Muse |
Muse |
Sweet Princess; Lime and cream, Dreams in fortune; Light and clean. See petals dance, Sway and frolic, Swirl in vines of green, And the water trickling from a stream. Now, birds fly, Dive in time: Music swings As they sing High notes, On low branches; Berries ripe and roses pink. Think the time: Right and bright, Fresh grass With the dew In blue crystals; Twinkle and sparkle. Flutter here, Butterfly : “mon papillon,” Destiny awaits, In four leaves; Clover and Buttercup: Chorus in the meadow, New and mellow; Spring has begun. Photo by henry perks on Unsplash Originally written January 2011, age 16
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Flying in a reflected sky Engulfed with cotton clouds. The whir of the engine Like a soft hum of a sustained note. Snakes lie on the sand, Washed, in their way, By the tide. Landing again, and surrounded By flowers and buds on bushes, That avenue the straight road On the way to Cardiff. Through the Grand Gates of Toll. To step on the Welsh ground; Earth; continue to the city. Passing fields of grass, Shining in the sun. Old bark; gnarled, on a Thunder Tree Standing tall, hosting mistletoe. Urban, out-skirt houses Display their best garments, Hanging on lines suspended. Sectional fields come in Waves with the occasional flat. Manes of horses flare, Billowed by that passing of us. Empty bottles thrown and hidden Beneath twigs and dust. Parallel. A conveyor belt For cars and us; On the way to Cardiff. Widen lines to accommodate, Travellers on the road. The Eiffel Tower of a network Supporter amidst barren shrubbery, Keeping the conversations going. Home to shops and cars And building standing Grandioso, lining the streets, On the way to Cardiff? We are here. Photo by Mike Erskine on Unsplash Originally written in 2012, age 16
The black water, pooled, like a pot of ink
Of unwritten words; a pit of dark reflections Of the night sky in broken glass; steely, galvanised by the stars; A distant memory of past destruction. A stream of blood crying out All those lost at sea, in a forgotten time in an unknown future. Fragmented and shattered, The surface shifts in shards, like tectonic plates in the deep. Broken waves lapping on and over, On and over again, as purple lips lick the sides, Tasting the frozen dirt, which reveals white jagged teeth; water crystals far from ecstasy. The black waters, dull and lulled into quiet, Spills its secrets to the rocks, Splashed and dashed to the still air, Spray falls as ice among the ruined, Landing among the shipwrecked and gnarled branches of old; Twisted in their wisdom of such bygones. Down dribbles the black water, Down the narrow shallows, unable to breath Or be any more than passing strangers to the passing Stranger crossing over and away from harm; Calm in ignorance of the black water beneath. Its presence not known nor minded; Silent and ever-flowing, ever-growing in momentum To an unknown end. Ebbing into bends, ebbing in two As the lip splits, with a guttural scream From a nearby drain, draining out its story To find a new end downstream. The split lip bleeds and tears a new path, Alone on the road to a dead end. The black water moves on, leaving the dead behind, Rolling onwards, curling its head in and under, In and under again, gliding along its own glazed impressions, Expressions of the cold unspoken. The sky cries over the black water, Dripping its misery into the shallows. Vanity and dignity but a whispered question. Swollen with sorrow, the black water groans; Bloated, it sinks deeper and into the river. Lost to another force. Sing, as stars shine. Twinkle. Sigh, as the breeze blows. Breathe. Cupped beaks, Brown waistcoats with Iridescent blues, Fluorescent as purples are On the back of blackbirds, Or in the eye of a raven. Calls from all directions. A full turn; clockwise. To the sun. Notice the polyrhythm, Textures of nature. The voice of the mother; Creation is splendid In the late afternoon. Dance, as trees move. Sway. Laugh, as children do. My little chirrup! Originally written in 2012, age 16
An empty room; a quiet room. A single jigsaw piece lies face down on the floor. Its white cardboard-textured underside shines in the afternoon sun beaming through the window. The lone jigsaw is a part of a long gone puzzle of a summer garden where a brother and sister play in a meadow of long grass and speckled buttercups.
