Interstices

[Dream Loxley]

*Nods lots and lots* One can almost hear your heart whispering dear Letha.........

[Halethala]

*humbly thanks you both for reading*

I hesitate to share this one. It was written long before I knew my son was going to do nearly this very thing . .
Submitted as an entrance for yet another contest elsewhere, about a special order of Warriors that were very difficult to find oneself invited to join. I can't even remember how or even if I placed. I know it didn't win.

They are called the "Iron Knights"

No, my Son
They are not gods
These Knights you panegyrize
There beats within each iron veil
A heart of flesh both brave and frail
Our future in their eyes

No, my Son
I do not know
Just how they came to be
But I suspect the pen of need
Was dipped in blood of demon greed
To re-write history

No, dear Son
It isn’t true
That they can never die
When hemmed about by evil’s horde
They face the threat in one accord
From battle never shy

Aye, my Son
There’s yet so few
That bear their noble title
Yet surely more will heed the call
And stand beside, forsaking all
And consecrate what’s vital

No, Dear Son
You would not break
This tender heart of mine
If to their ranks you would aspire
Their elite garb someday acquire
Your destiny entwine

Though none would know the depth of pain
Of never seeing you again
I’d never tell you “no”
But bless you ‘ere you go . . .

[Repsol]

WOW............

[Dream Loxley]

WOW indeed! Gosh Letha.......... that is incredible......... I am suprised you did not come first with that poem......... such depth of emotion...... what a way with words you always have!

Thankyou so much for sharing..........such a gift you are to treasure!

[Halethala]

*smiles* Thankye . .

Another . . . this one new.


Misconstrued

When it rains
The drops have fallen for so long
That when they strike the stream’s face
They displace it . . .

Piercing the tension

Until the surface
Bristling with the points of spears
Seems as if defending itself

When it is merely making room

And reaching up to embrace each drop

[Halethala]

Esprit

I’ve seen it in the glint and flash
Of each fine jewel,
And heard it on the lips and tongues
Of sage and fool.

I’ve felt it chill beneath my feet
On mountain high,
It’s voiced within the canon’s roar
And soft sea’s sigh.

I’ve laughed to watch it hoisted up
In foam-flecked mug,
And marveled at the hearts that felt its
First sweet tug.

It punctuates the rush and thrum
Of throng filled streets
And sketched inside the nod and grin
Of each we meet.

It trembles with the quaking earth
New blades forged,
And echoes down the airless deep,
Up pass and gorge

We toast it in the crowded Inns
Wreathed in cheer,
And mourn its loss in those who’ve left and
Are not here.

It’s more than any pack can bear
Or one heart hold,
It’s greater than the mighty deeds
Of heros bold.

It transcends hope and even love
Yet holds each dear,
Lending courage, grace and strength
To fight each fear.

Each of us will scribe our place,
Small or great,
And realize the destiny
That guides our fate.

[Dream Loxley]

Gosh Letha, your vocabulary and use of words never ceases to amaze me! How often have I read your works and simply become lost within them....... long may such moments continue my friend.

[Halethala]

You were the thread

That pulled through my raw edges,
And kept my skirts
From dragging on the ground . . .

You darned across the weak spots
With orchestrated skill.

And still . . . And still

And still believe
That some knots never fray.

[Dream Loxley]

I like this........muchly. reminds me of my tapestry of life.........

[Halethala]

Just a bit of wordplay . . not real purpose, and not in verse . .

My gait was staggered and awkward, hindered by the dripping hands tightly cupped together in front of me as I galloped with what could have been mistaken as a drunken abandon towards the men-kin who anchored the sloping banks. The droplets that fell blossomed quickly on the thin summer cotton of my skirts, leaving a trail of dark patterns down my front that caused no end of teasing. Still, there were enough grudgingly uttered praises for my uncanny skills at capturing the tiny silvery bait they favored most. My best weapon was simply patience . . a trait that did not permeate to every corner of my makeup.

[Halethala]

On old poem of mine, updated a bit

PORTALS

Tiny ballerina leaves
That pirouette and spin,
And dance with frenzied ecstasy
Upon the autumn winds.

Multicolored shades of death,
Portentous little lies
That camouflage the fading greens,
With jewel-toned compromise.

Shuffling through the crispy rust
Beneath the naked trees,
A paradigm of rich reward
For credulous release . . .

I stoop and choose one crimson leaf
Caress it to my cheek
I cannot save them all or halt the
Coming winter bleak . . .

But each one whispers promise,
Soft with velvet frost,
Blanketing a sweet rebirth
Worthy of the cost.

[Halethala]

I didn't write this, but came across it this morning again . . and while I can't agree with all of it, there is so much to keep reminding me to revel in "now" . .

Life Your Life To The Fullest

Move:
Your address, your bed, your body, your bookshelf.
Take a walk, take a hike, take a step away from stagnating jobs,
relationships and life patterns. Change perspective.
Move closer to people who meet you with authenticity
and nourish your wildest dreams.
You don't have to move mountains,
shifting a single pebble can work wonders.

Listen:
Sit in silence and see how much there is to hear.
Listen to people.
What are they really saying?
Listen to the very last notes of every song.
Listen to your own inner voice -
the one you hear only when the dim of every day is diminished.
Hear the rustle of a leaf, the call of a grasshopper,
the pop and crackle of wood burning.
Listen through your feet and through your hands.
Listen with your heart
and always listen to that which is never spoken.

