20 Lines A Day

A Community of Writers and Photographers


3 Comments

Experiment

The dream was always the same. Two men wore masks over their faces and a bright light floated behind them. They spoke to her softly. The dream remained with her even when she went home, its residue ruining her focus. Her breakfast, a visit from a friend, her mother’s voice, all disappeared in its wake.

“What’s wrong with you this morning?” her mother chided one day. She couldn’t appear vacant or distracted or they’d take her back. It was an unfriendly place, full of crazy people. But she wasn’t crazy, just a little lost.

“I’m fine.”

She told herself the dream wasn’t real. She took her medicine and her mother checked under her tongue. It’s just a dream. But no – the room was familiar and she remembered something, something they did to her. Eyes loomed over paper masks; kind voices; her feet in stirrups.

I’m not crazy – I was never crazy. Maybe confused. But not this time.

She gripped her belly – it was growing rounder. She felt the life inside. But no one would believe her story – no one ever believed her. She was just a crazy girl.


Beckon

The wood floor groaned beneath her feet, the lantern hot in her hand. Her breath was tight inside her chest. Up ahead-a faint creak. A cold sweat sprouted on her skin; her head swam. He knew she was coming, creeping down the hall. Another step. Two. She raised the lantern but its thin yellow beam only stretched so far. He was behind that door – she could feel it.

“What am I doing?” she recited in her mind, over and over again. “Because you need to see him,” another voice responded.

Yes, she did. She’d seen him in her dreams every night. She could smell his breath as he taunted her with cold whispers. And then the squeeze on her shoulder. His words beckoned her – “come to me…”

It couldn’t be real, it wasn’t possible. He was dead. But he wanted her in their old bedroom. She was almost there now. Her nightgown fluttered in a cold draft, her feet silent. The door opened. She stopped – she didn’t want to see him after all. But the door widened even more, revealing only shadow and cold beyond. The abyss lured her forward.

She raised the lantern again, but its light was halted by a wall of shadow. “Come to me…” he whispered. She passed the threshold. And there he stood, as real as he’d been alive, if not for his transparent glow. The darkness swallowed her as she passed through his arms.


Love Lost and Stolen

Image

Though I am not aware of any great love

 beaming down upon me, I hope they are there

My lost son, my mother , her parents,

They speak to me, hear me when no one else does.

I have searched, believed, dreamed, loved

and seen all of that stolen from me.

In misery, drowning in tears, I have lain,

thinking of you, longing for your touch.

Oh, Holy Spirit, one whom I should trust

I often wonder where you are, near, or far

Do you watch over me while I suffer?

Do you not interject yourself in earths troubles?

There was a time when the majesty of your works,

the beauty of the forest and flowers of spring,

carried me to a place of pure delight.

Now, all I do is wonder what I did to make you leave.

Nothing can bring back what was stolen from me.

I try to find comfort in the winds, the sea,

To find you again, but I cannot see beyond the clouds.

I reach up, longingly to find only emptiness.

All you must do is reach down as I reach up,

as you did once and suddenly withdrew.

I hear the winds power, the majestic clouds.

But i want you, and can never ever have you here again.


1 Comment

A Stormy Night With You

Image
As I listen to the rain spattering against my cabin’s window,
I think of that night when we were stranded here.
The roads were washed out and the creek overflowing,
but I was in your arms , safe, warm, a long-awaited dream.

I saw the lights blink on the alarm clock, the bang on the transmitter.
I smiled, we were alone, you and I , no one would check on us.
I tugged on grandma’s quilt and you tugged back-asleep.
I listened to the sweet sound of your breath, soft, even.

When I awoke, stars glimmered in the window, the clock was flashing.
Darkness still surrounded me, along with your strong, hard arms.
I wanted this night to last forever, the moon seemed satisfied with just a peek at us.
You and I, finally in a place where life brought a freshness-alone, together.


There is a place

DSCN2090

There is a place in my heart, somewhere, I am sure-
where I can still feel, still love, still care.

My world is so empty, unfulfilling, sorrowful,
I cannot remember joy, peace, wanting to wake up.

I search for my little children, the son I lost,
Those who grew up and moved on without me.

I search for a love I tried so hard to believe in,
and never spent a night without a doubt or fear.

Surely, there is a place where my mother, my son,
my life still exists, waits for me as I wait alone.

I look, I try, but the lies, the lack of caring shouts.
Around me, it is like life laughing in my face.

I am your wife, I am your mother, I am your daughter,
You cannot change that any more than I can change you.

There is a place where I will get what I have toiled for
my entire life. That I have suffered and begged for.

When I get there, some of you may be there, and then,
some of you will not. Then, finally, I will have peace.

My world is so empty, unfulfilling, sorrowful,
I cannot remember joy, peace, wanting to wake up.

I search for my little children, the son I lost,
Those who grew up and moved on without me.

I search for a love I tried so hard to believe in,
and never spent a night without a doubt or fear.

