The 3 A.M. Epiphany: Uncommon Thoughts

The 3 A.M. Epiphany: Uncommon Thoughts

entombed

Words moved through her

imaginings reaching another climax

secrets whispering in her silences…

 

… life moments

cocooning mysterious vibrations

weaving throbbing passing through the story’s flow

story-of-life

how much is real and how much

is

trembling expectations and dreams of

personal nirvana

spiritual enlightenment –

or simply imaginings

 

Mists from ages hold silent pauses … listen

to whispers reaching

in and in and in,

stirring deep places

long sleeping … where dwelt 

familiar words unspoken;

*

Art & Poetry – SharonleeGoodhand©29 August 2016

  

Rhythms of Retrospect

citygrind002_pe

1979

She was eighteen

a country girl, child of the wilderness

stagnating in the vapid blandness of suburbia

breathless, suffocating in rancid air

that hung as an unseen cloud of industrialized miasma…

… rooftop obscured rooftop, a sea of sharp corners

jostling for juxtaposition, with no room to breathe;

She walked in pseudo silence, rising in early morning grey

milkless coffee forgotten as she listens to the radio

… fall of Cambodian capital Phnom Penh

collapse of Pol Pot’s savage regime –

– and on with the weather, and

Earth, Wind and Fire’s latest

After the Love Has Gone;

Suburban streets doze as she greets the day

intercity train clattering past as humanity

scratches and yawns

tuning in to Sammy Sparrow and O’Callaghan

2UE breakfast show at its best…

… breakfast scents permeate the air

eggs and toast-

– but the suburban street is almost empty

a gentleman smoking by his gate

his dog, of indiscernible breeding

claims first place at a thin sad tree…

a jogger swings wide, arching around

a parked delivery van

as she makes her way to the train station;

Littered platform, windswept and barren

– a reveler left over from Sunday Night Sessions

sleeps it off on a shadowed bench…

… other early risers scattered along platform 1

waiting for the city train

entrenched in an everyday routine

there seemed no escaping…

… from somewhere comes the tinny sounds

of a transistor radio,

Shah leaves Iran after a year of turmoil

weather update

and, Electric Light Orchestra

Don’t Bring Me Down…

… too late, she thought

this suburban coffin has done that already;

The train clanks

through backyards and blue-collar sweatshops

past a hundred empty churches and a score of empty schools

micro-communities, suburbia and the mills they toil in

animations of living, encapsulated

beneath a dome of shiftless stale air…

… passing through industrialized mayhem with a rattle and clang

before hissing to a stop beneath the waking city-

– fluorescent lighting hums, blinking out a hidden message to

a boy with a guitar, playing for coins under a yellowed poster

extolling the benefits of milk to a child’s development;

Nexus of city platforms purging the flow of humanity

onto city streets… sudden daylight superimposed on

the blurred reality of rattling trains and underground tunnels…

She wore shades of purple violet blue

flowing layers in silks and hippie cheesecloth

her feet rang with bells at every step

hair flying like ribbons on a maypole –

– she knew she didn’t fit in here anymore than mundane ‘burbs

a flowing cloud of indigo streaming through business suits

and miniskirts… boutique owners on 7 inch heels

she passed them by as if they couldn’t see her

as if she couldn’t see them;

At the far end she stopped at a coffee vender

– large extra shot extra sweet

she strolled into the city park

patrolling for a bench beneath a tree…

… a church group sat by the water

bible debate in full swing

on the steps of the gazebo two lads

in animated discussion- a Mad Max religion was born;

1979

She was eighteen

child of the wilderness

looking for trees in animations of city shadows.

*

SharonleeGoodhand©

 

Universal Matrix

 

 

Universal Matrix

 

This is your world.

 Shape it or someone else will

 

Find your corner, create

an invisible bubble

of Peace and Love and Universal Prayer

 

Embrace the essence of Empathy

releasing vibrations of strength and healing

into the Global matrix

 

Nurture the textured layers

of nature’s diversity

Spring flowers serenade

the passing of Winter

Winter welcomes

gypsy magenta-sienna shades

of Autumn’s end…

… Summer bursts with

riotous hues of life…

… nurture your corner

let it grow wild, untamed, and spill

into the no-man’s land

that boarders it –

– scatter seeds of a truth worth

exposing

and foster a love born from the poetry

of the soul…

 

This is your world.

 Shape it or someone else will –

– find your corner, create

an invisible bubble

idyll glow of green and healing dreams

feed your soul and nourish the Universal Matrix.

*

Poetry & Images- SharonleeGoodhand©19-Aug-14

 

This is your world. Shape it or someone else will.”

