write, Write, Write! Harassment? No, perfection!


Posted on: August 26 2011

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POETRY:

PAIN

by Anonymous

I was someone once When life had substance That was then Thought I’d win What did I know Glaring thru the window How vain Shall I remain


Posted on: August 26 2011

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POETRY:

One Line

by Poetrygirl Quill-red

This is one line

Although it is more than you think

Where will we end up

The earth is not flat

Nor should this be.


Posted on: August 25 2011

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POETRY:

The Heraclitean Nature of Existence

by the other guy Quill-orange

                Erupting from the tunnel, skimming by

                      Back-eddying waters, swaying past dark

                      Swamps, eroded highways, vast yards of high-

                      Stacked ruined trucks -- vagrant cities' last mark --,

                      The rail car's window constructs well-ordered spaces,

                      And arouses, in its passage's shuddering change,

                      A crowded desire, laced with fear that displaces

                      Assured repose.

                                                        Outside, the damp sources are arranged

                      In dark tableaux of events stark in the night,

                      Their various facets repelling your chastened stare;

                      Each unchanged as you sway back down the rails,

                      Real as the crooked fire of the match you light.

                      Blundering by their quiescence, you can become aware

                      Of uncrafted presence persisting when vision fails.


Posted on: August 24 2011

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FICTION:

A Quiet Disturbed

by SephiPiderWitch Quill-yellow

 

 

 

Swirls of mist rose up from the ground, hovering gently above it, caressing it and checking its substance. A stir breathed into it and moved it in swirls and undulations, soft glows emanating within its depths like bodies swimming and riding the currents. Diffused faces looked around, disoriented, seemingly lost and confused. The glows shifted in varied hues and shades of colors within the deepening churning mists, soft muted colors from gentle pastels to demure shades so dim as to be barely perceptible. Occasionally, small sparks of light emerged as if a few tiny stars were trapped within and trying to escape.

 

 

The soft curtain of silence that was night became slightly severed with low unsettled whispers. At first, it was but a couple, then it began to multiply, urgent, confused, questioning. It sent ripples through the night air, awakening more spirits to join and bringing disquiet into this place of quiet sleep.

 

 

A small voice cleared the murmurs of the others, a soft voice, but clear as a crystal bell. “What has happened? I slept, I dreamt, all was complete, I was divine. I was alone and now there are many. It was quiet, now it is disturbed. There are so many! How came I to be in not the place I should?”

 

 

The shimmer behind the voice looked about. Their voices underlying the silence like the hum of a far off machine that is just within the hearing range and can’t be dismissed. They permeated the air and sent ripples through it that made nerves ache.

 

 

The sky began to lighten as the morning sun slowly crept upward. The unease grew within the voices, their movements quickening and the disturbance in the air rising. Their glows began to fade as the light grew till all that remained was the mist and the murmurs of the disturbed air.

 

 

Day crested and the gates were opened. Soon, a group of people made a slow, ritual way inward, their eyes downcast, their purpose focused. They found the assigned spot and began to take their places, waiting patiently for the last stragglers. Some shifted uncomfortably for a time while others looked around them and still others simply stood in contemplative silence.

 

 

They began. And the disturbed mists felt them and made their way over. They watched as the mists slipped in and about their feet as they began to speak. The mist rose and thickened, and as it rose, they felt a weight that was beyond the weight of this day, a weight that was beyond theirs, and yet felt like it should be, descend upon them and envelop them. As each took their turns to speak what they had come to say, they found other words issuing forth in the midst of their own, words that came from their mouths that were not theirs. Their sorrows made more bare, amplified, as they felt the anguish of the displaced.

 

 

A small girl stood off at the end of the group, holding tightly to her mother’s hand. She smiled as she looked to her side and saw the shimmer that was the small voice and they reached out to each other. The girl looked up at her mother and tugged gently on her arm to tell her. The mother leaned down and the girl told her of the shimmer that could no longer dream and the mists that had been forced out and had no home any more. And the mother heard it and believed that the weight of the day had been too much for the girl and tried to console her and tell her it was but her imagination playing tricks upon her. The girl sobbed and nodded, but never let go of the shimmer that held her hand.

 

 

As the last words were being spoken, the shimmer began to quiver and tightened her grip on the girl’s hand. She tugged gently, imploring the girl to follow and wrapped the girl in the urgency and desperation that had become her. Gently, the girl let her hand slip from her mother’s grip and let the shimmer wrap around her, cloaking her from the watchful eyes about. They went to a quiet hill with an ancient tree upon it, stretching its limbs to protect the whole hill. They sat under the tree as the shimmer told her story of her dreams disturbed and how she woke to find her place had become no place and of the others who once had a home and a place to rest and now had nowhere and were lost.

 

 

The voices of the party echoed across the area, frantic and imploring. They watched as they wandered around the area under the hill and sat silent, the great limbs of the tree hiding them from their seekers. The shimmer held tight to the girl, begging her to stay there so she would not be alone in this strange open place. The girl nodded and sobbed, for the shimmer’s sorrows as much as the fear of what the party would do to her once she was found.

