Brother to brother,
Memory to thought,
Tasting the stories
that old one-eye sought,
Storing them safely
in the heart of a cloud,
Never spoken aloud.
Sorry folks, I’ve tried to warn Mia about words…they can turn and bite when you try to make them march in line. 😉
His name is duke because that’s a good name for a big dog but he’s not a real dog he only lives in my head. He used to be real, but then he wasn’t mine, and now he’s just mine and nobody elses. When he was real he was a puppy and I saw him in the store and I got to hold him and he loved me and I loved him but he costed too much money so I had to leave him and I cried. And then I heard him crying too, outside, and it was dark but I snuck out anyway and looked and looked but I couldn’t find him. The next time, I checked at the store and they said he was still there, it must have been another puppy but I knew better. So that night I heard him again, and I couldn’t find him, so I was sad and went home, and he was there! He was in my room! I ran and hugged him but my arms went right through him, so I knew he wasn’t real, but I asked him to stay with me and he slept on my pillow and in the morning he was gone again. I cried and I called the store and they said he wasn’t for sale anymore, because he was sick. He didn’t look sick when he was with me, so I waited for night and he came back and I cuddled him all night and gave him kisses and when he tried to leave again I held him and he just curled on my lap and went to sleep. And then I called the store and they said he was gone, and I tried to tell them he was with me but they didn’t understand. So now he is the puppy who lives in my head and I love him forever and ever, and he loves me. The End.
Liminal, the place between, between the seen and the unseen, the corner view, the edge of sight, the distance between wrong and right, the gap that lies between the worlds, where all the dragons sleep, tight-curled, from page to page, from left to right, in and out and day and night, all the spaces in between, where the tricksters dance unseen, in whirling steps of green and blue, and dancing, make the world anew, in colors of the brightest sheen, to decorate the place between.
So these are my new toys, made from licensed images from my all time favorite artist, Jasmine Beckett Griffith, manipulated for my personal use and enjoyment with a combo of iPhone apps…in no particular order:
Bazaart, Exacto, ColorSplash, Waterlogue, and Distressed FX.
I generally suck at “visual art” so I thought I’d check and see what y’all thought. 😊
bright and quick or dark and scary, she’s the woodlands favorite faery, flitting from her treetop aerie to the forest floor below. Try to catch her, beam of sunlight, or at night a falling star, laughter ringing, high voice singing, soon you won’t know where you are. bright and quick or dark and scary, she’s the woodlands favorite faery, flitting from her treetop aerie to the forest floor below. Follow her through shifting shadows, bright and dark at once is she, as she leads you, you will follow, and your home you’ll never see. bright and quick or dark and scary, she’s the woodlands favorite faery, flitting from her treetop aerie to the forest floor below.
Mirror mirror on the wall, hanging there so silently, can you see me here at all, or do you stand in awe of me?
See my skin as white as snow, see my smile as sharp as thorn, behind my lips so rosy red, a beauty grown, but never born.
My people love me, as they might, they laud my beauty and my grace, adore my hair as black as night, and see in me my mother’s face.
Mothers ash is buried deep, beneath the sacred Rowan tree, but should I cry beneath its shade, I hear her voice still speak to me.
Blood red tears soak through the ground, nourishing the thirsty earth, and whispering the leaves take voice, echoes of her cruel mirth.
Stepmother, fear me as you should, for though you may have fathers ring, tis I who owns his beating heart…in me, the conscience of the king.
Huntsman with your sharpened knife, you track me for the queen so good, a single kiss and you are mine, amazed amidst the darkened wood.
The beating heart, unlike my own, ensconced within a box of gold, and carried to stepmother dear, a tragic tale will soon be told.
By animals in forest deep, my body torn too much to save, the heart the only evidence, to lay beside my mother’s grave.
From kitchen knave to scullery maid, soon all in mourning deep will be, whilst I move through them whisper soft, feeding on the tragedy.
And then, replete, I’ll slip away, down to the caverns dark and deep, far from the biting of the sun, where spirits howl and duergar creep.
There among the little men, I’ll sleep until I thirst again, then waken, smiling in my bliss, to share again my blood red kiss.