Breath curls as the lips laugh wide, stepping outside for the first time in a while; the Boxing Day walk takes its stride across the fields encrusted with frost, crackling like chestnuts as our boots become cocky, over the style; we slide on that wooden reach stretching over, Focusing on faces as a bridge provides the platform for a perfect picture. The stream is a seam along the valley, bringing the country closer together; drawn for us to follow and find each other. Muddy footprints are the only mark we leave behind under the trees, away from the breeze, as we push up the hill, like a stomach full of cheer. We are nearing the top; full to the brim with mince pies and turkey, and all of those chocolates drop from our pockets as we climb. The view is my home as we ride the ridge above the hairline of trees; seeing the other side and being grateful. Treats await us at the next bend as we descend to a happy place, Hand-in-hand with no cause to worry nor hurry. Our feet meet the ground, leaving as we found the path with memories of sledging and snow a long time ago. Returning to the fire and the present long desired, we dream of Christmas again. Originally written in December 2017, age 21
Still today, We watch the sun frame Summer time in the countryside, A garden green, shining in shades. Birds launch from tree tops, Parting leaves like parting lips, Suddenly, stretching out into flight. Faint songs trip over the garden and Unfold as echoes in our ears. Ochre-burnt bees see their prizes on stalks And hum their victory tune. Cabbage Whites flutter by In a flurry of their own snowy brilliance. Whether change is with a breeze, The scene remains unmoved; tranquil But for the inevitable wave, a vibration of life, Just as the fingers of an outstretched hand Unintentionally undulate, And as the tongue swims even in silence. The hush amongst leaves and branches Blows over and around the edges, Hardly noticeable, like a breath, Taken regularly but without interrupting the quiet. A clouded form of an eagle flies, Wings embracing the clear sky. The occasional bird soars in greeting, Their wings skipping like a light heart, Carrying them through and away again. Then, as if in blissful joy, the sun eclipses the scene, And our eyes are smiling peace. Originally written August 2016, age 20
Midnight blue like the sea in its deepest reverie, Boathouse lights glimmer warm and amber, Anbaric peer through the misty bank, Smudged like oil as if on canvas. In reality they oar on the bank Opposite as steady as the eyes That behold them. Resting within the tide of a night Veil streaming through the valley. A gatehouse stands black-eyed And scarred, guarding the only Bridge it knows. Its pupils dilated by the bright Lights it greets that cruise along. The pass. In darkness once more. Originally written in 2012, age 16
The clouds, fairy-fluffs, melted, and whipped rose-quartz, blushing cherub-cheeks, are the promised lands of dreams, some so high they become impossible to attain, Yet, are still willing to be aspired to. The clouds, eraser-marks, scrubbing mistakes out of our predecessors, arched eyebrows, an angry omen of a bad day, are no longer, but the turbulence of a disturbance kind, being the tears of challenge and uncertainty. The clouds, damp-cloth, mask to the outside, its visor a dull and fading reach, consumed by the earth, authority are as mighty as ever, yet are in the decline, placed high as the clouds, but clouds have not substance, and the rain relief will fall through, landing as a lie sold to the nation. Originally written in 2012, age 16
Tears that stain my face, Invisible to the eyes That gaze and spy. Those salt beads trickle like Pebbles on a beach, Made of magnified sand that Takes a hit, hit after hit and shrinks But never runs too far. The cobbles they make as they cry; A muffled bell in disguise, They sing but no one hears their call Apart from the seagulls masking their fall. Endless sea. Smooth horizon. Stretch and recede like a waving tide, Mind the rips and the current falling back, Back, back to where the moon strikes again. Tears fall. So do pebbles. Marbled and marvelled in their temporary dress. Masquerade, no sir! It's a rewind. Life go backwards. Becoming no more than dust. We are born. In the stars. We cry ourselves out. Originally written in 2015, age 19
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AuthorSamantha is a doctoral researcher researching the power of figurative language in advertising, social media, and mobile technology. Copyright © 2022
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