poetry, word doodles and other writing stuff
The deafening storm rips my scarf and smacks it’s tousles into my face. A force so strong red streaks appear across my numb cheeks. We are stuck for now, as the snow storm rolls howling down the mountainside. We are sheltered behind a slap of rock and wrapped in all the layers of our winter gear.
Hot sweet tea brings warmth.
And chocolate delivers joy,
thus restored, we wait.
I rise from the ashes like a drunk phoenix:
Unsteady feet and a chest full of fire.
Ash falls from feathered appendages.
I blink at this newborn world in wonder.
Sea haar burnt off by cleansing sun.
The cold fog lifts from my thoughts.
A path meanders lazily along the clifftop,
Carrying me unsteadily into a new life.
Love, the ever-burning power,
Pulsates against my breastbone.
Force of life stokes the fire
I shake off the ash and stagger forward.
Go the extra mile, burn the candle on both ends.
Rise above the parapet, beyond your station.
On the up and up, over your head.
Weather the storm, or wither in it.
Talk of the town, tall story.
Hard as nails, until all that nonsense breaks you.
Genuflecting reverence
Righteous humility
Oakum and pine tar
Waves crashing
The pilgrimage begins
Hear my prayer oh Goddess of the sea
Raven wings wrap
a cloak of night and tenderness.
Goddess of war and death,
the tales are skewed,
as all tales of women strong.
I have seen you hovering,
yet heard you only once:
when you were disappointed
about a boy not worth the trouble.
‘No daughter of mine
shall bend herself so for a man!’
A crow flew by smacking my face
with a wing of night and tenderness.
Message received.
A presence of barely noticeable strands
Holding me in place
When the storm rages
When the nights grow too dark
When grief claws at my soul
When pain tears me apart
Their presence a beacon of light
Finally I walk the double-helix
Into the darkest shadowed past
Into the garden of blood and bone
Not all who have passed
Were diamonds who shone
And I have faced these scars
Down in the darkness alone
I am of your blood and you are in my bones
And I won’t carry your night into the known
Like a swaying lantern growing large
Is ancestral guidance in the dark
fantastic fox with feline grace
jumps jauntily into the maze
of waxing waving wheat stalks
to catch a carry-out for cubs
who—hopeful—hide in thicket shrubs
droll determined noses poke
pensively past pastel leaves
bulging bellies betray the thieves
of Mister Buchanan’s hen house
As above so below, as within so without. I keep reciting the hermeneutic principles in my head. Over and over and over again. As the universe so the soul.
I snort; involuntarily spraying rain water. Right. Now I am gargoyle waterspout. Hear me blubber! The universe’s responds for the soul, my arse! Well if not the universe so at least the local weather front that haunted my lunchtime walk. I tried to escape. I would say I tried to outrun it, but who am I kidding a lame duck who just had lunch could outrun me and that’s on a good day. I am getting pelted now. Soaked to the bone. I don’t feel it though. I am still walking, yes I have not yet even turned around back home. I will walk until the thunder within has calmed as the thunder above. I will walk until I can feel my skin again. I will walk until the rage abides, until I put the image of the narcissist back into a black box. I might imagine a couple of swords stuck through the box like in a magic trick. Anything to hold her in place and stop me from calling and give her what she wants attention. The universe responds to that image is a sudden whiteness. For a fraction of a second I can’t see anything but light and then the world booms and an oak tree falls.
Black and white striped toe-socks
Rest on the window sill
Dragons sleeping on the other side of the bay
They have been there for eons
Their rocky scales rounded by a sheet of ice
Sharp edges from erosion
It’s time to wake sleepy heads!
I send my thoughts
Tumbling through the stormy day
Smoke rises from their nostrils
Slowly banding round and round the hills
Until it raises into low hanging clouds
You say: it’s mist
From a rainy day
I say: it’s the dragons wakening
Their eons of rest are over
Earth heating too quickly now
Making them stir
Beware dragon riders
Your time has come
belligerent sharp edges dig into the soles of my feet
trail-runners my arse
not designed to withstand the gravel part of my lunchtime stretch
I go into a one legged fold over position my yoga teacher would be proud of
as I wrestle the annoying little bugger out of my shoe
digging with my pointer finger until I got it
snipping it away
only to be in the same situation again five minutes later
this is my favourite stretch though
gnarly ancient hawthorns line the path
distorted branches creating rune like shapes
it stinks of dog poo always at the same spot
I cuss the owner as usual and walk quicker
finally I can take a deep breath again
Anis dominates my walk.
Not the actual plant, the scent.
Wild fennel galore.
Legions of hopeful seeds.
Pushing aside the gentle meadowsweet,
towering over ribwort plantain,
and even vivacious nettles don’t stand a chance.
Flowering brambles wind around fennel stems
–striving for rare Scottish sunshine
Fragile blossoms with pink hues attract furry helicopters
with heavy yellow Jodhpurs on their hind legs.
Poetry by Nathalie 