All of you…
With Warmest Thanks for Following my blog.
All of you…
With Warmest Thanks for Following my blog.
Fun, fresh and vivid imagery!
Clamp shut the doors, seal up the crevices and barricade the windows to the ordeal of death beyond the waters that separate cultures but not equals but be prepared to embrace the wrath of such deeds in a way that prove catastrophic in ways never imagined.
My book is being released on Wattpad. A couple of chapters a week.
The story is loosely based on actual events in my life.
Hope you check it out!
https://embed.wattpad.com/follow/JoanneSpencer1“>The Letter Keeper
Wasn’t so much as a want but a need
built up over time
whispered with moist lips
into a warm ear.
A slight coaxing of a rough chin
that turn pleads into desire
to settle something buried
until touched by masterful words
that leisurely slide
up the inner thigh like
a flask filling with a golden
liquid that burns
but serves the purpose of
the human need to connect
with another soul
in this time
of short existence.
The silence of the ventilator, once the
heartbeat within these walls, now paralyzes me.
Denial has decided to embed itself firmly
within the empty place my heart once was.
My family, collects around me, but they have
arrived too late to bar the door from dread.
Fear followed their path,
pushing promise aside, disregarding
my pleas to stay at bay.
Moving into the sterile, quiet room
without invitation or welcome.
The last shards of hope strangled by its presence,
slowly building to suffocate me
with a clench that refused to loosen.
They squeezed my hand but only
my heart felt the grip.
Nestled within my mind
I concealed a scream that was
suppressed by words
truth not yet told.
And like a penny on the tracks
I lost my shape
as despair pushed inside the room.
Without a chance to inhale
the Doctors words spilled into the air.
Silence sliced my reality
with the whisper of
She is no longer
and like that penny,
I felt worthless.
On November 9, 1953 Dylan Thomas died in New York. In honor of his remarkable talent for poetry and prose I am posting one of my favorite Dylan poems. In truth, I never favored this poem until I heard a recording of him reciting it. Now it is one of my many favorites.
Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green, The night above the dingle starry, Time let me hail and climb Golden in the heydays of his eyes, And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves Trail with daisies and barley Down the rivers of the windfall light. And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home, In the sun that is young once only, Time let me play and be Golden in the mercy of his means, And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold, And the sabbath rang slowly In the pebbles of the holy streams. All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air And playing, lovely and watery And fire green as grass. And nightly under the simple stars As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away, All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars Flying with the ricks, and the horses Flashing into the dark. And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all Shining, it was Adam and maiden, The sky gathered again And the sun grew round that very day. So it must have been after the birth of the simple light In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm Out of the whinnying green stable On to the fields of praise. And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long, In the sun born over and over, I ran my heedless ways, My wishes raced through the house high hay And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs Before the children green and golden Follow him out of grace, Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand, In the moon that is always rising, Nor that riding to sleep I should hear him fly with the high fields And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land. Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means, Time held me green and dying Though I sang in my chains like the sea.
In line, they wait. Their souls offered up for money that has touched the lining of too many unwashed trousers. Desperate, they trade favors with a god they don’t believe in and compose promises they never intend to keep. Biting filthy nails, picking at half-healed sores or chewing on their darkly painted lips, they wait, marking time with the song on the stage that provides their next meal. Adjusting what little material covers their oiled skin while shifting from stiletto to stiletto they make an effort to forget a family they no longer know.
The music stops, the microphone booms. Collectively they inhale and lift their chins. Unlike cattle headed for slaughter, they know their fate, their unexpected destiny. The next girl goes on as the other descends the metal stairs, bare, belittled and destitute as the owner extends his grimy hand before allowing her to pass. Head bowed like a child she delivers the bills to him, wrinkled and damp. He slaps her and the surprise sends her reeling against the metal stage. She crumbles to the floor. “Next time do better” he says and steps over her naked body without pause. The girls dissolve into themselves, blind to their reality for the sake of self-preservation, and they wait.