– Gary Lew

 

 

 

 

Old Bard of Tales & the Windswept Castle High On a Hill

Author’s note- This is an epic fantasy and as such is rather long.

I also use the word Faggot whose real original meaning  is “A bundle of sticks and branches bound together”

 

Photo- Poppy Silver

 

Old Bard of Tales & the Windswept Castle High On a Hill

 

 

Come gather round the bardic tree, it’s time to weave a tale

throw the faggots on the fire, pass ‘round the mead & ale…

the sun has set by yonder hill, the moon is bright as pearl

the lord & lady gone to bed, lads come grab your girl

the time has come the common folk gather by the bardic tree

– for this is their time for fun, their time for feeling free…

 

The guards atop their helmets sit; they are men among the men

as eager as the stable boy for the story to begin…

… the fire danced, the shadows grew, throwing spectres on the path

a blackened pot of 3-day stew warmed upon the hearth

the stars that lit the sky that night, hung low to hear the tale

when finally the old bard took up his seat, near the keg of ale…

he cleared his throat, downed his mead, a hush fell about the crowd

the only sound- the snoring of the old bards old hunting hound;

*

I tell a tale of loss and love, blood and dust and war

so gather close, for I’ll not shout, I ne’er’ told this tale before—

 

Windswept Castle High On a Hill

 

 

In a windswept castle high on a hill

with rocky crags broken and steep

there stood a rugged mountainous man

who looked out from his fortified keep

and with sword in hand he surveyed his land

from the valley to the alpine peaks

a hound stood by the young man’s’ side

as the moon rose in the evening sky

both listening to the distant sound

of a lone wolf’s echoing cry

 

campfires shone on the far-off horizon

like eyes with a simmering glow

that seemed to wink at him menacingly

through the falling snow

below the castle’s ramparts tall

his men gathered in the darkening night

with spirited steeds and clashing claymores

they were ready for the coming fight

 

the young lord turned away with purpose

as the hound followed his master inside

to the safety of the inner chambers

to farewell his tearful young bride

and as the midnight moon rose high in the sky

young lord and men moved as one

while the women wept with the knowledge

that not all would see another sun

for battles are long and bloody

when the men fight for the right of their land

and many will not be returning

this truth they understand

 

in a snowbound valley ‘tween two distant hills

rang the clash of blade on blade

in a night of bloody combat

that saw many sent to their grave

but the young lord and his men fought wisely

they had the power of honor in their hands

as they fought for their wives and children

fought for the right of their land

and it was many who returned to home and hearth

with lord and hound in the lead

the hound jumping through powdery snow

while his master rode a spirited steed;

 

 

In a windswept castle high on a hill

with rocky crags rugged and steep

the good lord and his people

slept an untroubled sleep

for the fields were lush with crops

and the larder full of goods

it was a time of plenty

with deer abounding in the woods;

 

now in this time of plenty

a son and heir was born

bright and early and howling

one beautiful warm spring morn

and the villagers praised their noble sire

praised his new born son

and gave thanks for the time plenty

and the good things to come;

 

the people rejoiced the peace times

though ever diligent was their eye

as villages grew and expanded

and families multiplied

at night they celebrated their good fortune

and willingly worked through each day

under their lord’s benevolence,  and his watchful gaze;

 

 

in a windswept castle high on a hill

with rocky crags rugged and steep

a hound with chipped and broken fangs

sleeps at his masters feet

surrounded by faded memories

and the echoes of yesteryear

neither hound nor master heard

the old gray wolf creep near

 

the old hound twitched, as his master did

their slumber disturbed by dreams

of heroic deeds and restless steeds

in a land of harsh extremes

 

as the old gray wolf stood over the hound

his coat was flecked with snow

he watched the hound with yellowed eyes

in the warmth of the fires glow

beside the chair where the old man slept

stood an ethereal ghostly form-

a friend who died in battle one distant winters morn,

 

the old gray wolf looked up at the ghost

both knew the time had arrived

for while the hound still had breath

the master, he had died,

and as the masters ghostly shape took form

the hound awoke to see

the apparition of two old friends

reunited by destiny

 

echoes rose to the ramparts

as the old hound howled his pain

echoes rang out across the land

as the gray wolf did the same,

the hound laid his head in his master lap

but the old man did not stir

nor did his masters withered hand

ruffle the old hounds fur

the wolf turned away from the old man

who sat crumpled in his chair

turned away from the ghostly spirits

as they floated into the wintry air

 

and with sadness, the old hound followed

the gray wolf’s silent tread

away from the windswept castle

and the echoes of the dead;

 

Now fill me pot, the old bard said, by gods I could eat the moon

… which reminds me of another tale – mayhap I’ll tell it soon.