Touch:
Touch the part of your own body that you love.
Embrace in the bakery, in the parking lot,
in the doorways all over town.
Kiss people on the cheek.
Cuddle your children every day.
Stroke your cat more, pet your dog more.
Savour the kalaidascope of flavour in your favourite desert.
Enjoy the sensation of a silky scarf,
of a well-sanded piece of wood.
Moss, bark, rocks, trees, grass and the water work, too.
The more you do it,
the less you bump up against the "ouch" in touch.

Feel:
Feel the pain, feel the joy, until you feel you'll surely evaporate.
Stop holding back from laughing deep within your gut,
loving from the deepest places of your heart,
swooning with the sensuality of life itself.
When another's disregard or arrogance enrages you,
feel the anger rise up and roar!
If you're not truly feeling, you're not truly alive -
you're just going through the motions.

Trust:
Stop second-guessing yourself. You know what you know, you know?
That inner tickling is your highest truth.
It will serve you well; the backfire comes when you deny or discount it.
Take in information, from all sides, yet trust, in the end,
that you - and you alone - know what's best for you.
If all day you pine to paint, then that is what you must do.
If you ache to walk beside the ocean, find a way to get there.
Without complete trust, you begin to rust away.
Your shine and sparkle will be no more.

Gather:
Gather together with women and men you love.
Sip refreshments together, walk in the woods together.
Talk and talk and talk.
Share your dreams and your fears.
Read aloud to each other, do absolutely nothing together.
Revel in how your hair and your skin and your bodies
and your stories are so different - and yet, so utterly alike.
Cook and eat together.
Stand beside the washing machine and cry and hug and together.
And most assuredly, laugh together until your sides ache.

Receive:
For once, stop giving, giving, giving to everyone but yourself.
Accept a compliment with grace.
Voice what you need -
be it a hug, a moment of talk, food for your table, a loan of money
- and know that it will be provided.
Loosen your white-knuckled, stressed-out grasp on life,
and then let the palms of your hands fill to overflowing.
Know that you deserve all you receive, and remember
to show your gratitude,
for the sheer magnificence of a life lived well.
~ Rachel Snyder

Happiness is a journey, not a destination. We convince ourselves that life will be better after we get married, have a baby,
then another. Then we are frustrated that the kids aren't old enough and we'll be more
content when they are. After that we're frustrated that we have teenagers to deal with.
We will certainly be happy when they leave that stage behind!
We tell ourselves that our life will be complete when our spouse gets his or her act
together, when we get a nicer car, are able to go on a nice holiday, when we retire.
The truth is, there's no better time to be happy than right now.
If not, when?


Time waits for no-one...
So stop waiting until you finish school, until you go back to school,
until you lose ten pounds, until you gain ten pounds,
until you have kids, until your kids leave home,
until you start work, until you retire,
until you get married, until you get divorced,
until Friday night, until Sunday morning,
until you get a new car or home, until your car or home is paid off,
until spring, until summer, until Autumn, until winter,
until you are off welfare, until the first or fifteenth,
until your song comes on, until your ship comes in,
until you've had a drink, until you've sobered up,
until you die.
Happiness is not having what you want, but wanting what you have.

[Halethala]

I challenged a friend to write a poem about pie crust, after a lengthy discussion about the difficulty of making it. She, of course, asked the same in return, but I'm afraid mine got a bit . . well . . *laughs* . . . heavy?

The Pie Crust Challenge

I crushed the lumps of cloves between my fingers
And released the aroma of incense rising as prayers,
The beautification of Esther,
The false prostitute’s fresh linens spiced with temptation,
The sweet ointment to anoint the Lord’s body
That was not needed and never used . . .

Precious commodity of trade
The Queen of Sheba offered rare spices along with her gold and jewels
A gift for wisdom

“As easy as pie”

The fragrant puree perfects the bed of crust
That awaits in fluted salute.

How dull our world would be,
And tasteless
The empty shell . . .

[Halethala]

I didn't write this . . can't seem to write anything lately. But I loved this so. I really don't know the authors real name, so forgive me if I don't give her full credit . .

'Mukhammas on night'

The day has dimmed the last dull glint of light,
Across the bay the sun gives up its fight,
Diurnal birds embark on final flight
And lights come on across my line of sight
To signal the descent of quiet night.

I hear the nightfall even as I stand
And look across my shallow plot of land,
The shadows fall over the heat-baked sand
As well as my translucent, out-stretched hand.
How I wish that I could paint the twilight!

A curlew calls a song beneath the sky,
As sand crabs scuttle home, innately shy.
In moments such, I would that I could fly,
The better to explore before I die.
Earth-bound I am, though Heaven is my right.

The water shimmers with the rise of heat
And cools around my sinking, wandered feet.
Soft-silvered waves do prove a winding sheet
That will befit me until we can meet
Once more, in that pure, perfect, final white.

An ink-spill crawls across the dusk in black
So now from night there is no turning back.
Who wrote this life? There is so much I lack.
I scrawl your name in stars, a last attack
Upon the darkness of this coming night.

[Halethala]

Mine . . old . . . refurbished some . .

I wonder what lies beneath
The piles and heaps and shifting mounds of
Fluted, convoluted
Rippled dips and escalades
That rearrange themselves
and rearrange again
again . .
Sculpted by the scorching, arid winds.

Does it have a choice?
In where is more, is less,
Is sharply ridged and curved and bent,
Is scoured until nothing grows
in the dessicated winds?

Or will it burst to life again
beneath a quenching rain
that's been delayed . .