You and I

PANTOUM
A poem in a fixed form, consisting of a varying number of four-line stanzas with lines rhyming alternately;
the second and fourth lines of each stanza are repeated to form the first and third lines of the succeeding stanza, with the first and third lines of the first stanza forming the second and fourth of the last stanza, but in reverse order, so that the opening and closing lines of the poem are identical.”

Motion Art Sharonlee Goodhand Imageweaver

You and I

When the night is spread out against the sky
shadows flying on darkened wing, silhouettes in twilight sighs
let us go then, you and I, and walk in company with the moon
let us go then, you and I, for the night will end too soon.

Shadows flying on darkened wing, silhouettes in twilight sighs
secrets whispered beneath starshine, you and I, hands entwined
let us go then, you and I, for the night will end too soon
and this our only chance to dance beneath the glowing moon.

Secrets whispered beneath starshine, you and I, hands entwined
let us go then, you and I, and walk in company with the moon
and this our only chance to dance beneath the glowing moon
When the night is spread out against the sky.
*
Sharonlee Goodhand Imageweaver 2021

A Tomb of Stories (On My Skin) for D’verse Writers

A Tomb of Stories

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

Why is it so… 

Why is it so… 

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

Spit it Out – For D’Verse Tuesday Prompt.

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

Taste life on a spring breeze… in mountains climbed
In every season as it gently unfolds
life is a lyric poem
written by the experience of existence
and engraved in the memory of the soul.
*
Live the Layers of Life
*
SharonleeGoodhand Imageweaver ©22-Sep 2019

Hello D’verse Writers… if any of you read this, I would truly appreciate a link to your blog so I can comment on your post as well… I seem to be having technical issues… thank you!

Thoughts scatter… like dry leaves in an Autumn wind…

Thoughts scatter
… like dry leaves in an Autumn wind…

… 60’s child growing up in outer-suburbia- shadows
when children owned the streets and roamed in safety
– after-school-care was a an adventure in the nearby swamp
or vacant lot… trees our look out towers
no thoughts to falling or scraping knobby childlike knees…
innocence was so innocent back then…
and tasted of stolen passionfruit
and honeysuckle blossoms… and one cent lollies…
sepia comics and homemade kites that tangled
in trees we never thought too tall to climb…

Mamas & Papas spilled from open windows
This is Ded-i-cated to the One I Love
and the Rascals
People Got To Be Free…
Curtis Mayfield
People Get Ready there’s a Train Comin’

…we watched Pollyanna & Mary Poppins
and  Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
and sang all the songs with innocence…
…the harsh details of the war
in Vietnam were softened
by my mother… who shooed me into my room
when the news was on…

…70’s child growing up “on the road”
temporary backyards in towns that differed with the seasons…
faces never stayed the same and even though the scenery changed
she felt  at home in every valley and mountain range…
as summers merged into summers and winters mirrored winters
She grew with the trees and flowing rivers…
isolation became the norm…  and vague the memories
of being suburban-born…
books replaced the TV… and songs are just poetry with music
sun-watching and moon-gazing filled the silent spaces
when poetic thoughts were scratched in the back of her home school English book…

… too soon it seemed her nut-brown body had desires to grow
she blossomed in soft rounded curves…  and let her hair flow
nubile changes… and a deeper turn of mind
and she left the pure innocence of childhood behind…

SharonleeGoodhandImageweaver ©

The World Sits Heavy on My Shoulders

guitar man…play for me
sing my blues away
the world sits heavy on my shoulders
it’s been that sort of day…

I don’t want to burden you
with my troubles
I don’t want share this pain
just sing a song
of days long gone
until I can breathe again…

 Life’s not always gentle
sometimes the nightmare
is staying awake
for when sleep finally
takes a hold of me
my dreams I can create…

