Tags » Utterances

NaPoWriMo #15


You keep that picture in the hallway just off the Parlor, the portrait profile of your face in grainy grey and black shadows … It’s what all the front roomers see when they walk in the door … which is as far as they will get … conducting their business then being on their way never knowing the real you … never getting beneath the surface … except for your lady friends that is … They walk right by it’s heavy leather upholstered couches and East India rugs … the floor boards bouncing beneath them … the swing of their twisting gait hopped up on the balls of their feet in black vinyl stilettos … balancing the bag of props in front of them like a sack of stolen chickens lulled to sleep by a Voodoo priestess’ spell … which might wear off at any moment if they are jostled to indelicately …They pause at the stained glass door, adjusting themselves … then turn the knob to open the way unto your dimension of pleasure and play … This is where the real you lies … The velvet Elvis, the water color Christ, the snapshot of you in your tuxedo the night you gave that speech that shocked everyone … you swore you’d never do that again … They see the true soul painting you are … tucked up behind the collection of tea cups and saucers you stole while everyone else was at your Aunt Ramona’s wake … You still say it was their own fault … Who rents a V.F.W. 488 more words

Poetry And Prose From The Author

NaPoWriMo #11

Taken from the film Oiche Ceanhain this features Old Irish footage from the 1916 rising.

Gardener of the Moon

The great owl spoke before dim twilight fell his message falling on the gardener’s ear as the Sun was blessing the horizon, “Know me dark and know me well, Know me light and love me long, If you see through both dull and strong, Sing you then my lovelight song.” 207 more words
Poetry And Prose From The Author

Visiting the Willows

I went visiting the willows just before twilight fell … the Earth free of Her tomb tent mask at last … I am able to walk on now past season’s fawny grass, still clinging to how I felt about you even then … my boots fondly smiling back at me as if they found a purposeful shared trail I had left off of all too suddenly, when the ice bound me in … that it could mean something more than I had simply walked this way before … The slight descent of the hill led to the muddy water and the broken willows’ bank edge home … the hungry mouse had lain bare the inner white fleshy meat of the wood given way from her Winter’s hunger … the crust of old bark now brightening with spring green smiles of twiggy dreams and sprouting prospects lying elsewhere along the still waking branches … The phantom rose buds which had gathered to tinge the vanishing sky with their pink promises to come fell invisibly melting into the lake’s freshly thawed moist mirror … it has only just begun to bloom with the first signs of green algae turned the hinted kisses of a Maxfield Parrish illumination … now muted mauve and dusty roses not unlike pictures my Grandma Thomas would save from an old birthday card taped to her living room wall, an oddness I am proud to continue of her’s … I recall when I was two, a visit, the room alive with card, flowers on the dining room archway like a float to a child … she’s in my heart in the way these pinks rapture into blazing scarlet if I can stand still long enough … if I let them come to me … fill me … fill you … I wonder, at times, if you perhaps, have lit a candle or stoked the fire … am I seeing your glow also ? 201 more words

Poetry And Prose From The Author

Before I Go

One more sight of your sky before I go … to plant the stars … your words in velvet evening memories … trickle down the sideboards of time … gathering the edges of the cobblestones to bloom … tender mosses and  lichen pods I might lie diminutive … small  in mind’s play … near a vine laden heavy of black grapes and olive spray … to await you … 6 more words

Poetry And Prose From The Author

Faint Hints of Spring

© 2014 Photo Credit Nelda Dunlap All Rights Reserved

Strolling out to the pond behind the big lake set my mind at ease for a time … the melt puddling about my boots as I plodded along through the half slush state of snow and ice … the smaller trees where easily out of the  cover now though a few of the birch still bore some signs of frozen character hanging on about their nooks and crannies … I had an easy go of it making my way up the outer bank of the levy to the pond where I encountered an enchanted phaery ring of ice and brittle bramble pretending to be … the center seeming cut to fit the Moon’s fancy itself … white silver polished pearl in the Sun’s morning magic … such a smile came across my lips … I swore I could hear the turtle stirring with still slightness at my thoughts of their Summer frolicking in the moss and wood water land before me … The cypress are still bear of needles … their lay below them an Earthen mat on auburn delicate fans through which the little ones will make their way back through when they hatch in early Spring … on this day I am reminded of when my Mother used to paint leaves and branches with copper and gold paint in the Winter … setting about the house all manner of sparkling sticks with red berries and cones with glitter dust … She taught us to love the Earth and never take for granted the true beauty in the most simple tapestry She might lay before us … I look so forward to Autumns colors … to the beauty and delicate structures Winter inhabits … I pray for Spring each year when the bitterness has become far too much to bear any longer … and in those few short weeks of Summer I love as blindly and wildly as I possibly can … for the blossom and the fruit are gone far too soon to take another form … find renewal in the proper pattern … and all is as it was intended … for us to find hope in these faint signs of Spring and ourselves be renewed and perhaps … 6 more words

Poetry And Prose From The Author


Words … they bunch about inside my pen nib mumbling little white lies to the paper, which spends countless hours attempting to coax them out of their crusty sacked mage … stumble about on top of the other, each pushing those weaker to the breech first … none of them brave enough to actually make birth, in light or take flight … the parchment promises electric tinsel smooth and hot … imagined hands across my back, I have never been touched before … your’s … in a way that pauses breath, fingertips, matchbooks tinder along the tendrils of my scattered curls … turning to look and see who is there … beyond skin or swollen lips …  just who my hips cradled, love, a lullaby away … the wind knows why Winter refuses to relent … my window still frozen fast about it’s purple sashes … toes frost bitten from dreams of running through your Spring rain showers … I pull the sky about my failures, you call them sins, and I rest … soon enough this red ink will flow for want of the least forgiveness … paper will have won it’s plight … and my hand will tell through pen from heart’s swell … the sorrows of my night … words are mere madness without you …  as is the thought of love.  6 more words

Poetry And Prose From The Author