WHY AREN’T YOU FAMOUS?

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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.

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Buried, deep.

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.

BURIED, DEEP.

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.

BURIED, DEEP.

buried-deep

Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday: Prompt words – Fog and Change

Join us for Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday: Prompt words – Fog and Change

Great choice of words to get the little grey cells in my brain working! 😀 Thanks, Colleen! ♥

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Photo courtesy of Pixabay.com

Writer’s Quote Wednesday – Goodbye, sweet sun…

052615_2031_writersquot1Join us for Writer’s Quote Wednesday over at Silver Threading! Check out Colleen’s fabulous Fall poem. ♥

eecummings-fall

 

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:

1)

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

>>>.<<<

2)

Flowers and I stood,

Fearless in the face of Death…

Prior to the Fall.

…wendy anne darling, 2016

 

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RonovanWrites #Weekly #Haiku #Poetry Prompt #Challenge #108 Sizzle&Sleek – Wendy Anne Darling

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Welcome to the Haiku challenge! Check it out here. Challenge words for the week are ‘sizzle’ and ‘sleek.’

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:

BRICK WALL

 

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RonovanWrites #Weekly #Haiku #Poetry Prompt #Challenge #102 Birth&Cheer

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Join us once more for Ronovan’s Haiku Challenge! This week’s words are ‘Birth’ and ‘Cheer.’

 

Awaiting that cry.

As the words grow inside me

Miracle of birth

 

Wendy Anne Darling, 2016.

#WQWWC – “Rebirth” – J.K.R., and My Own Story

Join us for Writer’s Quote Wednesday. This week’s challenge word is ‘REBIRTH.’

WAR &amp; CONFLICT BOOKERA:  WORLD WAR II/WAR IN THE WEST/BATTLE OF BRITAIN

Children of an eastern suburb of London, who have been made homeless by the random bombs of the Nazi night raiders, waiting outside the wreckage of what was their home. September 1940. New Times Paris Bureau Collection. (USIA) Exact Date Shot Unknown NARA FILE #: 306-NT-3163V WAR & CONFLICT BOOK #: 1009

Yesterday, I saw a video posted on Youtube of J.K. Rowling, talking about failure, It is one of the most heart wrenching and inspiring things I’ve ever seen and so jammed packed with fabulous quotes that I could NOT pick just one and chose to add a link to the short segment. It’s only around 2 minutes, and part of a longer address to graduating Harvard Students.

Please take a look at J.K. Rowling on the benefits of failure

To say this video knocked me sideways, is an understatement. It prompted me to write the piece below, and I realized – as I was writing – that we really must DIE to be truly reborn. The old J.K. died, the old was burned away and, left with a pen and paper, she wrote her new life as she wanted it to be.

This is how I see my own rebirth:

MY OWN STORY

 

The house looks like it’s been bombed.

Photos of hope still adorn broken walls,

Betrayed smiles staring back at me.

The bricks and mortar of a life –

Thoughtlessly, callously, strewn –

And trust lies, shattered, on the bedroom floor.

 

If I stay here, I will end here

If I have not already gone

The air is poisoned and there’s nothing to sustain me

But I stare through cracked and dirty windows

Looking for a sign,

And I see nothing.

NOTHING.

 

I remember back

To long ago

When I believed in magic

And I seek my trusty wand

In desperation

Poking out from beneath someone else’s dream,

It calls to me

But it’s broken in two pieces

From the battle.

I hold them in my hands and lift them high

 

WHAT IS MAGIC FOR, IF NOT FOR THIS?

 

I grasp one piece of wand and sketch a portal

On one unbroken stretch of wall

And then I draw a handle

Then a lock

And finally,

I draw myself a key.

 

I TURN THE KEY…

 

There is nothing on the outside of the portal.

Like walking into a whiteout

And so I crawl

And draw myself a path.

A path AWAY

A path TOWARDS

On my knees…

 

I WRITE MY OWN STORY NOW…

 

Wendy Anne Darling, 2016.

Hugh’s Weekly Photo Challenge: Week 27 – Vintage

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Click here to join us on Hugh’s Weekly Photo Challenge! This week, the challenge is ‘Vintage.’

It probably won’t surprise anybody that several of the items that are precious to me are books! Aside from having succeeded in purchasing replacement copies of all the childhood books I loved and lost when my family moved to South Africa. I love this copy of ‘The Works of Shakspeare’* which was given to me by a friend in 1982, with a previous dedication of ‘To dear Little Ula from “Toddles” Nov: 1908. I’d love to know who they were!

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*Shakspeare is as written on the Cover. and the fly leaf has ‘Ladies’ College, Cheltenham’ handwritten  on it.

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My daughter Lainey has done some research on it and concluded that it was probably printed around 1890. Likely to have been mass produced for schools, this one still has the gilding visible on the top edge.

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This edition, though not in very good shape, is precious to me, nonetheless, and now lives life protected in a Ziplock baggie! 😀

 

Wendy Anne Darling

 

The Tale of Dracon and Anarion Jones

DRAGONS

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

AN UNUSUAL ENCOUNTER

PIX UNICORN

AN UNUSUAL ENCOUNTER

Some days are different from all other days. Other days, months, years seem to pivot on days like today.

I was hungry, and I went dumpster-diving behind the local grocery store.

And, suddenly, life ceased being normal.

Next to the dumpster, stood a huge unicorn; his horn sparkling in the Colorado sun, as if it was the most natural place in the world for him to be.

He lowered his head, almost as if he was looking down his nose and laughing, silently, at my confusion.

I just stood there, as you do, you know, when you’ve just stumbled upon your first unicorn.

“I, ummm, hello! I’m Wendy. Nice to meet you. Ummm… is your magic in your horn?”

“I don’t know if you’d noticed, but I have no hands. So… I can either slap you with my rather substantial tail, or I can tap you elegantly with the tip of my horn. Simple, really. But I must tell you that, occasionally, I choose simply to smack people with my tail. Sometimes that’s the only thing that seems to have any effect.”

My eyes are big as saucers, and he snickers.

“What did you think? I just prance around being NICE all the time?” He tosses his beautiful head.

I am silent.

“Child, I can sense the magic in you. I can tell if magic runs through your veins, more than death does. Don’t laugh… to me, magic smells like daffodils, but many smell something else.”

I stand, transfixed, unbreathing…

“I know if you have the capacity to turn away from hatred, leaving death behind, and drawing more magic to yourself. If you want it enough, you WILL find it. It is only a matter of time, and there is no end to time while you live.”

I could swear he almost smiled. “What on earth do you mean?”, I asked.

The unicorn throws his head in the air and laughs; as if I’ve said the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

“Earth?” he snorts, “Why do you limit your thinking to Earth? It is a lump of rock with its own timetable; spinning until it doesn’t, until its particles migrate to other realms. You just happen to exist on it, right now.”

He lowers his head and probes me with those sparkling eyes… eyes in which whole universes seem to revolve. And there is silence, for what seems like eternity.

Maybe it was eternity. Who knows?

“Human…” he eventually asks, “do you draw the magic to you, or do you kill it when you see it?”

A sudden sob escapes me and the tears flow. “I crave the magic more than I crave life itself!”

He softly touches my tears with the tip of his horn.

“Silly girl,” he whispers, gently, “they are one and the same.”

 

 

Wendy Anne Darling, 2016.