Drops of fiery Honey
The glossy piano bears silent witness. Behold! The serpent in the hourglass, it shatters and releases uncertainty; she props up her umbrella.
As the spinning penny-farthing’s wheels give way to a drag star, the chrysalis explodes, yet the questions await our response. Are we ready, to fly, to overpower our self-imposed limitations? She checks her passport.
He reads the letter and bursts into tears. The web ablaze, molten crystal falls upon the bloom of fire, silence follows him home.
She plays her flute for comfort. An utterance, ‘I love you’ her words melting the coldest of hearts, come taste the nectar. She slips into his warm bed without regret nor fear as her skin meets his.
Celestra seeks the moon, reaches for her companion. Holding his hand, she hears his racing heart. Memories fructify as she boards the train, standing back as uniformed boys and girls laugh, chatter and shower their fecundity of the moment upon all in sundry.
She is but a girl, he a boy, born of the stars, poles of paradox chasing down the forgotten day that recedes into a song of night. Amrita turns to page nine of her paperback and smiles.
They glide like celestial skaters, upon the viridian skies, like ice flowing into blue and milky white and golden starbursts that punctuate their gasps and sighs of wonder and trepidation as they move like lightning across the moonlit skyline. Joe hands Kate the kite string and teaches her how to fly it, aware all the while of her warmth, and aromatic perfume.
The children defy the synapse between the sky and the stars and seek the silvery moon, bright, swallowing the sky, but she is still out of reach. He lifts the bow and fires.
Stillness, composure under a starry canapé. Lady Moon beckons as the children sprout wings, take flight, disowning their fear, and claim their prize. The arrow flies true, meeting the target.
Womb meeting the tomb. Shall the Aurora Borealis round in upon itself? Infinity is the circle, the orb of vision and perception, He holds her hand as she pushes and then the infant cries.
I see, I am observer and the observed. One thing in perpetuity, but shadows lurk, shall the raven drink of the poisoned cup? The crowds no not their mind.
As shadows and nemesis, rising from the depths of childhoods barely remembered fall upon us in an unguarded moment and beyond this life, will we sacrifice ourselves to their power? Fleeting echoes of fire, ice, earth and sky. I dip my brush in the pallet’s circle of color and begin to paint.
What are these but paradoxical realms where dwell the half-born, refracted dreams. Some of these perhaps of our own making, with no direction, nor star to guide them, these rounding in upon themselves; to feast and cut asunder. The chicken and the egg implode and give rise to new life. The newspaper on the lawn beckons. She tries on the new dress and claps her hands, hugging her mother.
With every sip of the draught you see as sweet darkness, the rage finds its way to our eyes, we see things in shades of indigo, fading to black, sleepers of regret stirring in the void claim our once pristine souls, shall we reprove them? The clock in the hall struck one.
Pregnant again. Of course, the daystar dominates my eyes, how can it not? But I long for the night and the rest it promises.
Oh velvet void, I know you seek the comfort of the retreating day, you pursue her with gay abandon, this evidenced by the conjoining of pretty color that decorates the tabletop of dusk. Shall you stay?
I seek, not absolution in your pain, oh lonely night, but the comfort afforded by the secrets that advance upon my space. Decorations, baubles of light, hinting at a melodic refrain. Time I have to think, to write and dream. That is, after putting the girls to bed and preparing their lunches.
I stand alone in a field of shaded things. Those blooms and trees laden with pregnant secrets, the misfortunes of the foolish heart. A careless word, and many such words. Reading my diary, the much-loved codec, as dusty as am I.
My ponderings disturb the over laden foliage of the nocturne, and thus they fly, shadows, these throbbing with the sounds of hornet’s wings. Oh my, your fury, your discord doth wound me. Yet, in this darkened forest of inky black, I hear them, the words, flying past me as I rise to embrace them with my tears. Forgive me my love.
Yes. I am wounded, and afraid. But my tears shine. The shadows are black butterflies, indeterminate not. Death has taken you away. However, the light calls me back from melancholy. I have a family to consider. She would not want me to retreat into selfish grief.
Nix. Once like fluttering handkerchiefs of evening, these crackled and burned with a hunger that if realized, could have destroyed the whole world, my world. Her portrait remembers.
Careless words. Bats scurry on the wing in their wake, ugly and horrid words, now pelted with my tears, for the betrayal, the loss, the pain and solitude. Justice speaks.
All along, I was awash with concealed resentment, the lover’s touch withdrawn. I had to let it go. ‘Love and let live!’ She, the friend now lover, taught me to love again.
Why, then oh why do you swarm, so many words, syllabic mantras muttered and tainting your veins, arteries and poisoning your hearts, I have been there, I say to a friend in a bind. Wisdom in hindsight over a coffee.
The butterflies of darkness evolve into bows. Gifts not meant to please, but to scar, to tear apart and vanquish. I will stand by you in the face of the harpies and vampires, my dear friend.
Jezebel. In the face of my cerulean blue-jeweled tears, these came in on me at great speed. Fancy that. He really does love me. I, the girl of the hearth.
Cornelia. My shimmering tears. My lamentations. The elixir for a broken heart brought a luster to the spears of sapphire as if translucent keys unlocking each invective, cuss and muttering of discontent and these exploded into a rainbow of color. A lattice of fiery blooms, the nectar falling from the sky as I float, in the balm of love’s magical power.
Dawn. I hold my Silk handkerchief of bright pink in my trembling hand. Suspended in a vortex of loving light, with the butterflies of gold, pink, lavender, shimmering blues and greens and of colors my eyes cannot name all around me now. These sit, gently flapping their wings upon my abundance of chestnut locks. I am in love. I am healed.
My girls, of whom I am infinitely proud; my bride’s maids. Taking my hand, he in his tuxedo and I in my lavender wedding dress, as we stood under the elm. We then proclaimed our carefully worded vows, sealing these with a fiery kiss under a sun-drenched sky. Sun and Moon meet within the dream that is a new reality.