Wild Rose

Rose

My grandmother was named Rose, she lived in the wild and tamed three sons.

the_weeping_rose_by_koan72

“There was something about him that she wanted to learn, grow into, and hide in, where she could turn away from being an adult. There was some little waltz in the way he spoke to her and the way he thought.”

The English Patient, Michael Ondaatje.

Rose 1934

I promised to tell you how one falls in love.

The wild poem is a substitute

For the women one loves

Or ought to love,

One wild rhapsody

A fake for another

 

wild_rose_by_vulezvrk

“I believe this. When we meet those we fall in love with, there is an aspect of our spirit that is historian, a bit of a pedant who reminisces or remembers a meeting when the other has passed by innocently… but all parts of the body must be ready for the other, all atoms must jump in one direction for desire to occur.”
Michael Ondaatje, Author of The English Patient

 

Images:

  1. Featured image ‘Wild Rose’ by ideea on deviantart
  2. Image one: Rose and Eric courtesy of Errant Satiety
  3. Image two: ‘The Weeping Rose’ by KoAn72 on deviantart
  4. Image three: Rose and Eric’s best friend courtesy of Errant Satiety
  5. Image four: ‘Wild Rose’ by vulezvrk on deviantart

 

 

Solace in Self

Dawn_by_freelancah

I part the dawn with trembling fingers
Tentatively reaching for the pieces of my soul surrendered in fear
Atoms realign, beloveds kiss upon my damp face
Constant despite my malingering and tendency to keep falling
When I yearn for unification with the gleaming beauty of the stars
Remembering is sweet torture, rupturing dark tendrils of devolution
That threaten to drown hope in a sticky blackness of suffering
Yet this is what it means to be real among humanity
To let the diamond soul fracture in sunlight and remain
A beacon of truth unravelled as we descend and re-ascend…
Descend and re-ascend.
A smile, a supernova of bliss, as I embrace myself newly whole and utterly in love

 

Words errant satiety image courtesy of Smattila on deviantART

Rise

The rise

I had covered my fragility with a skin of stone. Believed that to be needed was to be loved. That to be compassionate was to avoid causing pain and therefore meant to deny the self. That to be loyal was to lock away the truth as a secret. That the jewel of my consciousness needed a protector. I wore the future as a brittle crown that cut and bled when I strayed from the path others wished me to walk. The butterfly of my soul flutters incessantly within the labyrinth prison of thought I have bound myself within. But to offer false hope is cruel. Trembling, I sought to open the window to allow my soul back in. Remembering the fall I realise I have allowed devolution to go too far with half-truths and excuses of why fear was too strong. But ascent is still possible. It is absolutely vital and ravenous, I hunger for it.

 

Words errantsatiety image courtesy of Trichardsen on deviantART

Shodo

Traditional_Calligraphy_by_TattooTemple

My body your canvas

Living words of ecstasy

Passion between souls

words errant satiety image courtesy of TattooTemple on deviantART

Forests knowing

canopy_of_the_rainforest

The lush aliveness of forest knows me 
Reminiscent of the lover I still mourn
Whispering serenity, overtly intimate
I lose myself in solitude, accompanied 
By a myriad of sensory inputs
Virtuoso nature left to its rawness
Transcribing fractals of growth within
Without, immersion in wonder, breathing
Deep of verdant life, satiated by thirst
Found panting with want as cells
Regenerate and I carry the forests 
breath into the world I know

 

words by errant satiety image sourced from here

Surging tide of light

sunlight

Delicate strands of desire curl lovingly but fleetingly

Within neurons that spark shattered dreams

Wisps lost to daylight and the hustle of morning

Recovered in sensuous sensation, a poem tasted

On tempted lips, tracing words with my tongue

My soul ablaze, memory flushes, mind and body

Ripe with creativities muse as she dangles her feet

Skipping toes in deep waters, quenching souls

With her laughter and delight, skipping stones

Across eons, the twinkle in her eye, a star violent

With life, vigorous, alive and ready to surge

Through sluggish neurons flushing them with life

 

I have been indulging in a little Wuji Seshat Nibada today and felt this tidal surge…

image uncredited

A tale of two cities (OM’s FFFC)

This is my response to OM’s Flash Fiction Friday Challenge, I am late but I have a note so I am excused. Not sure if I have actually met the brief but this is my take:

