A poetic journey through my mind

Smell of blue!

Me and my Shadow

Sorry folks, I’ve tried to warn Mia about words…they can turn and bite when you try to make them march in line. ¬†ūüėČ


The puppy who never grew up, by Mia Sloan

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.


The Dance

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.


Collages

 

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. ¬†ūüėä


Puzzle

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.


Beauty (trigger warning: descriptive language)

Hard, soft, hard. ¬†Hard, soft, hard. ¬†She rocks in a rhythm, ¬†a pattern, a silent rhyme. ¬†Hard, soft, hard. ¬†Bony knees clenched tightly under her chin, skinny arms wrapped around like a ragged bow on a present never to be opened. ¬†Hard. ¬†Soft. ¬†Hard. ¬†Huge luminous eyes stare straight ahead, eyes made to seem even larger, sunk deep in their pits of shadow. ¬†Mouth open slightly, a rifled purse, ¬†soft keening cries spilling constantly forth. Hard. ¬†Hard enough for her head to impact the cold cinderblock wall with a muffled thunk. ¬†Soft. ¬†Soft but fast, back and forth, quiet swish of cloth on the painted cement floor. ¬†Hard once again. ¬†Thunk. ¬†And still the cries, still the stare, still the eyes that see nothing but the past, the past which is her eternal present…hard..soft…hard.


The Bad Thing

Softly she stumbles,
Silently weeping,
Down past the rooms where her children lie sleeping,
Down the dark stairs she goes cautiously creeping,
No light required, her feet know the way.

On one hand soft fingers hold tear stained note lightly,
The other a fist on which knuckles show whitely,
Fear, rage and shame are all mingling tightly,
As outside the nighttime brightens toward day.

Soon she’ll be leaving the note so deceiving,
her heart deep in grieving for memories lost, while upstairs the villain snores loudly, sleeps soundly, midst blankets and pillow as if by storm tossed.

And young ones will wonder at lives torn asunder, how silently thunder can come in the night, filling lifes pages with a nightmare of rages, forcing the caged bird to finally take flight.


Mirrorrim

 

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.


I hate my hands

Hand one

Stupid RA. Stupid painful almost useless fingers. Stupid whiny me.

Hand two

I’m at a point where I’d almost rather chop them off than deal with trying to use them…the operative word is “almost”…for now.


Blue Streak

Alice in blue jeans, my rabbit-hole child,
blue hair and blonde eyes and an icicle smile,
how in the world did you steal my heart, while constantly staying that one step apart?
Alice in blue jeans, my looking glass girl,
here in a flash and gone in a whirl.
Always arriving, but never to stay,
time after time you must be on your way,
how do I catch you and hold you so tight that your icicle smile melts into delight?