Wherever Kira went, it rained. Not an unusual occurrence one might have claimed. In the context of her deluges, however, it was. No matter where Kira stood, either inside or out, the heaven’s opened and poured. They didn’t pour on her neighbours, nor her little chihuahua, just her.
This strange situation lasted for five years, then as suddenly as it had started, stopped. Like God had turned a tap off, the rain cloud’s that were a permanent feature of Kira’s life just disappeared. No more rain. No more wet beds, sofas, car interiors, gardens or streets.
“What a relief,” said Mrs Chambers from next door.
“Thank goodness for that,” said Alan, Kira’s boss.
“About time,” said their local weatherman relieved his predictions might stick.
Kira smiled at them all, replied that she’d miss it, then at long, long last put down her umbrella.
Sometimes, is harder than not
It is the promise, I think
That hope you feel deep down
Tingling like electricity
Just enough to tantalise without really hurting
A poking of awareness
And teasing of promise
Sometimes, they say
But you know it means not
That doesn’t mean you don’t hope
I always hope
Without ever getting my hopes too high
If you know what I’m saying
Yes, sometimes, a multipurpose word
A hard word
A difficult word to fully understand
Different things to different people
A word of opposites
How else can I describe why you’d say it
So very, very often
And never once have it mean the same as me
Some things are written
Some things are felt
I’m not sure I’ve ever written a word
But I’m positive I’ve felt them all
Blood on the water, the colour of life, churning, flowing, seeking an outlet in which to pour. An incessant motion of so many tiny droplets of what was, is and will be, the cycle goes on.
The rocks that bear witness to this dramatic passage are old, older than almost all else, but not that which constitutes Gaia’s existence. Time has no meaning to these cascading atoms of hydrogen and oxygen set free. They have seen the stars, travelled the cosmos and decided to make a home here with us.
I feel honoured as they scurry away and wonder in which existence I shall see them again. Because I will, I know it. I have to, I think, or what else am I watching them for?
Authors note: For those that might wonder. This waterfall is in the English Lake District near a small town called Ambleside. The view is looking back from a place called Sweden Bridge. (I’m sorry for reddening the image, as it’s usually crystal clear.)
Lines on a page,
They do nothing,
But say so much.
Of more than speech,
It is heart;
An outpouring of one’s soul,
And worlds in the making.
And the books they dwell in:
I can’t imagine a life without them.
The world falls away
Wars are fought
Life is meaningless to they
Who see across time
(Image courtesy of Sonala on deviantart.com)
I asked my mother when it would be summer again
She said it would always be summer in my heart
It wasn’t until I stood by that deep, deep hole in the ground
That I realised it also held winter
(Image courtesy of realityDream on deviantart.com)
God towers over
The crowds of Christmas shoppers
Looking for his son
A good friend once told me
Good poetry doesn’t require a picture
That the image is formed
Moulded, if you will,
Deep within the reader’s mind.
But how can the writer be sure?
How can they know if the reader,
The recipient of their words,
Really knows how the writer feels
And not misinterpret?
I would say that if it moves them,
Holds their attention,
Removes them from the trials of life
Even if but for a minute,
Should that not be enough?
And, if you write only for yourself
To cleanse your soul and free your spirit,
Does it even matter?
Words and pictures,
What a complicated combination,
This is for my good friend Desiree from http://seaofdesire.wordpress.com. I am trying to convince her winter is good. This is my first attempt.
slush on the streets;
supposed discounts in gaudy stores;
children traipsing instead of laughing;
half finished snowmen stalking communal gardens;
cold hands in cold living rooms;
a Christmas tree plastered in the same dusty baubles,
so much the same, so little to relish.
Then there’s the real winter:
two feet of snow lying on a picture-postcard landscape;
a roaring fire to welcome rosy cheeks and happy smiles;
dressing like polar bears through choice, not pressure;
watching the robins pick berries from the holly trees;
that moment when peace descends in the valley and the first snowflakes trickle from the sky;
the promise of spring pushing through a blanket of white.
That’s my winter:
I hope you liked it.
(Beautiful image courtesy Buble on deviantart.com)