*

SharonleeGoodhand©9-Aug-14

 

 Written for Image Challenge

Zen & the Art of Visualization #1

 

by Sharonlee Goodhand

Poetry & Photo Sharonlee Goodhand

 

Zen & the Art of Visualization #1

 

closing eyes

a scene unfolds on mind-dark panorama

over-grown with weeds & fragrant wildflowers

a path opens up before me…

the intrusive drone of distant traffic

fades in forest echoes

fades… softer…fades… fainter…. fainter

whisperings of cool wind ripple treetops gently

caressingly fingering blushing green

as pools of sunlight stream

through filigree branches…

 

soft mosses glisten with sweet pure moisture

‘neath trees of regal poise

I step onto the beckoning path

no fear to where it goes

just yearning within my heart & soul

to walk a little ways

to sooth my flagging spirit

in incandescent haze…

 

closed eyes miss not a single sight

such profound tranquillity wrapped in an echo of sound

I let my feet slowly wander

not caring where I was bound…

willows brushed the path-edge….a delicate gentle tune

and between the lace-like branches

I glimpsed both sun and moon

star-jasmine grew in trailing vine

… and as I paused to breath the perfumed threads

tendrils wove a garland

which was placed upon my head….

 

on I walked with measured pace

through fragrant air that was soft & light

the haunting notes of an ancient flute

spoke of the balance of day & night

emerald shadows beckoned me

to leave the overgrown path

beckoned me to follow

the hollow echo of a distant laugh…

 

the way opened up before me

and closed as I passed through

no fear nor phobia plagued me…

no negativity trailed my step

I felt so strange yet oh so calm

as if I was returning home

to a place

…. I could neither remember nor forget…

and still I walked… quite boldly

the way the forest showed

lost in surreal tranquillity

enchanted by an ethereal glow…

 

 

a clearing opened around me

and in amongst tumbled stone

a waterfall danced merrily

singing for me and me alone

and in this place of whispered echoes

I knew had come home…

 

Poetry & Photo sharonlee©

 

Winter-Born Moments

Self Portrait PhotoArt by Sharonlee

Self Portrait PhotoArt by Sharonlee

 

Winter-Born Moments

 

How sweet it is… to sit in winter sun

let thoughts delicious, drift with the fragrance of the day

birds sing in mist-risen melody, of Nature’s grace

voicing their appreciation of Nature’s way…

I lost myself, as I often do, in inner thought

allowing my eyes to feast on mottled shade

naked branches of the sleeping frangipani

crisscrossing dark shadow-limbs on moss- speckled grass…

 

Pearl-hued clouds drifted in, devouring the sun

sky turning a thousand shades of grey

a mischievous breeze wafted across my face

temperature plunging in sudden freefall…

… I rose, small shivers shook my body

as I returned inside…

*

Coffee cools too fast in winter…

and one hand aches with cold as I pound the keyboard

one finger flying with rapid flow

typing as the thoughts tumble and spill

and lock themselves behind inner doors…

… the other hand lay warm & snug

bedded between crossed legs;

 

A mantle of cloud lay across the sun

a cold dampness invades the bones

a good day for a ‘blanket-day’

… if only I wasn’t alone.

*

SharonleeGoodhand©9-Jun-14

Like a Manuscript in the Wind

 

Free Spirit

Art by Sharonlee

Like a Manuscript in the Wind

 

 

It seems my mind is not my own today

it wanders as the minutes lead to hours

scattered, like a manuscript  in the wind

an unchained melody, my soul sings…

 

emotion ebbs and flows… eddying and surging

reaching peaks of self-fulfilling ecstasy

plunging into maelstroms of confusion…

too dizzy to even snatch at straying thoughts

I let them meander where they choose…

 

disjointed emotions … co-mingling like a Roman orgy

I no longer know if my mind knows what’s going on, all feelings

and mind-images merging and uniting…. separating

completely anew… to reform, anew

… do I make sense?

I think not…

 

besieged I am

by insane, zany crazy thoughts…

exclamations symbols pirouette

like demented ballet dancers-

– my inner woman gleams

at innuendos not yet born

as sighs escape to infect the breeze

with hedonistic  delirium….

 

spinning… dizzy… into a vortex 

I whirl on waves of energy…

I cannot breathe… have lost control

scattered, like a manuscript  in the wind;

*

SharonleeGoodhand©8-Jun-14