Lavender Dream #Dream #Writephoto #poetry

dream
Photo Credit: Sue Vincent

Once again Sue Vincent’s #writephoto prompt photo has mirrored my dreams. It’s been a challenging two weeks. My computer died, again, and the resuscitation of  it was more laborious and disruptive than I had hoped it would be. Breathing into the letting go, what may be lost, what may take monumental efforts to fully restore, has been a call to open the heart. 

Lavender Dream

I dreamt of the self starved

my body yielding to others, breathing

out instead of in. I will be there

for you, she knows the whisper as rote

memory so deep the threads bind her own

love. You can see it in her narrowed hips

breasts, almost pre-pubescent. As though

the body learned before it could fully grow

to turn inward upon itself. Preservation

in the outer yielding. I will be there for you

too, her voice echoes outside its walls

He brought the amethyst cracked open. Primal

rocks forged by the Mother’s fire

bumpy and dulled gray on the outside

Broken by will. He placed them around my neck

A lei of love. Her lavender heart

revealed itself in a field of green

 Love

returned

to love

 

#Dance #writephoto #stonecircle

dance
Photo Credit: Sue Vincent

They came to dance with the stones. Drums found the unheard rhythm of the mother beat, opening the sacred veins. Above, ravens circled the moon, full behind a mist that would soon part. Even the children were unafraid. Perhaps even more so than their elders, for they were closer to the thinning veil. The air, stirring the tide into spring, was cool, but the fires burned with heat.

They arranged themselves by order of birth. Those closest to the womb found the center and those nearest death, the edges, but the dance wove them together. Feet weaving the grid of the hidden lines, as the energy rose into the opening. And with it rose their song and the mist, which parted upon the sigh of the wind. One last breath and all was silent as night unveiled the path to the stars.

Time collapsed into dimension and space revealed no separation as one tiny hand reached through the veil to welcome them all home.

For Sue Vincent’s #writephoto prompt “Dance” 

#Together #writephoto

sun-on-the-sea
Photo  Credit: Sue Vincent

Together

At the edge of land the sand releases

back to the sea to be reborn

Oh to be one tiny grain tumbling into endless re-

union, pulled effortlessly back into the tide

waiting to let go. To feel a full surrender

to trust knowing unity awaits

after the pure ecstatic rush of release

Oh to be birthed, over and over

by love as day melts into night

 

For Sue Vincent’s #writephoto prompt #together 

 

Wistful Hope #wistful #writphoto

wistful
photo credit: Sue Vincent

Hope took a deep breath and inhaled the sky. Fear slid behind her into the recesses of Night as New Day slipped over the land. A land long-troubled by the burden of Misuse and Misunderstanding.

As she stood atop the hill, Hope thought about the green spreading over the barren patches of earth. A sense of wistful longing took hold of her heart and she smiled. It had been a long time since she had smiled. Even longer since she had laughed. Yet, beneath her feet, Hope now felt a tingling. The Earth was waking her children. It was subtle, but Hope knew it to be Life stirring through the Long Darkness.

Her veins began to hum a quiet song, and Hope new it to be Harmony.

Harmony had not been a part of Hope’s life before the breaking of New Day. She had lived a long time. A very long time. She had watched and waited. Her feet stumbling over Dissonance. Cracks in the landscape ever-widening, instead of rejoining. Before the New Day had dawned, Hope was starting to feel Despair in each footstep. Faith had become a long-lost friend and Hope knew only Loneliness.

And then the sky had changed its worn and tattered cloak of gray and dawned the New Day filled with the blush of pink and Hope felt that stirring to breathe deep and full its promise. If she had felt it. So would the others. Soon they would return. Coming out of their caves of Isolation to feel the stir of Harmony. And when they did Love would rekindle its fire and spark the Light of Unity in each heart.

Hope could hardly wait for the Dance of Life to begin.

For Sue Vincent’s #writephoto prompt challenge, #wistful 

#Torrent #Writephoto #poetry

torrent
Photo Credit: Sue Vincent

The water cleaves the heart of the forest

opening the wound. Forcing its way to freedom

it pours the mud of civilization into her gaping chest

 beating a rhythm  faster than nature

We have forgotten how to move

with her river. How to beat the heart in time

with the flow and not race

speed. We, hasty creatures of greed defined as progress

lament the loss of the free soul. It cries through the open wound

A torrent of tears falling on deafened ears.  Angry men,

too white to remember the goddess inside

stand at the point of the sun and shout anger. Feeble

hands grasping power that was never theirs to hold

while she waits in the shadows, her breast

splaying wide their wound, dripping pain

The drain of life force unstopped

becomes the torrent of fear

and we, its helpless child

grasping to hold

love

For Sue Vincent’s #writephoto prompt, #torrent

#Choice #writephoto

lincoln-bakewell-gt-hucklow-017
Photo Credit: Sue Vincent

Her spirit lingered above the water to watch it carry the remains of her body back to the Great Mother. Along the banks her people drummed to the rhythm of Earth and she could feel their love soar into the currents of the wind. She waited with them, in silent reverence to feel the pulse of the flow one more time between the lands of the living and the lands of the dead.

High above, nine ravens circled her beloved stones. She felt their presence and a pull of longing to sit once again in the place of the Seer. One by one they had left their gifts in the small hollow of her stone. Three black feathers and a turquoise stone. Now they soared in watch. Sealing the magic she had left behind. Below, a ring of white flowers lay like stars upon the trodden ground.

