I am a wild woman

by MELISSA CLARY

I am a wild woman
I know, inspite of myself
and in spite of what I've been told
that there's beauty in every age
no matter how old

I am a wild woman
I've learned what it means to be a life bearer
to bear children
to create art
to plant seeds of love

I am a wild woman
from the depths of the dirt underneath my fingernails
to the height of my very soul
I am one with the Earth
the winds from the four directions whisper through my skin

I am a wild woman
and the spirit of every wild woman coalesces in me
for we are each wild women
and we are all the spirit of the wild woman
I will follow the voice in my heart

I am a wild woman
I sing from my heart
I dance with the stars
I howl at the moon
I love uncontrollably

I am a wild woman
from the deepest, darkest, most sacred part of me
I am fearless
I cry in strength
I open my arms to the sky and welcome the rain

I am a wild woman
I nurture, love and protect
I stand, strongly, silently, sweetly for my brothers
I walk dutifully, prayerfully, joyfully upon the mother
and I will not be stopped

I am a wild woman.

 
~~~

Every Day We Are Dancers

by MITCH ROBERSON

It begins with the lewd macarena
each of us performs in the shower,
then the modified twist we are hip to
with that ever-absorbent partner, the towel,

and on to the funky chicken of stepping into underwear,
the shimmy of stretching into hose.
There is no music, none that anyone
can hear, yet no one can escape the boogie.

Outside beneath the disco ball of the Sun
no one is a wallflower, not even the two lugs
in the crosswalk lugging a huge mirror,
one at either end pressing his cheek

into the cheek of his own reflection, arm
extended, hand clasping his own hand in a tango
more about control than passion, one couple
leading himself forward, the other slide-stepping

backwards across the intersection made double
by the infinite burden they shoulder together.
At the entrances of buildings even those afflicted
with two left feet find grace with a stranger

~~~

Creative February 28 - Ode to summer

Today is officially the last day of summer. An ode seemed the best way to say goodbye...

ODE TO SUMMER

Summer,

Spreading, sparkling, sunlit

Seduces me into her simmering haze

Until I rise

A glittering mote

Into her expansive golden arms

Her warm pulsating heart

It is easy to lose myself

All sense of identity lost

In the frenzied heart throb of a season

Where all things rise to greet the sun

In one unending exultation

Summer, queenly, majestic.

As though Spring, that debutante princess

having strutted her freshness

Of tender leaves and sprouting seedlings

has ripened into a delicious woman.

Who has wrested the secrets of life

From harsh Nature and

having won the battle wears her success

in medals of ripening fruit

lush dresses of deepening green

her hair adorned with flowers,

and tiaras of butterflies, bees and birds

And, brazen and wanton,

laughing at her celestial lover.

Summer,

when Nature breaks the cold cruel curse

of winter and offers a blessing

a reward for patience

a medal for forbearance

pinned to Earth’s breast

throws upon it

a congratulatory cloak of verdancy.

Summer,

The season of the cicada

who shedding its shell

Rises in the hundreds

Its ululating mating call

Frantic and fervid

The ultimate ode to summer

~~~

Creative February 27 - My various selves

I glance at the mirror
on the way to the next chore.
Is that a stranger?
Forehead furrowed,
focussed face, grim,
a burdened Atlas.

Then I catch
the twinkle in the eye
the smile lurking at
the corner of the mouth.
As if caught out in the game.

A catch-me-if-you-can
grinning gamine
hiding behind a tired facade
breaks through.
A cheeky, intrepid sun.

I wonder then,
about my outward self,
the one that others see
that bears little likeness
to the inner me.
Montages that dwell,
and morph and grow
in others’ minds.

So varied, so unalike
as though in each of them
dwells a different me.
~~~

Creative February 26 - Bee buzz among blooms

bees serenade blooms

their seeds fall to earth

new life

 

blooms and bees
must speak a secret language
fragrance the key

They in bliss

in eternal dance of life

happy hours

~~~

Creative February 25 - Revenge

(55-word flash fiction)

Revenge

The boy had killed its mother. The spider waited for its chance to avenge. Finally, it saw him at the open window. It jumped, aiming for his face. Stunned, the boy lost his balance, fell backwards, hit his head against the bed-post and passed out. No one heard the thud. He bled to death.

~~~

Creative February 24 - Cicadas

cicadas screech

their ode to summer, the air

a wall of wail

Summer belongs to the cicadas!

Creative February 23 - Age

AGE

my mother fades, as though
time was an eraser, erasing
bits of her, slowly but surely.
desires, memories, abilities
fade in steadfast succession
leaving behind holes like 
she was the lead star in a poster
of a movie no longer playing.
the colours of her visage
once vibrant now fading,
its lines blurring, patchy in
parts, frayed at the edges.

