Fantasy Tales By Sharonlee Goodhand – SIRIDEÁN SÚILEABHÁN – Dark Eyed Searcher

For serious poetic fantasy lovers…

Feed Your Soul & Free Your Spirit

SIRIDEÁN SÚILEABHÁN – Dark Eyed Searcher

By Sharonlee Goodhand

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Legend has it that she with the crystal ball

will come with all the answers…

she, sorceress of southern climes

the Dark Eyed Searcher

and so the seers  plot by season & stars

the time of her arrival…

the people wait and tend their roles

and whisper prayers… soon… please come soon

Sirideán Súileabhán sorceress of our salvation…

 It is said, that Sirideán reads signs like no other

that her travels in realms unreachable have harvested much wisdom…

Sirideán is the sorceress all sibyls go to for guidance

the sultry Dark Eyed Searcher that all wizards & magi

secretly lust after on moonlit nights …

the one Earthly woman all gods yearn to own…

But it is also said the dark-eyed Sirideán

walks heaven and earth & cosmos alone… a solitary candle in the darkest of nights;

her obsidian eyes…

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Wingless

Wingless

 

 

Particles cling

peripheral vison

            see’s unseen shadows

I

saw new horizons

    over the

       machinery of cities

       lost connections to

the moors…

         where the bracken fern, an

        unwitting witness 

     of supernatural darkness

 flying on Earth with a whisper of night,

      and songs of

      cities contemplating       

the burning fire…

– smog hisses thick

pervasive

on

Earth

laden with grit

stops the flight of wings,

I

saw –

       a

raven

contemplating the machinery of

            civilisation…

 wingless, I saw myself

    standing in a

    dimly lit vacuum 

unable to reach the essence

Of Time…

 

glossy black

feathered

wings clipped by

            social structure

I saw myself standing

in chilling limbo

  –  the Doors to silence

beyond my reach …

 

   I saw new horizons

    over the

       machinery of cities

       lost connections to

the moors…

forever hovering

on the threshold of flight

nothing more than a caged bird.

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SharonleeGoodhand

On Nights like This – Art & Poetry

Breathing Deep, Delving Deep

Reality of thought takes hold, cinematic visions glow

tuxedo crow in poetic flow, the melody begins to grow

Sentinels of the passage of Time

trees of wisdom and ancient rhyme

she walks within their tireless embrace

medicated is she, by their forest grace

Soothed by winter-fragrant breeze

in silence she walks with measured ease

thoughts unfold in cosmic scenes

Earth Energy, muse for her dreams

Breathing deep, delving deep

lingering in jade puddles where shadows sleep

whispering Wilga Willow gently sweeps

fallen leaves into wind-blown heaps…

Reality of thought takes hold, cinematic visions glow

tuxedo crow in poetic flow, the melody begins to grow

Breathing deep, delving deep

She explores hidden spaces in her mind

inner galaxies giving birth

to epiphanies of grand design.

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SharonleeGoodhand©30-Jul-15

All Art and Poetic Thoughts Copyright

Sharonlee Goodhand©31-Mar-16

Wondermazium – Digital Imagery – Life Before Man…

Life Before Man…

… in a time steeped in mystery

                primordial matter evolved

                                eyes, limbs, feathers fur or scale

From  primeval beginnings, Microscopic organisms

gave birth to the theory of evolution;

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All Art and Poetic Thoughts Copyright

Sharonlee Goodhand©31-Mar-16

 

 

 

 

 

All Art and Poetic Thoughts Copyright

Sharonlee Goodhand©31-Mar-16

 

 

When Sleep is Foreign

 

There is a more to me than simply my spoken words

more than the rhymes that spill and spin onto a page…

… there is more to me than what you see;

 

Thoughts run deep in those hours when sleep is foreign

and minutes tick deafeningly into the seething silence…

… contemplations race helter skelter into chaos

night breathes heavy in the echo between unheard sighs

where remnants of wistful melancholy breed moments of desolation …

 

Is this life

these days that stretch and tumble and drag into yesterdays lived

but not breathed, as one might breathe in the very essence of communion –

lived, without soul connection and spiritual union, the synergy of

souls joined, connected through mutual understanding of love

and what love is…

 

Reality stares out from a two faced mirror, trading looks with destiny

and caught between the two… I hold together what’s left of me

for there is a more to me than simply my spoken words

more than the rhymes that spill and spin onto a page…

 

… somewhere a heart beats in time with mine

I hear the steady pulse in the echo of my soul

the sweet rhythm of their breathing

rocks me to sleep at night

and if it is meant to be, that we never find each other in this life

perhaps… perhaps we will come together

 

– in our next.

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Poetry & Art SharonleeGoodhand©

Take My Name and Number (I will Not Be Silenced)

Authoritarian hierarchical

will not silence me

gunboat diplomacy

will not silence me

 

I do not fear them

– jail me, starve me, deny me

the innate rights of all humanity

I will not fear them

 

They cannot

 will not

silence my words

my art

my thoughts

my heart

I will not be silenced

 

I will not sit quietly

obediently

while this chaos reigns

I will not turn a blind eye

to the violence and pain

I will not ignore starvation

death of innocents

extinction of species

 

I will not be silenced

            take my name and number, if that feeds your ego

                        but I will NOT be silenced.

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Art & Poetry – SharonleeGoodhand©22-Nov-15 

 

Thoughts Left Trailing…

Thoughts Left Trailing…

Walking on instinct, thoughts mapping out

the steps of my day-

– final destination 36 kilometers

on a bus that stops-all-stops

through rural towns linked by a busy highway…

… I enjoy that route

from metropolis to metropolis

through undulating hills

past grassy plains and strawberry farms

dairy-cows-grazing knee deep pasture…

… where was I… that’s right, walking on instinct

planning out the steps of my day

so involved was I

I almost missed the fresh bright changes of Spring-

– the little things, that almost slip by

unseen by inward gazing eyes

last remnants of morning dew

glossy leaves of pinkish hue

budding weeds, purple and blue

grace the borders of the path…

Morning air feels perky

feint traces of Winter linger in the Spring

not yet burdened by the humid heaviness of Summer –

– mentally ticking off the mundane chores

bank, post office, news agents

detour to the ladies room

to reach the bus depot, just in time to catch

the 631 stops-all-stops

through rural towns where time slows down

micro-meditating through finger-printed windows

as the bus rattles past cow-mown meadows

and chuckling creeks  as clear as glass.

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Poetry & Photos – SharonleeGoodhand©20-Sep-15