Creative Challenge 274 .. understated

 *link to the challenge*

Creative Challenge 256 ~ Natural

With the planting of a seed

So begins a thing naturally

Small beginnings like the creep of moss on rock

Grow it in a gradual bloom of green fingers

Until less rock and more breathing thing

Its life curls and climbs

Organic in spirit

To its deepest root

While the days play gardener

One soul bears fruit and

Another blossoms

Feeding the feather tongues and bellies

Of winged creatures in their quest

For honey.

Natural as the curves sculpted

In sand and wood by wind

And stroking waves

Two find a purpose in existence

Entwined inextricably

Exposed to the elements and

Yet enduring rooted deep upon stone.

Human endeavor cannot conceive what

Is birthed by fragile seed and

Cannot reproduce what unearthly forces

Cause to grow

Permitted only to watch

Nurture and wonder

At the fertility of love.

Link to Challenge: http://challengingthecreative.blogspot.com.au/

The Dream ~ Inspired by Henri Rousseau

Neither rain nor heat nor wind were as faithful as Surien. After each day’s toil, he laid down the rags of a labourer and took up the mantle of a musician. He played his flute well. He played every day, practising his art with the patience of a craftsman whittling away at imperfection. The notes he drew from it were like tendrils; smoke rising from his pipe of life. As he blew into the dark tube, his breath stirred the passions he had nurtured with the purity of new melodies.

Those who lived within earshot inhaled his musical concoctions at day’s end, the mayor’s daughter among them. She was beautiful and bored, longing for the day when she could leave that dirty town for the life of films in some fast shiny city. She lay listless on her divan, listening to the piper’s wordless tales. The notes came as bright birds and warm furs, settling around her as the atmosphere grew lush with the music.

Surien was lonely. He dreamed also. His fingers played the longings of his soul to be larger than it was. He imagined he was speaking to the giver of dreams, and that his sounds were simple prayers asking for more than he dared hope to gain. He was glad that no-one complained about his flute practice.

One day, an important black car came to that dusty corner of town. The mayor’s daughter looked down from her window and squealed with delight, rushing to pack her suitcases for her trip to stardom. But the car had come to bear away the musician, taking him far off to an unknown but hopeful future. She watched him go, carrying nothing but his flute case and a canvas sack, and the collective dreams of his listeners.

Oh..

Present
to myself..
Truth.
Present
for myself..
Courage
to see it
at last.

A Little Love

Not too large

My embrace, nor long but

Just enough to show

Some affection.

My smile ready and

Warm but not too full.

The pretence continues

As it must like handrails on the stairs;

Smooth guidelines

Safe within rigidly set

City limits.

The glance not lingering

Too long lest

Somehow underneath friendly paint

You see that it’s just

A show.

For while the carnival obscures the silence I must

Pretend that I love you

Only a little.

Take me not into quiet woods where

Our eyes may meet unshadowed by observation..

Oh bring me not to the dance floor

While they play the Lover’s Waltz!

No, don’t take my hand in a moment

That has no appointed end

And ask me to pretend

That I love you

Just

A little.

From Lottie © Jan 2013

Violent Grace

Love is violent grace

The sparks of its axe fly from the whetstone to the strains of Debussy

With calculated abandon

It murders the heart with swift blows

Only to rebirth it in petals and Honey

I suffer its multiple reincarnations on my journey to

The nirvana of perfect devotion

Love wears Velvet mittens and spurs

To flay the soul with tender Kisses

That burn through every layer of skin

My heart knows the gentle destruction of love’s chisel

As it chips away at All resolve

And carves me into its pure state of peace

Remarkably Whole in the aftermath of an onslaught

By the crooning banshee of amorous whispers

I wonder that I still breathe

Love my Prayer

You my confession

Awaiting Freedom in the binding of adoration’s blessing.

From lottie Jan 2013©