I wonder how she feels about
this dying of summer, this
insidious takeover of autumn.
does she feel the sap’s steady
slow-down in her veins?
does she dread the night
that it might be her last?
does she mind turning into
just an echo of the melody.

your soul is indestructible,
they say. nothing is born
nor dies. maybe it’s my
mind that’s playing a trick.
conjuring up a movie where
there is nothing but light.

~~~

Creative February 22 - BW Begonia

The sun back-lighting the petals produced some interesting low-key shots!

~~~

Creative February 21 - The wrong bus

(flash fiction)

The wrong bus

She was late and therefore ran to the bus-stop. A bus was just pulling in and she glimpsed a ‘3’ at the end. ‘What luck!’ she thought, that she could catch the bus after all. She got in, swiped her card and was surprised to see that the bus had many empty seats. Usually she has to hunt for a free seat at the back of the bus. She plopped down into a window seat with the seat beside her empty, reached into her bag for her novel and started to read. She had a good half-hour before her stop arrived and she was at the climactic point in the novel.

When she looked at her watch, 20 minutes had passed. She glanced out the window and a stab of panic lanced her heart. The landscape outside was frighteningly unknown and the realisation came swiftly that she had caught the wrong bus. But just to confirm she turned to her neighbour, a man who had taken the seat sometime along the journey and whose seating she had barely noticed. “Which bus is this?” she whispered.

He looked up from his own book and looked at her, recognition flooding his eyes. “Marya?” a huge grin was already dimpling his face and his eyes were twinkling with light. The years melted right before her eyes and she was back in high school and dating Peter but things were not going good and they were breaking up and going their separate ways. And now here he was, looking at her as if he wanted badly to give her a hug.

A year later they are married. And whenever she starts to tell the story with “one day I got into the wrong bus ….” He interjects laughingly, ‘the right bus, say, the right bus.”

~~~

P.S. After I wrote this my mind said, ‘What’s the point, where’s the moral of the story?” My inner voice says, “the Universe is a playful place. Be playful.” Amen to that!

Creative February 20 - Mystic Illusion

Not really a mystical post unless you consider that all things are inherently mystical in nature. The name of this dahlia is Mystical Illusion and the pink out-of-focus flowers in the background are carnations.

Creative February 19 - Passion of Christ

(written as a collection of haiku)

from near and afar
they all came to hear you speak
tempestuous words

smouldering coals they fell
into hearts devoid of hope
setting them afire

little by little
there grew a conflagration
of souls impassioned

souls awakened
powerful force, rulers realised
they had you killed

but you unquenched
like a forest fire spread
your love blazing bright

from heart to heart
burning away the dross
leaving only love

showing us all
that to be Christ-like is
love, nothing but love

~~~

Creative February 18 - The last tribesman

The last tribesman (flash fiction)

Boisa sat on the edge of the cliff and looked out at the ocean as the sun slowly crept up the horizon. It was as though a live painting was being created on the sky with colours snatched out of thin air. But his feeling of wonder was tinged by deep sadness. He knew he would die soon but the cause of his sorrow was not just the knowledge of personal mortality. All the wisdom his ancestors had acquired by living off the land and sea that had been passed down the line through generations, all the rituals unique to his tribe, the language his people had fashioned on their own, the culinary practices they had crafted around the bounty of nature, all of this would also be lost. Boisa was the last of his tribe.

It had occurred to him the previous night, as he lay in bed remembering his parents, his young wife who had died at childbirth and the rest of his tribe who had been wiped out one by one by some unknown disease, that there was no one left to carry out his funeral rites. There was no one left who knew how to respectfully transition his body back into the earth and administer his spirit’s return to the spirit world and conjoining with the spirits of his ancestors. It made his shiver and turn cold on the inside, the thought that his body would lie for an unknown number of days, unfound, pecked apart by birds of prey, ravished by maggots, his bones exposed, while his spirit roamed lost with no loving spirit to gently guide it back home.

He looked down at the churning surf, a long way below his feet, hurling itself against the rocks. His ancestors had always prayed to the sea, for the bounty of fish and crustaceans, to keep their huts safe from the wrath of the waves. The sea had been their provider and guardian angel. The sea was kind, he felt that in his bones. The sea was wise, he felt that in his spirit. It accepted all. He would be safe in its huge watery arms. It would know how to release his spirit from its embrace into the arms of his loved ones. The sea would be his final resting place.

When he looked down again, he felt a sense of peace. His decision was made. He would wash himself, paint his body and play the drum. Then, he would gather his spear and bow and arrows and dance as his tribe would for celebrations. The spirits of his ancestors, he was sure, would arrive on his thus calling. The leap into the depths would then be easy for they would be waiting to take him home.  

~~~

Inspired by a deeply saddening article in the Guardian, which said that four years ago the last member of a tribe called Bo in the Andamans died, rendering the tribe extinct.

Creative February 17 - Low-key flowers

I’m liking low-key so much, I’m shooting everything in low-key these days 

Creative February 16 - Treasure

What do you treasure? What’s most important to you? 

IN A NEW POST CREATED SPECIFICALLY FOR THIS PHOTO CHALLENGE CAPTURE SOMETHING YOU TREASURE.

For the DailyPost Weekly Photo Challenge - Treasure 

Creative February 15 - Sun-struck leaves

Evening sun striking flax leaves

Creative February 14 - Too busy for love

love came calling

I too busy with other things

it left orchids

Actually, that's not true. These orchids were given to me by the Hub last month for our anniversary. Today seemed the appropriate date to post its photo :)

Creative February 13 - The edge

For today, flash fiction -

The edge

The two ducklings are friends, one slightly older than the other. They are not yet adults but are old enough to go paddling on their own, their mother having taught them to look for food.

One day the younger one, looking into the far distance over the river, says, “I wonder what lies beyond that.” The older, looking in the direction of his gaze, replies, “I too have been thinking about that and so asked my mother. She said it’s the ‘edge’ and we must go nowhere near it. Her voice sounded ominous”.

“But why? Why must we not go near it?” The younger is impatient in his curiosity.

“I’ve seen twigs and leaves disappear into it and when it rains, the sound it makes becomes louder, so the ‘edge’ must be a dangerous place.”

“Has anyone gone there?”

“No. Everyone just obeys the rules.”

“Let’s go and find out. Then we can come back and tell everyone stories of how it is beyond the edge.”

“I don’t think my mother will be very pleased if she finds out if we are planning such a thing.”

“Let’s not tell her, let’s not tell anyone.” The younger is very excited now.

“I’m not so sure. What if there’s something out there that makes that loud noise. It could eat us alive?”

“What if there isn’t? How are we going to know unless we find out?”

“You go find out and come back and tell me.”

The younger is a bit deflated. He can’t muster the courage to go alone and his friend’s decision seems final and so he decides to shelve his plan.

But his curiosity won’t give him any peace. Everyday, he takes breaks from his foraging to gaze longingly at the water bubbling and disappearing into the ‘edge’. “It must be going somewhere and wherever it’s going there will still be water and food. If no ducks live there, there might be even more food, so why did they make this silly rule?”

A few days later, it’s morning and all the ducks are out paddling and diving for food. The younger one slowly and imperceptibly moves closer and closer to the ‘edge’. His friend, not suspecting anything paddles along. When they are away from the others and quite close to the ‘edge’, the younger declares, “I’m going to the ‘edge’. I’m going to find out today what lies beyond.”

And before his friend can even react, he paddles furiously towards the ‘edge’. The water has picked up speed, as though it’s all excited too about going to the ‘edge’. It is now flowing faster than the youngster can paddle. He stops paddling and gives in to the flow, turning back to steal a look at his friend who is staring at him, beak agape.

When the duckling turns again, he is at the tip of the edge and the next instant he is over it. For one long wondrous moment, as though time has moved into slow-motion mode, he gazes at the river, gleaming in the morning sunlight, as it snakes its way through the valley. The mist embracing the sides of the hills are melting and snaking up towards the sky, wispy-fingered. In the long distance, sunlight is glinting off the windows of houses. Before he hits the rocks below and gets smashed to death, freefalling over the tumbling masses of water, just one thought takes over his entire being and fills it with lightness, ‘beyond the edge is such a magical place!”

~~~

Creative February 12 - Agapanthus effects

Same flowers - different effect! (best viewed large)

Creative February 11 - The last bastion

It is with great sadness that I write this haibun -

A couple of weeks ago I watched a programme on TV featuring penguins. Penguins roost in colonies on the Antarctic ice and when they have young ones to feed, the adults make several trips to the sea everyday, catch krill, store them in a sac in their throat, trudge back to the colony and regurgitate it to feed the young ones. However, due to global warming and the receding ice cover in the Antarctic one penguin colony found itself very close to the sea. In a way it was good for the adults, they didn’t have to make long journeys over the ice, to and from the sea carrying food for the young ones. But, one day the ice under their colony melted. The adults could swim to safety but the young ones had not yet shed their fur coats, which had been keeping them warm. And immersed in water the fur acted like sponges, soaking up the water and pulling them down. Unable to swim, they drowned to death.

The melting ice
earth dropping under their feet
penguin death-trap

The penguins’ main source of food is krill that live in the hundreds of billions in the waters of the Antarctic. They feed on phytoplankton that blooms in the nutrient-rich, deep-water upwellings at the Antarctic Convergence during the 24-hour southern summer sunlight. Krill are also believed to be important in removing the greenhouse gas carbon dioxide by eating carbon-rich food near the surface and excreting it when they sink to lower, colder water to escape predators. But, global warming and overfishing has reduced their numbers by as much as 80%. Whales, penguins, seals, albatrosses and petrels depend on krill. So one can only imagine the effect on these animal populations if their main source of food is depleted.

tiny crustacean
bears a heavy burden
keeper of balance

Antarctica was that pristine, virgin space which had so far remained untouched. But humans, driven by only one impulse: insatiable greed, after ravaging the rest of Earth, are all set to rape and plunder this final bastion, until more species of animals are pushed to the brink or beyond of extinction.

the greed of man
many tentacled hydra
everything devoured

~~~