Portal of Zenosyne

Portal of Zenosyne

Hesitating, as if… if she entered she may choose to never return ….
so she stood in the dense silent haze, watching, thinking;

Every 55 minutes the portal appeared between the giant trees
a wavering, viridescent whirlpool when open
… a vague woodsy mist when closed… it would simply be as innocent as walking between any two trees… except… she felt the residual energy others might not feel…

Surreal Forest Sharonlee Goodhand Imageweaver

Three times she ventured between the tree Guardians
when the Way was closed… three times she wandered back
to stand and watch, listening to the forest rustlings
and her own beating heart…

Life is short. And life is long. But not in that order, and sometimes
it appears to stand still as if caught in a timeloop of timelessness.

Surreal Forest Sharonlee Goodhand Imageweaver

This was one of those timeless times, for how long she stood
she didn’t know – suddenly suspended in liquid skies, stars glowed and faded…
a day flowed by in silent green shadows as she stood in this woods alone.

Guarding the Guardians… nay, observing the space between, as
night closed in again, in muted greens, she realised the Portal
appeared to be sleeping, she watched as moon rose high overhead
and when the viridescent whirlpool did not reopen, she lay in leaf-fall, sleeping as well;

Surreal Forest Sharonlee Goodhand Imageweaver

Dawningtime, birdsong swelled only trailing to silence when
the Portal of Zenosyne glowed into be-ing…
Hesitating, as if… as if she entered she may choose to never return
how well she knows that Life is short. And life is long.
And not necessarily in that order…
She breathed in the forest air
And took a step into the viridescent glow, finally ready for whatever
lay beyond…

Surreal Forest Sharonlee Goodhand Imageweaver

Poetry and Art Sharonlee Goodhand Imageweaver

Zenosyne: The Sense That Time Keeps Going Faster
(From the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows)

Seeped in Magic

There is an old deep magic in this forest
which has seeped into my bones
becoming one with roots
that reach to
embrace this Earth with tenderness…
… a deep old magic which resonates
through my blood and recognises
the kindred sacredness
in the beating of my heart;

The energy is pure and palpable
embracing growing trees and rich earth soaking
in moisture which nurtures
the lines of my blood, making me weep
with gratitude for all that holds sway
in the stillness of deep old places …
… the shadows echo and whisper
echoes whisper of wisdom and nature
which resonates through my blood
and recognises the kindred sacredness in my soul

As we transcend the unconscious
and as we transcend the ego
and as we transcend the chaos
to a place of deep inner understanding
We will find a place in our hearts
where we will know the truth of our own heartbeat
And we know we are home
in the deep old magic of the forest.
*
Poetry and Art Sharonlee Goodhand Imageweaver 2021

A Dribble is Half a Drabble

A “Dribble” is half a “Drabble”… and a Drabble is 100 words… see Wikipedia for full explanation.

The “dribble” (also known as the “minisaga,” 50 words)

The “drabble” (also known as “microfiction,” 100 words)

True Test of Time

Full Moon Magic Art Sharonlee Goodhand Imageweaver

True Test of Time

The full moon rose over suburban streets
faint traces of daylight slowly draining
from a shadowed sky…
… bats swooped above tree silhouettes
darker shades against the night…

Branches echoed with a babbled chorus
as parrots squabbled for tree-space
and one by one lights shone
from regimented rows of houses…

There was a measure of stillness
as night took over from day
autumn kissed my aging cheeks
chill lips against my skin
as a muted sense of calmness
permeated the quiet streets
somewhere a dog barked
and the last echoes of children playing
fell to silence…

I realized there was a peacefulness
in such a setting
even though it was not the tranquility
of my beloved wilderness…
… was it that I had become accustomed to my new surroundings
acclimatized to the hum of traffic and the way
buildings blocked the view?

Me by Me

As I ambled through the twi-lit streets
my youngest son, at 22, slowed his pace to match his mum’s…
… yes, the same mum who had hurried his little feet to school-
– stopped to tie his scuffed shoes… held his small hand in hers
and smiled… come on son, we’ll be late…
… as if sensing my poignant thoughts my man-child
smiled at me, nice night, was all he said.
*
How things change, as the years change
pace slows and thoughts take on reflective layers
each passing month… each year that slips by
offers insights new and rewarding
as a full moon rose over suburban streets
faint traces of daylight slowly drained
from a shadowed sky…
I smiled at the evening stars
that appeared one by one
and realized there was a peacefulness
in such a setting
even though it was not the tranquility
of my beloved wilderness…

Perhaps the true test of time
is to find such peace
where ever one resides.
*

Sharonlee Goodhand Imageweaver

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

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 ©