I dreamt of her spires last night, the gleaming beauty masking the terror and oppression housed within. A city, now forgotten, swallowed by hungry jungle eager to devour the cruel Titan who had ruled with hateful heart. Spires dressed in gold ripped from the earths womb by fear filled citizens bent on completion lest the masters wroth be stirred. Where slave market once stood, jaguar pads softly scenting the air in search of mate. The earth rumbled her warnings shaking the mine to prohibit his incessant gluttony. But he took no heed, instead executing all survivors as guilty of the ruin. Life was cheap and the loss of his entertainment. The execution square, built of pain and fear, now houses a bower of strange dark orchids. Such a terrifying man, all cowered beneath his ruthlessness, but pestilence did not; disease struck him and all with evil hearts within the city. The survivors fled the cursed ground taking with them their blessed lives as they sought holier ground. The cities name lost in history as the minds of those that lived erased terrible memory of the beast that had ruled them; building a rotten empire from the blood of their sacrifice. Stars, once blackened by acrid smoke of burning dead flesh, now bright and clear for the ghosts of this place to gaze on and sigh softly as peace is restored to their hearts. His grand hall now home to families of cheerful monkeys, they frolic, impervious to the fading painted walls depicting his dark deeds, ignorant of the wealth in gems pouring from his rotting coffers. Spires of gold patterned with the lace of vines, gradually breaking apart this city of pain, coveted gold falling back to the earth whence it came.

Listen

Home

Still your river mind of rushing noise, let it course around you as steadfast as rooted boulder settled for centuries in rapid flow. Feel the pulse of heart flooding your fleshy form with life; breath inundates your body of cells with air as the water of your blood, enlivened, beats an earthy rhythm. Listen; does the fire of your soul crackle, burn, smolder or rage? Feel these rudiments. Settle into the bones of your body, pour yourself into the elements that endlessly cycle through you. Do you feel the silence yet? Can you hear beyond the hush? Here is where you will find me whispering lullaby, lilting and consoling while the blaze of my soul eagerly hungers for you. Love will kiss your softly closed eye lids and call you home.

Words and image by errant satiety

Ancestors Song

The Tooth Marcus McAdam

Absorbed in images of my ancestral home I am drawn deeply into myself. I can smell the snow-laden earth and feel the freezing bite of the wind. Home awakens within me as I hear words in the tongue of my forefathers. I am transported, the wind shrieks as darkness falls and a lone piper plays a lament from the peak to the gathering winter storm my heart aches as I hear his tortured love cry out to the gods, regretting the past, damning the future and all that has been lost yet hope holds keenly in his notes. My tears are filled with a determination that there will be beauty in the sunrise, how can there not in this harshly beautiful existence? Where we fiercely carve out life and cleave to beauty, to love and would give our all for our family and our honour. I feel it as if it were a memory from only a year past; I know it as surely as I know my own hand. My voice opens to the wind, something deep and old wailing, tearing forth from deep within for my history, our known history, what is lost from long before and a future thrown to the winds, ancestry scattered across far distant shores yet echoes of home call, moan and drive my heart and soul wild with longing. I will return. I will walk the old roads to the mountains of my ancestors even though I know I will find yet another road, across the wild and unforgiving ocean, beyond, to the even older home. I can hear the cry of larks and eagles in reply to the piper and I, as the tide changes, I feel peace steal over me … then come the dreams …

Am Basteir Dawn Marcus McAdam

Words by errant satiety images by Marcus McAdam

Suggested song Pilililiu / Song of the Swan Bonnie Rideout & Allan MacDonald (Apologies, I cannot locate a free version of this beautiful song).

This is an oddly beautiful amateur avant garde video set to a lovely Bonnie Rideout Piece

In my thoughts

Image

Alone, drifting rudderless through my mind. My raft jetsam gathered for review. Concepts discarded too aggressively, emotion overriding cerebrum. Ideas partially evolved, orphaned too soon. Memories rediscovered from fragment of scent. Dance reinvented by change in era, by change of heart. Situations seen anew cast in a differing of seasonal hue. Entire books re-read only to discover I was the author. A self re-emerging, birthed fresh with opened eyes. Instead of cleaning out the closet I find myself re-stacking the shelves.

Words by Errant Satiety image by Kyle Thompson