Fairies discover love in the air.
Accountants discover love is not fair.
Mathematicians discover love doesn’t add up.
The soothsayer discovers love in a teacup.
Astrologers see love in the path of a star.
Historians find love in the middle of war.
Biologists think love is the flight of a bird.
Linguists discover love is a four letter word.
Artists discover love in colourful hue.
Me? I only know I love you.
Such a small speck of life
Falling from the pod,
Landing on the fertile earth
beneath an age old rock…
Sprinkling of raindrops
and little packets of sun
caressing the little seed
and whispering of fun…
Hidden in the blanket
of the rich red soil…
suddenly a burst of life
and the beginning of such toil.
Now the green leaves peeping
from just under the rock.
Oh look, the fragile figure
is growing now, but not ad hoc:
Always striving for the light
and warmth, up, up, to the sky,
Until it reaches the very place
from where new seeds will surely fly.
(Note from author: This poem is only a metaphor…)
I sat on my rock,
Waiting.
It was cold
And dark.
Waiting.
Dreams came,
and slivers of light.
Wishing…
Cracks in the darkness
around me…
I tried to touch the light
that siphened through the cracks.
It swirled stronger,
Lighter.
One by one
the dark pieces fell away…
Little windows opened.
Wait a little more…
I tried to reach out,
grab the light.
The sharp edges of darkness
Cut deep.
Finally it tore away:
The folds of darkness around me,
and my wings, soft and damp,
unfurled.
And here I am:
Ready for reality.
A little limp.
Glistening scars where the dark eggshell cut me,
but no longer waiting:
Ready!
I fell off the ship
In the deep of the night,
And miraculously landed
On a rock
That appeared somewhere
Under and down below,
Raised up from the sea bed,
Just as I was about to hit
The dark inkwell of
Neverness.
I have been here,
Sitting.
No wings.
No brooms.
No nuts.
Going nuts,
Slowly.
I have been watching:
Big dragons breathing fire,
Romping and stomping
All over the land.
Their tails whipping up winds,
And their scales throwing embers;
Their glowing eyes like laser beams,
Sowing death and despair.
Birds dropping from the sky,
Animals fleeing but being ravaged
By the breath of the flames
Then:
Black Holes.
Nothing else
But tears
To water the land…
I have seen:
Clouds!
But it was only dust
From people
(People, like me)
Walking and running,
Fleeing or fighting.
Everything falling
but rain.
Only salt water all around me.
Butterflies came in the night.
Bright and white,
Softly landing on my eyes.
They covered the scenes
And whispered new thoughts:
Of Owl Island and magic,
Of green and growth,
Of love and thoughts,
Of wisdom and empathy
The butterflies lay eggs:
Small granules of hope
Some have been hatching
And started to spin a web:
Soft threads of kindness,
Strong bonds of courage
I am grasping for it now
And holding on.
Slowly weaving new fabric…
I am writing now
With a feather dropped
From the wing of Phoenix.
I dipped it into the inkwell surrounding me
And wrote it on a piece
of woven silk.
My message is simple:
Here I am.
Alone,
On my rock,
In the middle
Of Lemuria.
A Photo Story of the Bush Fires that ravaged Victoria, Australia, on Black Saturday (7th February 2009).
My favourite song using some of the digital images I mashed for this blog. I made the original story in PowerPoint, then used the slides in PhotoStory and added the music, edited the photo transition and the length of time each image was displayed to match the words in the music:
In one of the valleys of this magical island, I found a grassy spot. It was a beautiful day, with bugs and butterflies all around, the sweet smell of ripe, red apples in the air, and a refresing breeze touching the leaves and grassy tops ever so lightly.