… delirium rules the sunlit hours
illusions merge like  a reminiscent mirage
that torments the peripheral of my vision
taunting voices probe my mind
as if it is their mission
to unpick each frayed fibre of sanity
until I question my very heart
… then the convoluted cycle
rewinds back to the start…

guitar man…play for me
sing my blues away
the world sits heavy on my shoulders
it’s been that sort of day…
I don’t want to burden you
it’s just… this madness is insane
the world of humankind has gone a little crazy
and all I feel is fear and pain

If you could just sing a song
of days long gone
until I can breathe again
perhaps for just a little while I won’t feel
caught up in this crazy game …

Sharonlee Goodhand Imageweaver ©

Heart Quivers, Rain Shivers


Tonight the rain falls soft, persistent as if
to fill the nooks and crannies of my world with sky- tears…
… listening to the muffled world beyond the lamplights glow
I feel somehow
detached from the world and all I know…

Global energies run high… I try to hide… from it all, but
once seen it cannot be unseen, once heard, it cannot be unheard
– and a life on the run, from life, reality, might suit some
But I committed and that can’t be undone;
*
Strange, isn’t it, how fear is louder than understanding, and
how selfinterest blusters pretentiously, in flatulent tones, whereas
empathy embraces unconditionally, in a gentle soothing hum.
Often drowned out by more belligerent forces of human nature;

Are we losing ourselves in the collective madness or are we lost within it-
– struggling to stay afloat in a sea of mass turbulence?
Is the media inciting us to live in fear not only of a global virus, but also
of our fellow human as well… suspicion of our neighbour, our grocer, our friends?
When will it end?
Is this the World Wide disaster of these times, as wars and economic depressions have been in the past?
It has been some time since the Global Community faced a crisis and conflict that could shake its very foundation.
Shake it by creating division and fear and loathing; rattle the very truths and certainties we live by. Clouding reality with deliberate lies and misinformation…

I don’t understand why having a difference of opinion need be a problem.. a fear, something to fight against- if those differing opinions are not actually criminal and morally unconscionable conduct, then will name calling and violence prove or solve anything?

Perhaps I am having a conflict of Faith: my faith in my fellow people, the cross-section of loud blustering hotheads who believe their way is the ONLY way… and subsequently drown out the healing lullabies of the faith-full and compassionate.

Don’t lose heart, I say, even as I feel my own heart quivers in sorrow. Don’t lose faith… and please, please don’t condemn the unknown… ridicule the different or belittle unfamilier beliefs.

I don’t recall being asked if I wanted to be born this colour and height, this nationality and culture.
But I do have a choice how to live it and what energy I return to the Universe.

Tonight the rain falls soft, persistent as if
to fill the nooks and crannies of my world with sky- tears…
*
SharonleeGoodhand 2021

I Am Yours – A Prayer to Mother Earth

Art- SharonleeGoodhand

Spirit of the Mother Earth, I feel you;

I feel your energy in the very air I breathe…

…. I feel your power in the winds rushing over land and sea

I feel your joy in each season passing in accordance with time;

I feel your sadness, I feel your sorrow…  much has been done that may never be undone;

And Mother Earth, I feel your hope… see your hope, in every rotation around the Sun

I see your hope in the Light that shines to guide us through dark & troubled times…

I see and feel your hope in hearts and eyes and minds of people who I connect with

– people of like spirit … a kindred-kind… for we seem to grow in number;

Mother Earth, as patient and enduring as you have been, please be patient a little longer

…. a little longer…. an awakening consciousness is blossoming, can you feel it? Sense it?

a new stream of consciousness flows stronger as day passes day… evolution of the spirit;

… a deep-seated desire for spiritual cohesion  is drawing together  tribes of many colors & cultures

an underlying link vibrates… stirring in souls and quickening  energy… I feel it like a natural current

racing through my blood… and I know others feel it too…

I am yours… yours to guide as you see fit… I will do all in my power to champion your cause;

I am a child of Peace… a child of this Earth… sister to all and enemy to none

 your wisdom has been my guide through times of trouble and great joy

your seasons have been the timetable that shapes my days

I am your defender, protector and advocate … your keeper & sharer of tales & truths

I am the midwife to your rebirth… handmaiden of the Earth;

Sharonlee©

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©