Surely, there is a place where my mother, my son,
my life still exists, waits for me as I wait alone.

I look, I try, but the lies, the lack of caring shouts.
Around me, it is like life laughing in my face.

I am your wife, I am your mother, I am your daughter,
You cannot change that any more than I can change you.

There is a place where I will get what I have toiled for
my entire life. That I have suffered and begged for.

When I get there, some of you may be there, and then,
some of you will not. Then, finally, I will have peace.


1 Comment

Thirty-Nine

Today I turn 39.  My last year in my 30’s.  If I had my nearly 4 decades to do over, I’d stay home with my kids, which is a total contradiction because I hated staying at home when they were very young.  Now I’d do it all over again and for longer, just for more time with them.  I’d go to graduate school the first time I had the chance.  I’d go back to that first relationship in high school, and I’d say no to that boy.  Yes, it would change the course of my life, but I’d avoid the pain of losing a friend.  I’d make and keep better connections with friends of my parents and my extended family.  I had no idea how much I would wish I knew them better as I got older.   I’d demand more of myself.  The status quo and self pity would never be in my coping toolbox.  I’d learn about self care early on and make it a priority.  I’d stop myself from picking up terrible interpersonal habits that negatively affect my relationships.  My poor husband really has to deal with a lot of baggage.  I’d let people get close to me, I’d be more vulnerable.  And I’d expect it of other people too.  I’d take back every mean word I ever said to my sister.  Maybe we were just kids, but I’m sure it affected her, and she’s the only sibling I have.  I’d set better boundaries for myself, and I wouldn’t be afraid to say no.  I wouldn’t find a sick comfort in relationships that make me feel bad.  I’d talk to my mom about her illness, I’d share my fears about living a life without her.  I’d snuggle up next to her that night when she asked me to.   I’d understand that in order to feel great joy and compassion, you also, at times, have to allow yourself to feel great pain.  I’d never stop writing.  Or dancing.  Or letting the world know how smart I am.  Or crying.  I’d cry a LOT more.  And I’d pray more.  I’d figure out early what makes me passionate and pursue that.  Or not stop pursuing that.  I’d have a job that I love, that fulfills me, that I can’t wait to get up and do every morning.  I’d force my foot into that Cinderella slipper and never let it fall off my foot.

“Make the most of your regrets; never smother your sorrow, but tend and cherish it till it comes to have a separate and integral interest. To regret deeply is to live afresh.”

~Henry David Thoreau

Happy 39.  It’s going to be a great year.

©SpiritLed 2014


3 Comments

UNTITLED

Pre-note: I apologise  for how long this is… but I do need your help. I would be really glad if I got title suggestions for this poem. It was written by my boyfriend a while back, and we only recently decided to publish his collection with his permission. I believe it only proper that we appendage the name of whomever’s title sounds as a right fit for the poem along-side it in the publication. Thanks in advance… and for taking the time to read.

Wind. Mind and illusion.

Three words of freedom and dream. Dream.

Dream and ambition.

Two words of bravery, audacity and ego.

Ego.

That which labels not two words or three, or four,

But one.

Neither dream nor ambition, neither mind nor illusion,

Four words of placid bewilderment.

Of deep thought and belief, of conviction and denial,

Antonyms and metaphors. Hypothetical self-esteem,

Purely primordial imagination, prayers and chants to invisible airs,

Wind.

Inferior noises to the blue skies of day, and black skies at twilight,

Dream.

Compounded sequences of disturbed segments of notion,

In reposed action, flowery paradises of the future.

Ironies of reality, desperate desire and inception,

Four words of critic and mockery,

Reality.

Extinct possibilities, like as melting glaciers in the winters,

Simmers of boiling emotion, freezing the ice,

Breaking the skies and pouring evils upon earth.

Desire. Desperate desire,

Needs of the soul, penumbral wishes of the body,

Vain. Dark and vain, aimless as the clouds,

Trailing the wind and erasing the silver lining,

Inception.

Foundations. The origins of the genesis, the irony,

And absolute misery of rains under the sun,

Illusion. The fantasy of a wet sun, melting the clouds to create the rain,

Chimeras that the eyes can feel and the skin can see,

Figments of daydream, visions of fragmented stars,

Is it the blue in the oceans, or the skies?

Is it the green in the park, or the illusion of the mind’s eye?

Mind.

Clockwork and timeless manufacture of fabrications,

Beauty inexistent, a whole new world.

That which is created in the mind, is that which is not

The action offered in the physical.

The real world.

Ego. Is all it is?

Decharacterised delusion of self,

Constructed being, that which we may not be- wind.

Airs that shred the summer leaves, that burn the rains,

Black skins in white coating, silver with a clouded lining,

Persons that we are not ready to be,

That is who we are. Non-realities.

Simulated mockeries of God’s image,

Wind. Mind and illusion.

Our minds, caught in wild illusions carried swiftly by the winds,

Carried away to a distant place in these dreams.

Utopia.

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 3,389 other followers

%d bloggers like this: