Several years ago, my good friend Bruce told me that I was finally going to get to meet her mother. She was dropping by to pick up some crystals Bruce had bought for her. In case you’re wondering, I did ask Bruce if, by any chance, she had been named after a family member and she said “Yes. I have an aunt called Bruce.” Anyway – I digress. Bruce had already told me that her mum was a little ‘odd.’ She was, apparently, a psychic and had no ‘filters.’ She said whatever came into her mind and, if you didn’t like it… well, tough noogies. Being duly warned, I put Bruce’s mum out of my mind as we got on with our visit.
AND THEN, THE DOORBELL RANG.
Bruce’s mum walked in; her mouth fell open and her eyes grew large. Without even being introduced, she stared at me and said “Why aren’t you famous?”
Me, all flustered and confused; “I, I, I don’t know!”
Bruce’s mum, with a look of disappointment and a hint of disgust; “Well, you’re supposed to be.”
And that was the end of that. Bruce’s mum grabbed her crystals and left. To say that I was flabbergasted would be an understatement, but that wasn’t the weirdest thing about this confrontation. I felt embarrassed.
Embarrassed by the outburst of a crazy woman? NO. Embarrassed at myself? YES. I felt like I had been exposed. Exposed like Clark Kent would have been if the geeky glasses were ripped off and the cape waved in front of his face. “You are Superman! SUPERMAN, you idiot! What the hell are you doing, pretending to be a mild-mannered reporter?!”
You, with bated breath; “Go on! Go on! What happened next?”
NOTHING. Nothing happened. I stuffed this milestone revelation into the back of my memory, polished my geeky glasses and carried on pretending to be a mild-mannered reporter.
What happens when you keep acting a part you were never meant to play? Slowly, the threads start to unravel and you scramble to hold it all together. But it never works. In the end too many threads fray and you fall through the hole in the net you so carefully crafted.
For me, the net finally broke a year ago; almost to the day. It’s OK… it was never really MY net anyway.
Meanwhile, in an ancient box covered with spiders’ webs, there is a shiny suit and a cape that need to be dusted off.
Bruce’s mum would have been proud.
Reading other writers’ poems, I often find their creativity sparks something in me, as well. Here’s what I unearthed this morning!
Note: OK, so having seen my lovely, foofy, unreadable font on the page (we won’t do that again, will we?), here it is in good old readable font.
Trying on different lives to see what fit
I found my own skeleton buried deep
beneath a mound of costumes.
Crying, softly, as I remembered who I was;
And lifting my bones gently from their early grave,
I washed them clean and clothed them in myself.
Great choice of words to get the little grey cells in my brain working! 😀 Thanks, Colleen! ♥
This year, especially, I begrudge the start of Autumn. After breaking my hip 4 weeks ago, I felt as if I was forced to merely observe the second half of summer through shaded glass, from a hospital bed. So, it is with a certain sense of sadness that I step outside and feel the changes in the air. Soon, the violent winds will come and rip the leaves from the trees. Soon, the first snow will be upon us, though the last one feels too recent.
My dreams and plans will NOT be derailed; I shall not long allow this grieving, but, meanwhile, I cry for summer and write poems about its passing. Judging by e.e.cummings’ quote, he felt the same as I do. 😉
Two poems for you:
I will not apologize for loving summer,
For reveling in the warmth of the sun,
For worshipping the myriad greens of life and growth.
But, here comes Fall, once again,
The cold and blustering thief of my happiness.
It strips away the heat, and the flowers,
And the leaves with such a force
That I cannot call it fall or autumn…
Thief of Summer –
I name you ‘Snatch.’
… wendy anne darling 2016
Flowers and I stood,
Fearless in the face of Death…
Prior to the Fall.
…wendy anne darling, 2016
I try my best to keep up with modern-day ‘speak,’ but sometimes it just evades me! 😀
AN OLD FART’S TAKE ON MODERN LANGUAGE
by Wendy Anne Darling:
Happy Friday! I hope you’re King or Queen of your weekend. 🙂 In honor of Friday, here’s a little bit of fun that I just completed. Enjoy!
King struts his male stuff all around the back yard…
“This rock is mine! I pee on you!” Dog rules.
“Think’st thou this barbeque belongs to YOU?” he snorts
“I claim this sausage for the crown, you fools.”
“With a slight tilt of leg. I anoint you a Knight
You may rise!” Oh, it’s good to be King!
I carpet the floor with my long, golden fleece –
Never say I don’t give you a thing!
Just one tiny cloud mars his iron-pawed reign –
The servants oft’ fail to obey,
For they take out the chariot whenever they please.
“Just to buy the best kibble!” they say.
He harbours suspicions but turns a blind eye
“Sometimes they must frolic,” he laughs.
So he cuts them some slack and allows them their fun
But he really must curtail those baths!
All is well in his realm ‘til the portentous day
When the servants return with a crate
Containing an odour of danger so strong
That our King feels his confidence quake.
“What manner of evil is this?” barks the King
But nobody’s listening to him
The people bow down and they worship this THING
That hisses like vengeance unhinged.
If a lightning storm could be made out of fur
And studded with razors that shred,
Deep malice had suddenly sprung into life.
The King promptly whimpered and fled.
“I’m betrayed!” squeaks the King, with his mind in a whirl
Overcome with dark visions of dread.
Now he sleeps with the Enemy, curled in a ball…
It’s that, or he doesn’t get fed.
Wendy Anne Darling, July, 2016.
Awaiting that cry.
As the words grow inside me
Miracle of birth
Wendy Anne Darling, 2016.
The Tale of Dracon and Anarion Jones
Anarion Jones, with her dark hair flying
Walks Welsh mountainsides on tiptoe,
As if she purely skims this Earth
Yet never touches it.
Dreaming of flying, her long skirt rustling,
like a flurry of autumn leaves
She bathes in banks of daffodils
Their sun-warmed scent like perfume on her silken skin.
Here, she is herself, far from the fury of the fighting,
The joy of life surrounds her like a cloak.
The distant screams of swords and men
Are swallowed whole, an offering to the wind.
Nobody comes here; she is alone, she thinks
Yet, today, amongst the breezes, lies a presence.
Something different in her usual world
Something warm, mysterious.
“Be not afraid, my little one.”
A lilting voice speaks softly in the listening air
And eyes, the size of dinner plates,
Blink back at her from cover of a bush.
Anarion Jones, with her amber eyes flashing
Bounces to the bush without a fear
And witnesses the winds of time composing
A very different song of life and love.
The second that the maid beheld the dragon,
She knew her fate was sealed in his embrace
And long they wandered, star-struck on the hillside
‘Til dawn the waning golden moon replaced.
When, from the tops of mountains, sunlight glimmered
Returning warriors spied the couple there
Believed the lass to be the ancient evil
That brought the battle that had plagued their lands.
As Dracon slept, upon the verdant hillside,
In silence wrapped, the soldiers bound the girl.
They carried her into the waking village
Full heralding the witch who’d brought the darkness there.
Anarion Jones, her dark hair laying, shaven
Was naked stripped, and tied fast to the stake,
And, as the flames licked hungry at her paleness,
The maiden screamed a prayer to her love.
Down swooped the beast and plucked her from the fire
Her mortal breath was fading as he flew –
He paused and wrapped his huge, red wings around her
And their souls merged, forever to be one.
Anarion Jones now tiptoes in the fields of Erath
Her golden voice sings magic to the moons
For she is home, within the heart of Dracon
Who holds her safe, until the end of time.
Wendy Anne Darling 2016