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)

The Day that ‘We’ Were Born

The Day that ‘We’ Were Born

We were born into the wind
in days when the sun was young
we found our voice and learned to sing
into the mystic of time begun…

We talked all through the night until first light
an ocean of words slept before the dawn
nothing was left untouched or unsaid
on the day we were reborn…

On the day that we were born, the dynamics of life changed
some things ceased forever, others rearranged
the you and me and destiny
reached out beneath an endless sea of stars
in those days when the sun was young
when we found our voice and learned to sing
into the mystic wind.

*
SharonleeGoodhand Imageweaver
2021
Inspired by Van Morrison

Image Sharonlee Goodhand Imageweaver

Metaphysical Dantesque

Created by Sharonlee Goodhand Imageweaver

Much I marvelled the wordsworthian dantean
I crave the mystical, magnificent metaphysical
In there stepped a supernal dystopianite
But only laughed the poet benthamite
Suddenly, I heard some sound horrifying
All my soul within me personifying
Back into my memories intimidating
Take thy tragic from out my heart!

Much I pondered this mythical textualist
That sorrow propagated such sorrow
‘It’s that poignancy,’ I muttered
My mind always strays to shadings, true
Remembering many daliesque, elvish hues wherein
The catastrophic contrition crying
And the profundity often decrying
I crave the melancholy, mozartian mischievousness
While I pondered, things fantastical and mystifying.
*


Sharonlee Goodhand Imageweaver 2021

Created by Sharonlee Goodhand Imageweaver

Below I shared the explanations behind my word usage and inspiration-

Metaphysical Poetry: highly intellectualized poetry marked by bold and ingenious conceits, incongruous imagery, complexity and subtlety of thought, frequent use of paradox, and often by deliberate harshness or rigidity of expression.

Dystopias are societies in cataclysmic decline, with characters who battle environmental ruin, technological control, and government oppression. 
A dystopianite, therefore, is a person belonging to such a society.

adjective

• relating to or consistent with the philosophical system of utilitarianism proposed by the English philosopher and jurist Jeremy Bentham.

“the Benthamite calculus of pains and pleasures”

noun

• a person who supports the philosophical system of utilitarianism proposed by the English philosopher and jurist Jeremy Bentham.

“for the Benthamite a natural right was both false and meaningless”

Bentham’s greatest happiness principle is the principle of utility, or “greatest happiness principle,” which forms the cornerstone of all Bentham’s thought. … His principle of utility regards good as that which produces the greatest amount of pleasure and the minimum amount of pain and evil as that which produces the most pain without the pleasure

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

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