***********
Skyline changes.
Blocking out the sun.
Haze of distant smoke
Fills the gaps.
Destruction breeds rebirth.
The trees savor the fire.
Never mind how.
It just does.
Ashes breed the Phoenix
Of nature undone.
Cyclical world knows how to
Survive by itself.
Leave it be.
It knows what to do.
Don’t rush the process.
The Phoenix will rise again.
~A
**********
The path in the woods
Meanders
Between brush and grass.
Lorded over by ancient trees.
Protected from the glare of the sun.
Slow, cautious steps lead down.
The edge of the woods clears.
The ground becomes soft.
Rounded pebbles replace
The sharp edges of boulders.
The rock is not far.
It has flattened with time and water.
Long ago, one had to climb its side to stand on top.
It is no longer the mighty throne of dreams.
The lake laps gently against it.
The others scurry down the shore.
Leaving me alone with the rock of my ancestors.
I stand alone, looking out at the ancient lake that has been part of our generations .
I remove my shoes and let my cloak fall to the ground behind me.
One step up and I take my place.
The hem of my dress barely reaches my ankles.
The layers of white and grey moved by the breeze.
It also questions the placement of the circlet on my head
By way of rearranging my hair.
My companions are beyond my hearing.
I hum a little melody my mother taught me as a small child.
Closed eyes, I hear the wind.
My friends off in the distance drowned out.
I listen to the trees. The water.
They tell me of those who came before.
Eyes open, I take in the serenity of the steep mountains surrounding the lake.
Ancient land, ancient water.
It laps gently against the rock.
Small splashes reach my bare toes.
The water, it is cold.
The sky above is calm, deceiving those below it.
I know its tricks, as the water has own.
The secrets bestowed upon me.
I am one of the
Chosen.
~A
This is a fantasy variant of my “happy place” when I get a panic attack. I imagine myself on the rock.
******
Words on paper.
Strings of syllables.
What means one to the writer
Seen otherwise by readers.
Notes on a page.
Little black dots on lines.
Opens worlds to each other.
The universal language.
The face tells time.
Hands move in measured increments.
We live within those movements.
Finite freedom.
Spoken in hands.
Bodies talking without words.
Gestures and pantomime.
Graceful awkwardness.
Silence is golden.
Speak with nothing said.
Language surrounds us.
Even when we don’t talk.
~A
The Questions
Where along the way
Did I take the fork in the road?
Paths crossing others’ journeys.
Illuminated briefly.
When did I start scaling walls?
Stepping on myself
Just to reach the other side.
Inflicting pain.
Why leave behind so many?
Burning bridges that refused to burn.
I cannot be for everyone
What I need myself.
What do I do now?
The one within tires easily.
She wants success but
Peace more so.
How must I balance myself?
I am not what I once was.
The pieces shattered.
Some beyond repair.
What am I now?
No longer The Child.
Never The Mother.
Too young to be The Crone.
My path is wide.
Too wide. Too much.
But to narrow it, I must
Sacrifice part of who I am.
That will not do.
~A
The Ugly Duckling
Playground teasing.
Eyes. Ears. Teeth. Clothes.
Anything fair game.
Go home to subtle insults.
Useless. Slow. Stupid.
Unwanted child.
Look in the mirror.
What do I see?
Not normal.
The ugly duckling.
Looks at herself.
Wonders when.
When will I be pretty?
When will I be smart?
When will I be accepted?
She looks again
Years gone by.
She’s grown up now.
The mirror shows it all.
You have always been pretty.
You have always been smart.
But will I ever be accepted?
Love yourself first.
Accept yourself first.
You don’t need them to be you.
Their acceptance is conditional.
Yours is not. Be yourself.
~A
Ancient stone wall
Crossing the path before me.
Fog enveloping the trees
Along the way.
I climb over.
The moss making my hand slip.
Another hurdle done.
The fog is magic.
I glance back and the wall of fog
Makes the wall vanish.
Did it ever exist?
Or just in my mind.
Each step is treacherous.
Loose stones and tree roots cross my path.
Moss and ivy hide the undergrowth
Flowers strangled, desperate for light.
Another stone wall.
Taller than the last.
I see sunlight over the top.
Unable to reach me.
There is a way.
Must be.
Buried under moss and ivy.
The answer waits.
~A
Climbing foot by foot.
Pitch black below me.
Tendrils reaching up
Twisting itself around my ankles
Trying to pull me back down.
I see the sky above
As I slip back.
Rain from above
Makes the climb difficult.
I ask. Beg for help.
A rope hangs over
The edge barely within reach.
I regain my strength briefly.
Holding the rope and pulling myself up.
It slips out of my hand as it has before.
Tendrils below reach again.
I am tired of fighting it.
Cry out again. Help.
I cannot do this alone.
I am almost there. I feel it.
The rope appears again.
I reach for it.
The rain hits me again, blinding me.
Just a little more.
I can do this with a little more help.
~A
Rain washes the dirt away.
Sending it below the city.
Streaks of grime mar
The sides of buildings.
Running.
Along the mortar
Between the bricks.
Drops hit my face.
Flatten my hair.
The rain soaks through one layer.
Two layers
Three.
Gets to my skin and
Makes me cold.
Others run to stay dry.
I stand in the open.
Unconcerned of image.
I know I will not
Melt
From the rain.
I’m a good witch.
The clouds pass above me.
A brief glimpse of what
Is beyond.
Light and dark.
Worlds
Rule the blackness beyond.
As the stars tell their stories.
~A
Standing in the middle.
Never enough.
Sometimes too much.
Where do I sit?
When the table is full.
And no one sees me.
The outcast who sees more.
More than the box.
More than the road ahead.
I am not the help.
But I am also not the boss.
I am in the middle.
Waiting to be seen.
When those who matter
Look up from their meal.
The emptiness of space
Separates me from them.
I cannot hear their words.
The vacuum silences the critic.
It also silences the muse.
Space envelopes the vacuum.
Scream into the void.
Yet I hear nothing in return.
Not even my own voice.
I see them at the table.
All the same. All puppets.
The strings tangled together.
The puppeteer enveloped by the void.
Unseen but there.
The puppets think they have control.
I hold my own strings.
No one owns me.
No one controls me.
The table remains full.
I wish to sit, but
Not to be controlled.
I remain in the middle.
Holding my own strings.
Outside the box.
Leaves scattered
The courtyard becomes
A ghost town.
Bones of wood
And canvas
Broken in violence.
Tendons of string
Wrapping around trees
Tangled in the bark.
Crumpled pieces
Tumbleweeds of war.
Move with the breeze.
Leaves pile upon
Themselves.
Protect each other.
Curled edges darken
Ink blends into nothing.
Become ash.
Burnt words fade
No longer coherent.
Knowledge turned to dust.
~A
The Great Penguini Speaketh 