 

 

As the party searched, the mists followed, circling the members of the group and wailing out at them. Their wails sparked fears in the party and they looked to the sky for the storm they believed to be approaching. The search grew more frantic and harried and the people darted in every direction, fear gripping at them like a stalker.

 

 

The mother came up around the back of the hill and that’s where she found them. The mists converged on her as she fell to her knees at what was before her and wept. The others came rushing and looked with horror with her at the jumbled wreckage of the discarded. It was like peering into a dragon’s cave. The remains were tossed in piles and strewn across the ground like discarded refuse. Remnants and shards dotted solitary areas. Eyeless holes peered out at them and skeletal hands reached out as if for help. They shouted and made calls and soon there were very many more. Many needed to untangle and make sense of the chaotic web of all these remains. Many needed to help piece each back together and make whole again, many to find answers and demand a reckoning.

 

 

A small lone form was the first to be put back in its place, gently lifted and given a new warm place to lie with soft cushions all around. As she was laid reverently onto the cushions, the young one with the laughter of a thousand bells and stars shining in her eyes, the girl felt the shimmer begin to release its grip and felt a gentle brush against her cheek. The shimmer settled in and once again dreamt and once again was divine.

 

 

Sephi'PiderWitch July 25, 2009


Posted on: August 24 2011

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POETRY:

The Roots of Passion

by Delicate Flower Quill-blue

The passion rises

from the rose

that blooms and sheds

its red petals

throughout the garden of our souls.

The thorns that cut and bleed

leaving scars embedded in eternity.

Planting the roots

of strong maternal needs.

Feelings flow

saturating the soil

with seeds that spread and grow

deep into the ground

where we will all eventually go.


Posted on: August 24 2011

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POETRY:

Eternal Web

by Delicate Flower Quill-blue

Weaving through a web

connecting all of time.

Fused for eternity

are moments intertwined.

Swishing and swirling

through fog and misty dew,

connecting shadowy, steamy shapes

of shades of grades of blue.

Fused for eternity

are the memories in my mind

linking you with me

forever for all time.

 


Posted on: August 24 2011

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POETRY:

Grandma Bea

by Delicate Flower Quill-blue

It started a long time ago

when I used to walk a mile or so

to visit with Grandma Bea.

She'd offer her smile, cookies, and tea

and we'd sit and talk and watch T.V.

I can't forget the weekly trips

to Howard Johnson's for fish and chips.

Ringling Brothers and Nutcracker suites 

were places we'd go

and it was always a treat.

Grandma Bea watched me grow

and listened to all 

my relationship woes.

She'd never judge me in any way

and always listened to what I'd say.

The only times we would disagree

was when she was driving 

in a car with me.

"You're going much too fast -

you're a crazy driver",

she would sometimes blast.

But, after we'd reach our destination

we'd be at peace

and have a revelation.

The Rascal House was our usual place

where we'd meet to talk and laugh and eat.

Our day was not complete

unless we could shop -

Shop till we drop

that was our motto

and by the time we were done

we needed to win Lotto.

When I think of all the things we've done

I remember having so much fun

like eating hot hogs without the bun

and before we knew it

we'd be on the run.

Costco, Publix, and Sawgrass Mills

Quality shoping

without all the frills.

Then, we worked up an appetite -

where should we go for dinner tonight?

Moe's is only opened till four

and the Rascal House

has a line out the door.

But, Turnbagel's opened, so we've heard.

We musn't miss the early bird.

I always looked forward to calling Grandma up

to tell her all the latest stuff

And, so as far as grandmother's go -

you are the most wonderful grandmother I know.


Posted on: August 24 2011

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POETRY:

Open Your Eyes

by Delicate Flower Quill-blue

Open your eyes

and finally see

what has been in front of you

since your existence graced this earth.

The flowers that blossom and sing

telling you to celebrate your birth.

Walk with pride

and finally appreciate

the wonder of the heaven's work

the carvings of stone

cemented into an earth

covered by green -

the clarity of the sea

strategically placed

below your eyes

whispering your name

summoning your soul

guiding your path 

to eternal greatness.


Posted on: August 24 2011

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POETRY:

Yarn Dreams

by Blaze Quill-red

Turning up her nose

to the fairy tale,

life is so much sweeter

than the imagination;

a skein of yarn at her feet

unraveling

           into

                                                 a giant tapestry

                                                                                     of freedom.


Posted on: August 24 2011

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POETRY:

This is the Moment

by Blaze Quill-red

 

To be your blazing self…

to speak with your heart and

dance with your soul.

To be brilliant…

in all the ways you already are and

the million more yet to be discovered.

To follow a path…

of your own design and

in a direction that best suits you.

Are you ready?

–Barbara L. Lazarony


Posted on: August 23 2011

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POETRY:

Your Hands

by Blaze Quill-red

 

 

 

 

 

Hold my hand,

guide me in hollow darkness,

on my journey,

remind me,

“You are not alone.”

 

I will be rattled,

by turbulent swirls of force,

may I find peace

and friendship in our grasp.

 

--Barbara L. Lazarony


Posted on: August 23 2011

3 Comments

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