She had known death would bring peace, but she could not know how much she would long to return. Her body, already breaking apart to the elements as the water carried it home, was no longer hers. Yet she knew the stones held her secrets for those who would travel to them through the pull of the heart. Here they would sit, as she had done so many times, leaning against the stone to feel the circle. Some would close their eyes to see. Their bodies finding the pulse inside the rock would hear her voice. And, when they left, she would go with them through her beloved land.

For Sue Vincent’s #writephoto prompt #Choice

 

Still Presence #writephoto

stones-old.jpg
Photo Source: Sue Vincent

The land called to those who wanted to hear her. The rest wandered in idle enjoyment of the still stones. They brushed careless hands across their surfaces, and felt for holes to climb. Sometimes they took out their pocket knives and chiseled what they thought to be forever love upon their granite faces. And the land watched in silence, waiting for those who could hear her.

She sang the forgotten song to those who remembered its melody. They felt it in their bones as they stood upon her raised mounds. Her notes caressed their skin in the embrace of mother love. Her song wove inward through membranes to find the memory of home. Joy, rupturing the heart into ecstasy and sorrow, she sang of a love so deep tears fell from opened eyes.

To show her love for her children, the land danced her stones. She sent her pulse through their inert bodies and brought life to their forms. She whispered through time to awaken her mysteries and the stones beckoned to those who listened.  The long waits, well-worth the heart opened in recognition, they offered magic to the hands that hugged their bodies close.

I remember you, they whispered into pressed ears. Welcome home. 

 

Thank you Sue, for the morning cry 😉 and for the photo prompt. To participate please click here

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Winter’s Light #WritePhoto

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Photo Credit: Sue Vincent

The breath of winter spreads a filigree of ice

upon the hands of trees. She whispers the promise

of eternal love in white. Forget the sun, she tells you

I am here to stay. Lover to darkness, she holds

the power of warmth, forcing the shivering limbs

to layer or retreat. Yet the tree remembers life

a sentinel to time, enduring elements

and the knowing that the light will melt

beauty’s truth

 

For Sue Vincent’s weekly #writephoto prompt

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The Guardian #Web #Writephoto

armour.jpg
Photo Credit: Sue Vincent

He stood there in utter stillness, guarding the doorway. Sweat pooled around his feet, which stood in two metal buckets of armor offering no relief. It was going to be a long night. After the first hour had passed without a single movement of his joints, he decided they couldn’t pay him enough. This was torture like nothing he had ever endured before. Not to mention the ridiculous lace bodice they had made him wear. “It’ll sop up some of the sweat for you. You know, absorb the moisture to allow your skin to breathe a little.”

Who were they kidding? There was no breathing in this airless suit. No wonder they had laughed as they walked away and closed the door. Had he heard them turn the lock? He couldn’t recall now, but hours had passed in agony as he listened to the ticking of the clock in the other room. It was the only thing he could do. Focus on that dratted clock. “Tick, tick, tick, tick…” every muscle inside of him wanted to burst free and fling it across the room. But, he dare not. “If you move, we will kill her,” they had warned.

So he counted the seconds, growing ever more insane with fury as they turned into minutes and then hours. Through the immobile helmet he could make out lines of muted light. Was it coming through the window, he wondered, or from somewhere outside? Not even the wind howled a response. Just the clock’s steady beat echoed a time that seemed endless.

And while he stood, she wove her web. Careful not to pass in front of the horizontal slats that hid his eyes. Beginning at the crown of his head, she spun her silken threads around his neck. Seven circles took two hours, but she never tired. Then, down his back she traveled until she got to his hands, rigid in their metal gloves pressed against his thighs. Here she wove more circles. Small ones around the wrists, seven times on each, and then wider she traveled the circumference of his waist. Seven more orbits brought her to the early dawn hours after midnight. She finished in the seconds before the dove called the morning to light and broke the spell of night.

Now he could never leave her.

For Sue Vincent’s writephoto prompt challenge “Web”

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The Hermit #Harbinger #WritePhoto

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Photo Credit: Sue Vincent

The hermit curled his head into his folded feathers. It had a been a long day. Heck, who was he kidding? It had been a long century. He was getting old, too old to be doing this work. And, he was tired. The kind of tired that sets into your bones long before they are supposed to return to the soil. He blamed the humans. The hermit discovered the plague of their greed soon after they started pumping darkness into the veins of Earth five thousand years ago.

He didn’t want to feel like such a curmudgeon. In many ways he’d rather be flying blissfully unaware with the starlings. All they did was gossip and cackle about the other birds as they picked through the dirt for worms. The hermit wasn’t much for idle chatter, though. He never had been. Life would have been easier, he thought, if he had been born into a state of blissful ignorance, but life had chosen him to be a hermit. To fly alone as he surveyed the land and catalogued its history into memory cells. Now the weight was simply too much for his body. His wings were too tired to raise him off the ground, and instead folded inward, protecting the heart that was heavy with time. Soon his body would become one with the Earth from which he was born, and he found himself welcoming that day without sadness or trepidation.

Peace, he thought, finally I will be at peace. But what of the rest? Beneath his winged shoulders, blue feathers of truth betrayed him. It was not yet his time. He had agreed to be a harbinger of death, but also of life. And the golden child had not yet been born. The hermit must wait a little longer to pass on the memories in his cells. Only then could he rest in the knowing that someday the light would be returned.

For Sue Vincent’s #writephoto prompt Harbinger. Please click here to participate in the challenge. 

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