She felt her body with blind fingers…. …. feeling the hard curves and shriveled bones of an old woman –
When did she get old? Crone-like… crow-like…. desiccated feathers dried to leather;
Skin akin to the family Book of Life… So many stories among us… yet so many untold chapters Skeletons in the closet, lips sealed forever against unshared secrets…
She felt hervbody with blind fingers. …. Self-examination before ‘selfies’ became a zen-ful form of self – evaluation. …
The years between then and now had left their marks, for good or bad shriveled bones and all she was older then she ‘d ever been – but she is still the she she’s always been just Crone-like… crow-like…. desiccated feathers dried to leather … a tomb of stories wanting to be told… before She fades into the Lands of the Remembered or Forgotten. * Sharonlee Goodhand Imageweaver 2021
Life isn’t meant to stay the same just as seasons turn… people grow and change sometimes drifting so far apart that echoes are all that’s left of the past. And the laughter which rang, and secrets aired seem a fragile reminder of time shared when dreams were whispered in midnight hours and truths were offered like fragrant flowers. *
So I sit in limbo, waiting, lingering in reflections of life and past & present… and an obscure future which refuses to offer clues or clarity as to what direction I should be taking. These reflections, today’s reflections circle around a life of friendships that faded as time passed. Very few from neglect or negative reasons, mostly because life changes and people change. People moved, I moved. And new circles of friends are eventually formed, with the old friends never forgotten and often thought of. I wonder how they are, those friends from earlier years, who shared and laughed and cried so deeply with me? Have they survived the years and are now aging with whatever grace and dignity afforded them? Have they found their “happy place” ? Are they grandparents as well? Were any lost between the cracks of society?
Lingering within reflections today… outside the sun is finally shining after two weeks of torrential rain… difficult to believe it’s actually an autumn day, the way the sunshine is dancing across the yard, deepening shadows and highlighting freshly washed foliage. I should be outside! I should be wandering ‘neath trees, breathing in the earthy scents of nature. But I’m not. I’m sitting in limbo… waiting for a property inspection which the landlady has arranged- second one in less than 8 eight days… I ache somewhat, physically, from the extra household chores I felt obliged to do… aching somewhat, spiritually, because I’d rather be somewhere else doing something else or nothing at all, just BEING.
If truth be told, I’ve relocated so many times in 60 years… reinventing myself, my life, and in the process my circle of friends and each time the “she” who is me became a quieter more introspective person… life became less encumbered with material possessions and the circle became smaller and smaller. That’s not to say that I have forgotten those friends and friendships formed, connections that, at the time seemed permanent and perfectly suited to my heart and spirit. Each one ripples in my soul, circles in my pond of life.
Reflecting on this journey, I wonder why none of us ever managed to stay in touch, stay connected, stay friends despite distance and disruptions? I wonder why I have so few long term friendships… none from childhood… nor school… or those wild and crazy days in my early 20’s.
Only one from my failed attempt to be trained as a “nurse and model citizen”. And I haven’t actually seen her in thirty years, we ‘refound’ each other through Facebook and stay in touch. As for the group my late husband and I socialised with, well… None of “our” friends stuck around. After. So I started again. Again.
All this leaves me awash with melancholy homesickness for times lived and me’s I use be… and I wonder, Why?
Just why. Why is it so. * Sharonlee Goodhand Imageweaver
D’verse Choose one of your OWN favorite poems and flip it. Please include your original poem along with your flipped poem; *
Spit it Out
Spit Life out, hack it up off the back of your tongue repell the overwhelming intrusion of moments ugly and mundane you won’t find compassion in the streets among the grime and dirty minds and hurrying feet souls are lost forever out there, never reborn again.
Spit life out on the fetid breeze, no flavours to savour amid mountains of man-made debris seasons hide a multitude of sins, no one wins, when Life is a funeral dirge written with the tears of the lost and engraved on the soul of the Earth. * Sharonlee Goodhand Imageweaver
My Original- In the light of personal epiphany each soul will find comfort in their night.
Taste life on the tip of your tongue savour subtle remnants of each moment find beauty at the bus stop compassion in the street all the textures, traces and intoxicating touches, sensations & impressions of wandering feet loves found and lost and reborn