I heard the voices of my loved ones drifting somewhere in my memories, like some pink and white cherry petals floating on a crystal clear stream. Their voices became stronger as I walked deeper into the grassy area, and the memories became little drifting candles pulling me deeper into the river of things that happened a long time ago. I felt the tucking at my feet, and felt how the memories now flowed through my body, warming every part of my being, and reminding me of places in my soul that have been cold for so long…
I started the slow dance to the rythm of the memories, and became one with the trees, the wind, the air, the clouds. My feet moved around in the grass, leaving spots where the stems were bent and broken, releasing the smell into the air. I was taken back even futher, remembering the faces that go with the voices of my loved ones…
My whole body was part of the rythm now, swaying and swinging to the music that flowed in and out of me. Higher and faster, the dance went to a place high above the valley I found my body in, and I looked down at my body as I was flying and soaring on the wind.
I saw the tunnel of light open up before me, and so wanted to go there…all my loved ones were waving at me, beckoning me to come closer, to join them in their world of pure light and perfection…
But I suddenly felt the silver chord that connected my spirit to my body, jerk. I knew that I had a choice: Break the chord and fly into the tunnel with my loved ones, or go back to my body…
I felt the sun beating on my back, but at the same time the wind was cold in my face. I looked at the tunnel of light, and looked down at my body…
Then I thought back to the music of that mellow, grassy spot down in the valley, and to the rythm of Life pulsing through me as I was dancing down there.
I looked back at the tunnel of light, and whispered a “See you soon…”, for I knew that the music would stop playing one day, and I would be free to go into another symphony with all the ones I loved.
When I returned to the grassy area, I saw the fairy ring of mushrooms where I had danced, and left that place knowing that I had left my footprints there forever.
The Symphony
When I had her all the time,
I thought,
we had all the time in the world…
So I spent a lot of time
without her…
Now I know
that every human being
only has so many breaths,
and the life you breath into others
are the only breaths worth remembering…
Take time to listen to the music of Life’s beautiful noise,
Compose your own songs,
direct your own symphony.
Dance to the rhythm until you are out of breath.
Refuse to throw your time away –
it is your most precious gift.
Give it to the ones that will keep you breathing
after their time has dripped away,
for all eternity…
I went down to the Caves of the Dream Masters again today, to ask for a memento of this journey. The way to their caves is steep indeed, with the steps carved out of the very edge of the mountain. Descending into the valley where I found one entrance to their dwelling, I went into the Shadow Land of the depths below where the sun could reach, below where the wind could blow freshness into the surrounding darkness, on and on into the dampness where the smell of rotting leaves and stagnant water clung to me with sticky fingers.
The three of them met me at the entrance of the cave: Red Robe, Purple Robe and Yellow Robe. Their pointy hats sat like penguins above their beady eyes, and they all had eerie smiles tucking at the corners of their mouths. I wondered if they could see all the dreams that we encounter…would that not be enough to send any mortal to the Land of Eternal Madness?
We did not speak. I produced a bag full of Lemurian Shekels, and it disappeared into the deep folds of cloth around their thin bodies. They gave me my prize: A dream catcher with perfectly symmetrical patterns weaved within the circle, and three feahers dangling from the bottom. Two of the three turned away from me, and the other one shooed me out of the cave.
I made the lonely trek back to the top of these depths, to a spot where my walnut could beam me back to Vulcania safely.
I was extremely tired when I got back to my cabin. I hung my dreamcatcher above my bed, and fell asleep almost immediately.
In-Sanity
Natural law is abandoned in this dark, stifling dream.
The Night Mare is saddled, no one hears me scream.
The Alp* is feeding ravenously on my constant pain:
Poking holes in my sanity through which my soul and spirit drain…
Helplessness spreading like toxin through every part of me,
Suffocating! Paralyzed! No way to ever break free!
But then – The Alp is caught: Ranting and Tangled in the web
of the Guardian Catcher above my head….
I find my wings to escape: Away
to the glorious start of the New Day.
*The Alp: The rider of the “mara” (Old Norse term for the demon that causes bad dreams.) The Alp would sit on the victim’s chest to immobilize him/her, and cause pain, suffering and sometimes suffocation. The word “night mare” is derived from the word “mara” – the demon appearing at night.
Poem by Maryna, 2009
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